Inside the Whataburger in front of Wal-Mart in Richmond, Texas. 6:30pm, though it’s already dark outside.
I’m only intermittently engrossed in a dense book on mid-twentieth-century Russian mysticism, pausing often to look around the dining room before re-reading the same sentence for the fourth time. “That which is below is a mirror of that above. By turning the gaze of the spirit within, we discern in the darkness a wavering pattern, an image written on the heart; a faded image, to be sure, yet still compelling for all that: the Self assumed in the Other, a Newness pouring therefrom, a multiplicity that is still yet one.” Three people in a row now have alerted the cashier girl to the fact that the Dr Pepper fountain is all fizz, no syrup.
In the booth front of me, a ten year-old kid in a purple tie-dye t-shirt sighs and shifts and kicks his camouflage Crocs back and forth across the tiles. He leans his head on his elbow, with his other hand he’s playing with the little plastic order-number sign, pushing down and letting it pop up.
Pop.
Pop.
Is he bored enough to pop it again? Dunno. Could go either way.
Pop pop pop pop.
His plain, lanky mother watches his banal sport with a mother’s perfunctory interest, her mind allocating the bare minimum of resources to the task of making sure he isn’t about to do something tragically stupid.
Nearby, a man and his tweenish daughter take turns eating from the same box of fries. Her hoodie is pulled over her head, hiding her eyes. Between fries she checks text messages on her cellphone. Something? Nothing. How bout now? Nothing. Something? Repeat. Her father examines his receipt, then the big menu behind the cashier, then the receipt again, a small doom gathering on his brow. Twelve bucks just for the two of us? Really?
One booth over, two gutty middle-aged guys: one, a Mexican with a salt-and-pepper flat top, the flat part of which doesn’t quite cover the crown of his head. It looks like a hat about two sizes too small. One day he might become a high school shop teacher. Though he might be named Gomez, to his students he will not be Mr G, never G-Daddy, not even Señor Flat-top behind his back; inspiring neither the devotion nor the scorn of the students he will simply be called “Hey sir.” Across from him is a white guy, or, I should say, what they call in Richmond a “Bohunk”: a decendant of the early Czechoslovakian settlers of the region. They have their own strange style: this one is round and short and has a full-on page-boy haircut that covers his ears and the back of his neck, drooping down-down-down over his forehead, coming to rest on the top of his thick black-rimmed glasses. His thick, pale lips clap out, in a desultory yet emphatic way, the order of business for the week: Gotta needa make sure the flange is manifolded before the coupler hookup is scheduled for the de-whatever-the-hell. That’s first off the bat. Quality is definitely gonna be key here. Señor Flat-top nods occasionally, more concerned with his Dr Pepper: something is off for sure.
Suddenly the kid cries out. Pushing the plastic number-sign just a bit beyond specs, it flies up and pop pop pops him right in the eye. “Gulk!”
The teen girl, the Mexican, and me: together we cough in paused mirth, “Tut!” Magically, transcendentally, our eyes find one another as we form an improptu panel of judges. Telepathic text messages blink through the greasy air, ‘Can we laugh at this? Is he going to cry or what? Can we see that again in slow-motion?’
The kid puts his hand to his eye, still unsure about how much pain he is in. His mother looks on, only mildly alarmed. Craning her neck forward slightly, “Well?”
For a ten count he’s confused as to what his motivation should be for this scene. Play it for sympathy? Tough it out for big-boy points? He needs to make up his mind quickly, as it’s becoming obvious that he’s not actually hurt. Bad call: he starts crying. Weak. Even he’s not buying it. “Sniff sniff, boo hoo. Boo hoo?”
The Mexican’s eyebrows dance with glee as he quickly snorffles a fistful of fries into his mouth, bobbing his head rhythmically in approval. The teenage girl claps her hand to her mouth, caught quietly in the throes of a laugh-seizure. Her dad is pulled momentarily from his microfinancial hell, “What? Did you bite your tongue? What?” She begins waving her other hand in front of her face, blushing with the effort to stifle her giggles, “Ngeefk!” The boy’s mother shrugs, satisfied that she’s done her job for today, “Well.” And I’m definitely having a mystical experience.
Meanwhile the Bohunk is still clattering along, “…see the positive outcomes is the name of the game.” He mistakes his associate’s animation for encouragement and repeats himself, louder, “Yeah, it’s… yeah! Positive outcomes is the name of the game!”
The Mexican agrees, his face still beaming. I agree too.
But, I still make tons music. I just don’t post it all. Here, have a 
On the front wall hung a string of small flags carrying the ‘trademarks’ of the world’s religions: An ‘OM’, a star and crecent, the star of David, the eight-spoked wheel, a yin-yang, a cross (actually more like a plus-sign), a Native-American spear-and-wheel, and a neolithic fertility goddess. 
After that we all stood to sing a song about turning aside from crying and fighting, and instead opening windows, and minds, and letting the dove fly in. The song was sung to the tune of Harry Belafonte’s Banana Boat Song(“DAAAY-o, me say day-ay-ay-o“, that one.) The song was less than clear about the provenance, purpose, or effective power of said dove, I assumed that it was the dove of peace–a good symbol.
