Pytor Kopivick couldn’t understand why any human being
would choose to live in such heat. Certainly, those who were bereft of common
sense or otherwise incapable of functioning in an advanced civilization, yes,
those types of people would find a home here. But it didn’t make sense to
Kopivick that so many seemingly normal, otherwise intelligent people would
choose to live in this place.
This place called Texas.
Kopivick feigned raising a hand to wipe sweat from his
brow then let it drop. Why waist the energy? The sweat would just return,
popping up under his hairline, running in rivers down his forehead and into his
eyes. Kopivick tried blinking then scrunched his eyes real tight to force the
salty water away, but that just made things worse. It made it feel like he was
crying. There was nothing to do in this heat but suffer.
He breathed out a heavy sigh and pushed the palms of his
hands deep into his eye-sockets to grind away the sweat. Then he ran fingers
through his hair, slicking the heavy, black locks flat against his scalp. He
sighed again and rolled his neck, popping the spine. The lady he stood behind
turned and scowled at him. She didn’t approve of all the commotion while the
Mayor was making a speech. Kopivick smiled at her, his blood-red lips and
porcelain teeth forming a sharp V shape under his long, slightly bent nose.
The lady decided not to wait for whatever apology might
follow that smile and moved forward to get closer to the podium. Kopivick now
had a clear view of the distinguished men and women lined up behind the Mayor
who had come to this torched swath of desert sand, in the middle of the day,
without a stitch of shade to protect them from the blazing sun, just to support
Antelope Run’s highest elected official as he broke ground on the new Crane
County Prison.
The Mayor droned on and on, talking about new jobs and
Federal money and lower taxes…. Kopivick’s jaw dropped and his tongue lolled
out. He panted like a dog. He put a hand up next to his head and felt heat
radiating from his black hair which had been absorbing sun for close to an
hour. It was like putting your hand over a blacktop highway. He wiped more
sweat from his eyes and glared at the Mayor, compelling him to shut up with a
hateful scowl. He even mouthed the words, shut up, but, of course, the Mayor
kept talking.
Kopivick blinked, held his eyelids shut too long, and was
momentarily sun-blind when he opened them. In the brief moments before he
regained vision, he flashed back to another rally he had attended as a youth. A
man was behind a microphone on a slapped together stage giving a passionate
speech about communism. It had been a cold day in the Motherland, with snow
hanging in the air. He remembered watching from a safe distance, like he was
today, until the climax of the speech when the crowd erupted with cheers,
pumping their fists in the air. None of them noticed as a young Kopivick
charged the stage, drawing two guns from under his coat, blasting away at the
demon behind the microphone…
Kopivick tried to swallow but found his throat had gone
dry. The Mayor continued to blah-blah about the local economy and Kopivick
realized that, horrifying though it may be, there is nothing better at shutting
up a politician than a few blasts from a loud gun.
Finally the Mayor finished his speech and the small
audience applauded politely. Kopivick drummed his hands together too, truly
grateful that the man had stopped running his mouth. It proved to be a
temporary reprieve, however, because as soon as the smattering of applause died
down, the Mayor began introducing, by name, all the people responsible for
“making this whole thing happen.”
Kopivick lowered his head and flared his nostrils, staring
at the Mayor with hooded eyes. His trigger fingers twitched as the procession
of politicians, contractors, civil servants, and whatnots shook hands with the
Mayor, each saying a few words about how honored they were to be part this
great accomplishment for the city of Antelope Run. Kopivick daydreamed about
guns and cold weather.
“Are you bored child?” a voice, amplified by the speakers,
filled the air and startled Kopivick out of his daze. The man behind the
microphone had a wide face with a lopsided grin. He was wearing a cowboy hat, a
western shirt that barely contained his comically large belly, blue jeans with
a giant belt buckle that cut into the underside of his stomach, and boots. He
looked right at Kopivick and winked.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be long now.” He was speaking in
Kopivick’s native tongue and his accent was perfectly common, not like someone
who learned it from a book. Kopivick couldn’t believe his ears. He looked
around but no one else seemed to notice anything unusual about the fat Texan
addressing him in gutter Belarusian.
“…and I look forward to getting to know y’all fine people
of Antelope Run,” the man continued, speaking English now with a shit-kicker
accent, playing to the crowd, “so don’t think y’all have to commit a crime just
to come see me!” The audience rewarded the fat man’s witticism with a burst of
spirited applause. The Mayor joined him behind the microphone, clamping a
friendly hand on his shoulder.
“Van Gitney,” the Mayor announced, “we are truly lucky to
have you as the warden of our new Crane County Correctional Facility!”
“Thank you, and I’m just as lucky to be here!” the man
called Van Gitney said before waving to the crowd and stepping down.
Van Gitney, Kopivick wondered about the name. Dutch? Maybe
German… Not Russian. Certainly not Belarusian. Kopivick studied the fat man
from a distance. If there had ever been any Eastern European blood in that
bloated vessel, the hot Texas sun had long since boiled it away. But only
somebody who had been born in Belarus, or Byelorussian in the days before the
United Republic, would speak the language that fluently. Plus, the words
Kopivick had heard were out of context with the rest of the fat man’s speech,
yet there had been no reaction from the crowd.
Kopivick worried that he might be having a sun stroke,
something that would cause him to hallucinate. It went against his nature, and
training, to question his faculties, but this damned heat was like a Nazi
torture chamber. It set his flesh on fire. It melted his shirt to his back. The
humidity blocked his sinuses, chocked his breath. What little air that did make
it to his lungs was rank and stale, delivering barely enough oxygen to pump his
sluggish heart. It was just a matter of time before he’d start to see pink
elephants flying around in parade formation.
Kopivick put both hands to his cheeks and rubbed, working
his jaw up and down. Focus! He commanded himself. All of the dangerous years
he’d lived – the countless battles, the pain and suffering he had both received
and inflicted as a soldier, only to let a little warm weather turn him into a
simpering cripple.
A trickle of sweat escaped the elastic band of his
underwear and rolled down the crack of his ass. He reached around to scratch at
it through his pants. He muttered a string of curse words in his native tongue
and started walking, moving his legs to get rid of that ‘not-so-fresh’ feeling
down below.
Kopivick made his way to the side of the assembly where
Van Gitney was standing. The warden of the new Crane County Prison shuffled his
feet some, occasionally wiped his brow, but otherwise appeared to be very happy
standing there. He whispered comments to the fellows next to him, all of them
jiggling with silent laughter so as not to disturb the Mayor who was still
talking. Kopivick marveled that they could find anything funny at being under
the sun in the middle of a summer day in Texas.
Once again, the Mayor finished speaking with a flourish,
promising to build “The best damn prison this side of Huntsville!” The audience
applauded, some even shouting “Hoo-rah!”, but Kvorkia didn’t bother. He figured
there was more nonsense to come and he was right. One of the contractors, a
thick black man wearing a short sleeved work shirt, blue jeans, and a
ridiculously bright pink construction helmet, brought the ceremonial shovel to
the Mayor. They moved about five feet away from the podium, found their spot,
and waited for the photographer from the local paper to get in position.
The photographer motioned for everybody to scoot closer together,
which they did, grinning like fools. The photographer liked what he saw, raised
his hand and started counting with his fingers – 1, 2, 3 – and he pointed at
the Mayor.
The Mayor set his foot on the shovel and stepped on the
spade, thrusting it into the ground. Dust spewed from the earth, like blood
gushing from an artery punched by a razor. It billowed up in a fountain,
knocking the Mayor off balance. He yelped as the sand blasted his face, and
then started coughing as it filled his mouth.
Kvorkia felt his legs wobble and realized the earth itself
was shaking. He reflexively reached for his guns, and then admonished himself
when he remembered he wasn’t wearing them. He hadn’t worn the holsters because
it was too hot to cover them with a jacket. Kvorkia spread his feet apart and
promised himself that, if he lived through the afternoon, he would start
wearing his heavy camelhair trench coat everywhere. Heat be damned!
In an instant, the dirt geyser stopped gushing and the
earth went still. A cool breeze came from out of nowhere and dissipated the
air-born sand in harmless swirls of burnt orange and dark yellow. Van Gogh
would have been inspired. People started talking; questioning each other, but
the Mayor wasted no time getting behind the microphone and assured them that
everything was all right. He laughed it off as a “pocket of natural gas”. Said
it was a good thing nobody smoked anymore.
Kvorkia felt a chill run down his spine. He turned to see
the man called Van Gitney looking right at him. The future warden of the new
prison had a wide, crooked grin on his face. When they locked eyes, Van Gitney
winked and started shaking with quite laughter. Kvorkia smiled right back,
running his tongue over his unnaturally long eyeteeth, feeling their points. This
would be a lot more amusing, Kvorkia thought, if only he had brought his guns.
As if reading his mind, Van Gitney pointed a finger gun at
Kvorkia and mouthed the word “pow!” Kvorkia snarled audibly, disturbing the
people around him, and then turned abruptly to leave.
It would be here, then. The next battle in the everlasting
war would be fought in Burnin, Texas.
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