The world was on the outskirts of town. The whole world -- all of it -- all within a half-mile's chase of our village. I used to go there, visiting every site, every clime, and I'd return home within an hour's time, filled with the wonders of all the world.
Then came the scurve, the Great American Scurve. No more would my feet take me to ancient Rome and stardusk Scandanavia, all within the same night. No more would the pitter-patter steps of others join me, as we went trolling and touring the world away.
Now? Just the silence of sheep, the baaing of lambs. These were our voices, as we subjected ourselves to our masters -- masters who kept us on short leash.
I will tell you of one who would throw off the leash. Jamessmith, they called him, Jamessmith Jones. No, Jamessmith could not be mastered. He could not be kept within our town. He would break away and go right back out into the world on the edge of our town.
Jamessmith Jones.
I remember yesterday, his leaving late that evening. I remember fearing they would catch him, and stop him, maybe jail him for his reckless adventure. But, he passed through that gate at the end of town -- passed through it and continued walking to the very edges of the world.
And was back within an hour's time.
I rushed to meet him, throwing my arms around him, grateful for his safe return. "What's out there?" I cried. "What did you find on this night?"
His lips curled. His eyes shot toward me. "Yes! Well, the world remains out there, as big and vibrant as ever. There are Jews and Chinese, and Mexicans, and Africans, and there are Muslims."
Picking up his feet, he started to walk away, as if to leave it at that. He had went into the wide, wonderful world and found no more than Chinese and Mexicans and Jews.
He stopped just a few steps into his walk, looking back over his shoulder. "Oh, and there are those not of our party."
He turned, again, and continued his walk, and I was left to reflect on his words. We live in an amalgamated world -- people of all races, and religions, and backgrounds to be found on the very edges of our own little circle of friends.
We lock out all others. We discourage ourselves from even talking to them, reasoning with them, for they are just liars and morons and idiots, we are told.
Jamessmith Jones had reached his hut in the town by now. I could see his lamp come on, and watched him duck inside. He stuck his head back out, and yelled at me.
"Oh, and what am I suppose to be if I live in this town? Could you freshen my memory? Is it Democrat, or Republican? I'm having trouble remembering. Oh, and about those Muslims everybody hates. I love 'em. Met one tonight. He was a pretty nice fellow."
I started shuffling toward my own home, a little brick house over on 99th. The mottos and chants of our day and age -- the mottos and chants of our village -- rang in my ears, telling me to hate others, telling me to care only for those who are our own, telling me to listen only to this new voice of wisdom and truth and enlightenment.
Think I'd rather listen to Jamessmith Jones. But, these days, we don't get out much like Jamessmith Jones. We live in our little village, our own little cocoon. This, more than the isolation you might think of -- this is the isolation of our day.
(Index -- Stories, My stories)
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