A Summer Theft is from a short story workshop I took in fall of 2004. This is from the “Saul Bellow” meets “post-modernism” period that dominated my work throughout graduate school. I never really liked the story, but I just thought it was lacking because I lacked talent, not because I lacked confidence and polish. I was trying to wear another writer’s skin rather than my own. Hopefully my work now has no real relationship with this story.

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The heat rose off the pavement in waves and the tall buildings surrounding me, skyscrapers to my country mouse eyes, seemed to vibrate in the summer air. Men walked past in suits, jackets still on, wiping their foreheads with handkerchiefs, while women seemed to find a way to bare their arms. I observed all this from a corner in the thick of the business district, where everyone was shopping and hustling to their offices after catching a midmorning bite and lounging around the city park.

I was out on the city sidewalks, supposedly collecting donations for the Democratic Party. I was new at this work, having started a week before, and hadn’t thought of packing a water bottle. I didn’t even have the pocket money to buy something from a vendor. So there I was, dehydrating, my red white and blue Democratic Party T-shirt was already sweated through at midmorning and the smell of cinnamon almonds roasting from a cart a block down had me thinking of sweetened cyanide. I stepped under an awning, into the shade. This did little good temperature wise, but it made me feel less self conscious.

Coming from the midwest I wasn’t used to these conditions. Being from the midwest I wasn’t used to any of this. Who earns a summer wage hustling street corners for the democrats in Eau Claire Wisconsin? Back home I’d had many jobs, easy to get, harder to keep. After all, as a member of society, I’m a writer first and a daydreamer second, and in this life it’s difficult to contribute to the American machine when your mind is elsewhere. Still, I’ve worked in: a scissors factory, a plastics factory, a cheese factory, I’ve done dishes, bused tables, I’ve answered phones, did data entry for a candy maker, I’ve worked in theatre box offices, I’ve been a janitor’s assistant, and I’ve searched a hundred years of local newspapers on microfilm writing down every birth and death date for one lowly farm town. All lousy jobs scrapping just above minimum wage. Yet, on this day, when a striking blond with an off center nose said into her cell phone, “They’re calling it the hottest day in years” I’d have preferred any of those jobs to this one.

With those other jobs I was clearly on the level with my intentions. Nobody could pretend they loved working in a plastics factory. Any fool knew I was there for the paycheck. However, I found that in the political line, all my co-workers were fervent supporters of the cause. Losing the coming elections was about as dire a situation they could imagine. They were saying the religious right wing forces were battling for votes in the south and lower middle west. Mention this other force, the right wing, to my co-workers and their faces would scrunch in disgust. They firmly believed themselves locked in a titanic struggle with those people.

But what did I, Peterson Smith, care, deep down, for one or the other? After all, as a writer my concerns were, ideally, of the non-ephemeral sort. Oh, I had my leanings but I tried

I leaned against the watch shop, the bricks cool against my arm and neck, slinking into the cooling shadows under the awning, my clipboard clasped in both hands, content to let the people pass by without a word. In the midst of all this heat, pedestrian bustle, and anxiety, I needed to spend some time thinking, to search for some clarity, if not for a revelation. I’m a major proponent of revelation coming huge and swift, as if from the clouds, but I’ve also been around too long, and struggled too hard, in this writing game to know if a person stands around waiting for inspiration of the divine type they’re likely to be left in the dumb. Two days earlier, my psychiatrist had dispensed some tough advice. And this aggressive, radish-hued woman haunted me. She believed death was a purely physical phenomenon, the final end, the cessation of electric pulses through the body and that, because there was nothing at the end, no boiling pits or mansions of cloud, death was not worth bothering over. I’d countered, saying my view was of something more uncertain.

As a boy I’d nearly succumbed to a terrible fever. Covered in chilly perspiration I’d told my mother, “I’m going to die” and believed it. So having come so close to the end, I knew there was no guessing when it could arrive. It’s good sense to have your spiritual affairs in order and ready for when the end does come. I’d struggled since then to figure into what faith system to put my money on.

The psychiatrist found my anxieties distressing and she suggested that I not worry over the uncertainties, the unknowable. After all, she held no fear of death because she didn’t sweat the unknowable. To find comfort in such a grim, modern view! Yet, I’d found no one who would even dispute it her advice. Everyone agreed my best angle was to not worry over uncertainties, although how to achieve this bliss was of some debate. How was I to manage myself into some belief, some salvation, or as she’d have it a non-belief? Even Martin Luther struggled in his early search for salvation. These things didn’t come without some heavy thinking. But when they do come, as was the case with Luther, it should come strong and profound and changing.

“Do you have time for the Democratic Party?” A line without a hook, it often seemed. I never bothered anyone beyond the opening cast if the pedestrian didn’t show an interest. I’m not the type to make bold advances, to give the extra shove. Of course, I had to bring in money to make money, but I relied heavily on the fish jumping in the boat without provocation. Blessed, to me, were the guilty and affluent liberals, with their gills pulsing miserably.

On my profitable days most had their wallets open immediately. “Dispense with the chitchat,” they’d say. “How much do you want?”

“The suggested donation is $100.”

Some whistled, others laughed, saying, “Well, thanks for the suggestion.”

If they turned down the opening donation suggestion, pleaded poverty, I’d drop the price

to $20. This was all outlined for us, of course. We had lengthy sessions before advancing on the streets. Our every move was carefully plotted and controlled during these meetings. Nothing of chance was left to us fishers of money. We were to memorize a speech explaining how the Republican Party had more money than the Democratic Party, this was a frightful turn because the Republicans were set to overwhelm the Supreme Court, drill and mine the earth into ruin, continue to wage expensive wars for corrupt purposes. Therefore, every donation was an essential and moral duty. Of course, nothing we said was terribly compelling, much less news to anyone. We weren’t paid to educate minds. I assumed most in the crew dropped the speech altogether; but I needed to play by the book. I didn’t have the passion to make up for a lack of precision. The others had passion in abundance. Before heading to the streets we’d huddle up, our hands in the center, while someone gave a pep talk from a chair, whacking their hands with a clipboard when the fervor really struck them. I’m no actor. It was always difficult to fit in during those rallies, but people often forget to notice you when they’re wrapped up in the glory of the moment.

On this day, the hottest day, I’d collected no money. It was just passing noon and I had made little effort. I was still too wrapped up in figuring whether my psychiatrist was really on to something. I couldn’t dismiss how strongly she’d given the advice. You didn’t push something so strongly if it hasn’t worked wonders on you.

Shortly after noon a middle-aged man, Sal, arrived on the corner holding a cardboard box filled with pamphlets for the Christians. He opened the box, pulled out a handful of pamphlets, settled down against a fire hydrant. I watched him with interest. He eyed my shirt, smiled, winked, gave his pamphlets a little shake. “Hey man, forget the democrats; vote for Jesus!”

I chuckled; I’d find much amusement in him over the next five hours. Already it had been a long day and Sal helped pass the time when he really got into it. I preferred his show to those religious nuts who’d come around my college back in Wisconsin. They were low types, sensationalist, big on bull horns and huge posters depicting aborted fetus’. I immediately took to Sal, how he set up shop, how he handled business, and mostly how his cards were on the table, with no intentions hidden up his sleeve. Certainly the pedestrians didn’t have much patience for him but he didn’t mind when people brushed him off. Actually, I was probably more hurt by some of the rough talk he received. He later told me if one or two people took the pamphlet, listened to him, it was a wildly successful day.

I found myself worrying whether he considered me repugnant, with my head so firmly in earthly affairs while he was busy prepping others for eternity. Sal who cared not for cosmetic appearance; his clothing, while clean was mismatched, given by the salvation army. His hair was combed, shoulder length, graying. I watched him closely and thought less about my psychiatrist. Could this man have been positioned by some divine force, I wondered? Would he give me some guidance? I did think on this briefly.

Evening approached, though the temperature had not much lowered, and I began to ready the paper work for the office. As far as business goes the day had been a bust. My donation envelope was empty. I could write only zeros into my notebook. From across the sidewalk, Sal addressed me directly for the first time. “Man, you don’t think Jesus Christ when he comes down from Heaven to judge the living and the dead, is going to care one way or another who won some election or who voted for who? All that’s gonna be dust, man.” He snapped his fingers. Like bones breaking. “You go with Jesus, you’re in Heaven forever.”

I was listening and this was enough for Sal to came over to me under the awning. He was very clean shaved, and heavily scented with musky cologne. His eyes were yellowed, awake. I listened attentively as he told me how he’d been born in Sri Lanka and converted to Christianity in Bangladesh. Fifteen years earlier he’d fled to the US, to the city, from religious persecution and had since lived on the streets, in shelters, cheap housing. “A rich man will not make heaven. The impulse towards corruption is too mighty. Jesus states this clearly.” He took my wrist with a warm, calloused hand. The texture of those hands moved me considerably. If my father’d still been living I’d have been convinced this was actually my old man in disguise. Who else had such a grip, capable of conveying a hardness, a violence, and a compassion? This sudden swoon of kinship shouldn’t have surprised me. I’d likely known for hours Sal and I would be brought together, as if from the moment he positioned himself across from me strange gravities had destined his movement towards me.

While my writing instructors had never given me much credit as a writer, they’d cheered my propensity for bumbling into, and recognizing the story within, amusing, powerful people, that primordial fodder for the writerly spirit. In this way I’d become a sort of modern day Ishmael, haphazardly attaching myself to sidewalk Ahabs.

Still grasping my wrist, Sal squinted at me for long seconds and, with his free hand, jabbed a finger toward my nose, “You believe in Jesus Christ, don’t you? I can tell, man. You stand out here long enough, pass pamphlets long enough, you start to know, even from a distance, who has angels and who has devils whispering in their ears.” He gave me a pamphlet, a sketch of Jesus holding a lamb. We moved further under the awning. The shadows covered the deep lines in his face, thick wrinkles like desert river beds. People moved hurriedly along in front of us. But already, in my mind, they’d begun to fade into the deep backdrop. “I see your eyes, man. You’ve got God in your heart.”

I nodded, with a lump in my throat. I wasn’t at all certain if he was serious or if he was yet going to hit me up for money; but I wasn’t going to leave. I’d never been told God was in my heart. Did he actually believe this? If so, what God? Whose God? I dragged those questions around like chains, always. Perhaps the God he saw within me was simply my desire to know what extends beyond all these centuries of buildings and people.

“This place, man, I tell you these streets used to be lined with missionaries. Preachers. Giving the gospel. Where’d they go?” We both looked around for a few seconds as if to confirm, sure enough, no missionaries, no street corner preachers. “I’m out here now doing the best I can. It ain’t easy. I tell you, it’s never been easy.” He coughed. “War ain’t easy, brother. That’s what we’re up to, you know. Jesus says, raise an army, spread his message, battle Satan. No. It has never been any easy.”

I nodded. I wanted to say something with my psychiatrist on my mind. What would she say to this? She’d probably brush him off, laugh, assess him as delusional. He wasn’t going to allow me any room for comment in there. Sal was a talker and I was a listener. He’d been in the thick all his life and I’d slung myself along with the shadows and watched.

Sal talked in long streams about his life history, Christ, the necessity of worship, and the various enemies he’d encountered. Touching on enemies, Sal ran a finger along his cheek, tracing over an inch long scar.

And he began to tell me how he received this scar. I’d been waiting for him to spin a yarn. They always did and I was always there to translate and store. After all, published or no, writing was my business. Some men save and collect souls, I went about gathering stories. I’d learn long ago these men would open themselves to me

The story, spoken, went quickly. While he spoke the heat, the city noise, the mad-rush of pedestrians faded. It’s a hypnotic thing to have a man of conviction and faith move you with his voice. I did some moving of my own. I pulled Sal’s story from him as if I were a charmer commanding a snake from a hat. These men were susceptible to people like me to cull from them their deepest fears and truths. I had only to be innocent, and quiet, and open. I was all of these things by nature and the only duplicity in all this was that I appeared to be weak, easily swayed. My psychiatrist had believed this to be so, and now so did Sal, and so had dozens others in the past. If only, I’ve often thought, their pressure was returned with some give on mine, I’d have some peace.

While Sal spoke the world around fell away completely. Even the heat was forgotten. His words bloomed instantaneously into visions within my mind. But I was not so enthralled with what he told me that there were not alterations made. No, he spoke one story and I saw another. What I mean is, he told me of the city; and I witnessed my small town midwest:

As street lights glow yellow, moth-addled, Sal is standing on the marble court room steps, waving a wad of pamphlets over his head. “Jesus Christ is the only salvation from damnation…” He’s been out here for several hours and there is a night chill coming. He pulls his heavy plaid shirt tight to his solid, if not plump, figure. His throat is tired, sore; he can barely speak anymore. Sal thinks, There is nobody holy enough left to care. Now, you need to preach to the converted if you want cheers. Nobody converts. Everyone is closed. Who lets the spirit in? Nobody. You all are closed up to these trumpets.

“The modern world believes it knows everything there is to know. Believes it sees everything,” Sal said to me. He wagged a finger. “Wrong. How wrong, Peterson. Fire awaits.”

A police car pulls up to the courthouse. The passenger side door opens. A squat, powerful policeman steps out. White skinned, a pencil-line mustache along his upper lip, his right sleeve is rolled past his elbow, and the left sleeve has unrolled to his wrist. Importantly, his hands are naked, alone at his sides.

“Government property, Bud. Move along with this.” A tired voice.

Sal grins. “You are mistaken, brother. All this is God’s property. He will reclaim it soon. You know about Armageddon? Judgment? It’s coming.” A line of sweat edges down Sal’s forehead, traversing deep, golden lines.

The policeman shakes his head. “Christ.” Sighs, “It’s late. Get moving. Shuffle along.”

Sal refuses. To move along would be to deny the salvation. The policeman gives a wave to the car. A second policeman emerges slowly. A large, clean-shaven man, he walks slowly into the street light, grinning coldly.

“Muslim, Peterson.” Sal moved in so close to me our noses nearly touched. He whispered, enraged, “I could tell by his name tag. Officer Abdullah. I knew then the angels better be close. Because this guy was direct from Satan.”

“Get in the car.” The second policeman waves toward Sal, who begins to back up the steps. This policeman follows with a precise, controlled stride. “Slow up, pal. You don’t want to see what I do when a fella likes you makes a run.” He lowers his hand onto his holster. Pulls up his gun.

Sal feels the butt lash against his face before he sees the policeman’s arm move. Hitting the steps, he rolls downward as the policeman nudges him along with his boot toe. “Better hurry up, Bud; we’re missing the game.”

The other policeman shakes his head, yawning. “Let’s get him out of here. Before we draw a crowd.” The two look around. Hear the crickets, the cars passing by in the distance, the middle west silence. They chuckle together.

The second policeman grabs Sal by his flannel collar, trying to jerk him upwards. He’s gone limp. The policeman pulls the gun back, deciding to give another healthy swing. Sal turns his head, saying, “The other cheek, brother.”

The policeman spits on the ground. “Hell.” Spits again. “Get over here. We’ll just carry him.” They gather Sal by the arms, shoving him into the back seat. Sal remains limp, his face and the inside of his mouth bleeding.

They drive for some while into the country. Down a gravel road, moonlit cornfields swaying on either side. Sal feigns sleep, letting the blood in his mouth flow onto the seat and floor. The car stops, and the second policeman opens the door, his hands locking around Sal’s ankles. He drags Sal out by the feet while the first policeman stands on his side of the car. Sal doesn’t see him, but he knows this policeman will do or say nothing to stop what must occur. Something very old and cosmic is going to happen. Forces impacting mightily upon each other.

Sal is dragged to the front of the car. The headlights have been turned off. The moonlight touches them both with a ghost’s pallor, freezing them, Sal on his knees and the policeman standing rigid.

“The Muslim, Peterson. Fallen angels whispering in his skull. Filling his mind with dark beetles. Death.”

The moonlight fades from the policeman’s face, the night masking him as executioner, while he lifts his gun. The muzzle moves against Sal’s brow like a cold, fat slug. As Sal prays, listens for death, there are long moments filled with crickets chirping, shooting stars overhead, a rustling in the cornfields. Likely a deer, perhaps a man, impossible to know. The policeman curses. Holsters his gun.

“I was saved. Holy, Holy. Peterson, I was saved by angels whispering. I knew then for certain God was going to win this war; Christ had drawn his sword and swung it in my favor.”

The policeman sends a kick into Sal’s side, and another before Sal can coverup with his arms. “Let’s get out of here,” the first policeman says. The rustling continues, Sal coughs blood.

I end my version of the story there, with Sal on the highway road, praising God from his knees, broken but alive. A triumph, in my mind. I nodded to myself on the city streets while Sal continued his version. I believed the alterations I’d made to his story were for the better. What was wrong with Sal’s version? His was filled with holes. For instance, who beats a man for waving pamphlets? Also, his deliverance had not come in dramatic setting but in his mind. He’d seen the name tag and feared death. His insistence on God’s intervention in his story — the proof in his mind being that the muslim hadn’t killed him — was something I didn’t want to tackle. No, I felt more comfortable in my story. Mine had real action, a dramatic setting. I wanted badly to leave, to type up my version.

I looked around anxiously while Sal finished his version. “They tossed me out at the hospital. The emergency room. Two broken ribs. This scar. But my soul, Peterson, my soul was fine and blazing.” He was smiling broadly. If he had truly believed he believed in his calling before, this had proven his mettle. Sal began to ask me about joining his prayer group; I could bring my wife.

I nodded. How much of the story did I buy? He had the scar; part of the story was true. I didn’t doubt that some tremendous violence had occurred in his past. He was no saint, though, and like most groomed in the liberal arts, I was loath to staple horns onto any group, and believing Sal seemed somehow tantamount to this. I couldn’t consider this option. At least my psychiatrist’s eternal nothingness was all-inclusive. But I wouldn’t take that road, either.

Was Sal insane? Who knew. His beliefs were strong and unforgiving and paranoid. But this didn’t make him insane. Even the sainted Joan of Arc heard heavenly voices and called for violent removal of the Saracens from the holy land.

But enough reflection, I wanted to leave and fast. Everything that could be was accomplished. “I’ll look at this,” I said, giving the pamphlet a shake, as I pulled away from him and into the crowd. I glanced back; his expression was terrible, shocked. I felt a sudden guilt, and thought perhaps something in my voice had betrayed me. I did think, honestly, If I could be certain, if I could believe in something like that, I’d take it instantly; yet, in the next moment, I mentally checked myself: yes, the story was still tucked safely within. I had what I really wanted. Who wants peace of mind when they’re a writer? I hustled off, like a pickpocket, to the nearest subway station towards home. No, I thought, peace of mind and spiritual assurance were entirely separate creatures. Peace of mind comes from the slow doping down of the fearful mental faculties. Spiritual assurance is an elevation from the feared. Or so I’ve often hoped.

Maneuvering through the crowds into the subway station I remembered the clipboard in my hand. I’d call the democrats from my apartment, explain I’d had to rush home. I’d likely be fired for this business, whether I had money or not. But there was a story within and if I was slow to move it would wilt and die within.

I was forced to move slowly, stuck behind an elderly couple, as I filed down the steps. Inexplicably, I’d begun visualizing Sal on his deathbed, only moments after his final, terrible gasps. Compared to the man I’d just spoken to, his skin was terribly pale. Though they’d closed his eyes, he retained a tranquility, and I knew he’d gone easily with ready, perhaps blissful, submission. My Ahab brandished no harpoons in these final moments before the beast pulled him under.

Stepping onto the overcrowded train, I thought of myself. Well — what of Peterson Smith, what of Ishmael? Never mind the literary creation — What becomes of me after the ship sinks and Ahab is done for? Does this Ishmael cease without his Ahab? A frightening thought. I tried to picture my final moments: bobbing, barely clinging to a drifting board, slowly submerging . . . . No, I couldn’t picture my own death. No, never my own. Shuddering, I vowed: I won’t chase down such an ending; I won’t run to confront that beast.