the prophet of ezekiel, mississippi and the curse of bad love
by Mike Itaya
You ever have one those moments that burns real bright, when you feel the swampy grace of the Lord dampen your life? For me, it all happened last week, when I was cruising my yellow F-150, winders down, with a Big Gulp and a chimichanga in hand. I love my truck (I even got a vanity plate, “Crapper One,” to commemorate all them years I hustled as a plunger jockey in Piggly Wiggly). Yep. You could feel mighty blessed with such accooterments, so much classy stuff in one place. So, when Webelo shot me with his slingshot, and I spilled my Big Gulp, lost the chimichanga, and crashed the F-150 into Rhonda’s inflatable birdbath, and my vanity plate got mudded to read, “Chaperone,” I felt I’d slipped into the dark high waters of unintended responsibility.
The situation, according to angry editorials in the Ezekiel Trumpet, was that “Ezekiel wanted unchangedness in a world that never was.” The phrase was so fancy that I paid Webelo fifteen bucks to spray paint it onto my mayoral mausoleum in the likely event of my death. The world seemed a dark place, too big for anything good. Mr. Benji had just recently showed me naked pictures of folks from around the world on his computer, and at first it seemed a mighty fine notion to have sexy strangers on demand, but I worried that people all around the world might be lookin’ at naked pictures of me, too. I imagined a Brazilian housewife laughing at my delicates, and while Mr. Benji agreed that sounded highly unpleasant, he also assured me that it was highly unlikely.
So, the day after the wreck, since internet connection was out in my bamboo efficiency, I went to Piggly Wiggly for the free coffee and then proceeded to worship. Inside the Ezekiel High Church of the Walnut/school cafeteria/makerspace, this can of Cajun Boiled Peanuts was up at the lectern delivering such a blisterin’ sermon of righteousness, it damn near shook all my fake teeth, and the horny sinners who’d been heart-hurtin’ atop Muskogee Lake were brought lower yet. Mr. Benji, the recent convert, was in the pulpit/recycling area, performing furious ablutions with a travel mug of sweet tea. He was wearin’ his nattiest duds―a Tuxedo T-Shirt, white moccasins, pink socks, and a scorched pair of houndstooth capris. I went to stand next to Mr. Benji in case he had extra tea. He whispered to me that he and Rhonda had tried to steal the can of Cajun Boiled Peanuts from Piggly Wiggly, but the can began to whisper things―deep, dark things, like how Mr. Benji got traumatized by the musical Cats: that the Jellicle Cats struck him as freaky fucks, and Macavity made Mr. Benji wee his pants in terror, and that the town of Ezekiel was “doomed to bad love.”
Mr. Benji had yelled and shook the can of Cajun Boiled Peanuts. “How’d you know that stuff about Cats?” while Rhonda ran to the front office, to rebroadcast Mr. Benji’s trauma with the store intercom. He had been mighty spooked. Enough so that Mr. Benji dumped his emergency stash of cocaine into the Piggly Wiggly customer coffee, so everyone else might get sanctified, too.
So, now in Ezekiel High Church of the Walnut/school cafeteria/makerspace, I bowed down and said, “Behold, the Prophet of Ezekiel!” I thought it’d be a mayoral thing to say, but everyone glared at me like they’d already covered that, and they knew it was a bullshit excuse for me to lay on the ground, and I had the inklings of a notion that everyone there to a child was coked to the gills. But, before I could get cozy, the cafeteria doors flung open, and Ms. Wanda―Sam Piccolo's ex-niece-wife―stormed in. “Who’s this fire sale motherfucker?” She pointed at the Cajun Peanuts.
“I am the exe-uh-gee-sus!”
“Testify,” Mr. Benji said solemnly, holding up a pantry cookbook, a cumulus cocaine dust mustache riding his lips.
The Cajun Peanuts said, “That’s not how that works.”
Mr. Benji looked crestfallen. “Those goddamn Jellicle kitties.”
“This is a state issue,” I said, still lying on the ground.
“Don’t pretend to be useful,” Ms. Wanda said.
The Cajun Peanuts yelled from the lectern, “Do you know what it is, to be on fire sale at the Piggly Wiggly? To sit with guilt, guilt, guilt atop your heart like a bramble of thorns? There is a hole in your love! Mend your life!”
“Mend this, motherfucker,” Ms. Wanda waved her can opener.
“Blasfemmé,” the Can shrieked, his voice climbing higher and higher, “I can see your rubble before me! Do you not understand? You were never born!”
“I’m gonna kick some can,” R.T. said.
“I like your words,” Mr. Benji said, not one to swim upstream.
“Your lives will know bad love. You’re already dead!” The Can paused, “Purgatorial, at least―which you might be surprised to learn, is having your soul stuck in the low-flow toilet at the Bama Slammer Car Wash. I’ve spent time there. Can’t say I’m looking forward to going back.”
In the back, that manqué punter, Reggie Hassenback did some toe touches.
“Do not kick me!” the Can yelled.
Reggie Hassenback sprinted down the aisle and punted the can of Cajun Peanuts.
“You’re already dead!” the Can screeched, sailing through the air, shattering the stained glass window.
All of us cheered. Mr. Benji shook hands with Reggie. “I like your moves.” Webelo jammed, “We Are the Champions,” on his French horn and R.T. accompanied him on the roto toms. I struck the Murder Gong we save for very special occasions.
“Bad love,” we heard the Can say weakly from outside.
No one believed him.
Photo of Mike Itaya