by rich logsdon
I
don’t know how you found me in this cold, rocky place. Nearest road is,
what, five or six miles east? And there’s no signs on the roads.
So how’d you do find me? You must have asked around. If so, I guess
the people up here know me. Just the same, no one comes
to this area. Ever. Who wants to walk through this darned wind, the one
constant up here, even in summer? Nearest town is seventy five miles
to the south, so here I live alone, up in the Canadian Arctic north,
with my three dogs Matthew, Mark, and John and my good friend God
Almighty.
These three dogs—there used
to be four—are great animals. Sure, they growl, snarl and bristle,
but they don’t know you. Heck, I don’t know you. Anyway,
they won’t hurt you—unless I say so. Just sit real still at my dining
room table here, don’t make no sudden moves, and when you bring the coffee
to your lips, do it real slow. Like this. Pit bulls can be
dangerous, and these dogs are a bit jumpy because they haven’t
eaten since you called two days ago from Edmonton. So, just
try to relax in my little trailer overlooking a whistling wasteland so
dreary that no one in his right mind would want to live here, drink your
coffee slow, and eat them pancakes I fixed you without any sudden moves.
You say you’re a writer.
From some publisher in New York or L. A. that wants a story about
Jonah Isaac? First thing you need to know is I am a humble man.
You can add meekness to that. After all I been through
you’d be surprised I am meek and mild, like the Lamb of God, but
I am.
But you’re not here
to talk Christian virtue. You’re here to talk about that girl
that was killed in the factory outside Meridian, Idaho some years
back. That was a horrible thing, even if God did allow it.
Let me tell you some things
happened to me, and maybe you can see the pattern. It began
on a summer morning in 1968 in the Nevada desert. I was sitting in
the back seat of Daddy’s 1961 fire-engine red Buick Le Sabre when, just
outside of Wells and driving at five in the morning to Ely, Nevada, we
collided with a 1966 Ford pickup head on. Pickup was carrying sheet metal.
Just before the impact, angry over the whole trip, I had kicked the back
of Daddy’s seat a dozen, maybe two dozen times. Then, having
kicked the old man’s kidneys to mush, I began praying that the Good Lord
deal justly with mom and dad for making me come on this awful trip. I didn’t
want to drive four hundred miles from Boise to meets Dad’s blind sister
Nell, who lived in Ely.
I don’t think God made the
accident happen, but He allowed it. Poor Daddy got crushed
like a bug by the steering wheel, Mama lost her head when a piece of sheet
metal flew through the front window, and I sat in the back seat, reading
Bible classic comics. God spared me that morning, so when the rescue
team got through the twisted metal and into the back, there I was,
comics in hand, saying, “Where you boys been?” That was back in the summer
of 1968. After that, my brothers and I were raised by Preacher Dave, a
good man but too dog gone permissive. He helped me learn scripture
though and get closer to God.
The pattern starts getting
clearer. It was about six years later (I think I was fourteen) that I was
traveling in the back seat with my two older brothers Spud and Rat—I never
knew Rat’s real name—sitting in the front seat of their souped-up,
navy blue ‘72 Chevy. Spud and Rat, high school seniors, had been drinking
and swearing. I sat in the back, reading scripture, my mind on the book
of Job.
Spud and Rat had abused
me that day, and I was still sore from the wounds. When we came to
the railroad crossing near Orchard and Five Mile, just outside Boise,
I was in the middle of praying that God strike my brothers dead when
some one yelled “Hit it, Spud!” and fat old Spud, dumb as a
bag of rocks, floored it, killing the engine, the Chevy
coming to a stop right on the tracks. The stop was so perfect
I knew God done it.
The train shrieked as it
bore down on us, yet I felt no fear. That car was broke in
two, the two parts thrown in opposite directions. Spud and Rat’s part became
a flaming ball of judgment, and needless to say my brothers
didn’t make it, the charred remains of their bodies later pulled from the
wreckage rendering it impossible to identify either one. As for me,
Bible in hand, I was in the section that got thrown the other way and landed
in a farmer’s pond. I was knocked cold, but when I come
to I was lying on the grass next to the pond, gripping the Holy Bible,
the rescue team having revived me, and so I sat up, cool
as a cucumber, asking “Where you boys been?” All I lost, praise the Lord,
was my right eye and my left foot.
(By the way, mister, you
might want to give those dogs your pancakes. That might calm them
down. And, uh, feed Matthew first. That’s Matthew snarling at your crotch.
Just be real slow. I mean, real slow. That’s it. Now drop them pancakes
on the floor. Good man. Now, more story.)
Anyway, God has watched
over Jonah Isaac. He was good when, on a summer night of ‘85, I was
living just outside Kuna, Idaho, and my trailer caught fire in the middle
of the night, and if you ever seen trailers burn you know this one went
fast. It was about two am, and I was in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet,
praying and reading the Psalms. I could feel the heat God’s holy wrath
but didn’t think much of it until I came out and looked at my home.
The place had been gutted, smoke hanging thick as metal in the air,
and in our bed all that remained of Mabel Jean and her boy friend were
burnt corpses. The fire took the two kids, too, Mutt and Spike—I
can’t remember Spike’s real name—and all that happened to me is that
my hair got singed to the roots.
So there you have me: bald, right eye and left foot missing, blessed
by God. From that point, knowing God meant business, I joyfully
hobbled through life, Bible in hand, witnessing Jesus whenever I got the
chance—at ball games, in bars, on the street, in a whore house once
in a while, even in Bible college for one semester—and always going to
church on Sunday and sometimes on Wednesday, when this other thing happened.
God sometimes works in ways we don’t much like.
Now the pattern gets real
clear, I think. I was working in a trailer factory just outside
of Meridian, Idaho. First day on the job Carl Griffith, the
foreman, asked me where I come from and I said “The Kingdom of God, sir.
I am a permanent resident of the Kingdom of God.” When he chuckled and
asked what I meant, he opened up the doors, and I laid some
Gospel on him and everyone else right there. Must have talked for twenty
or thirty minutes, long enough for the word to spread and bring all one
hundred seventy-seven employees gathering around us to hear my sermon.
I was like Jesus giving the Sermon on the Mount.
When I finished,
led by the Spirit, I called the sinners in the crowd to repentance, and
mean laughter broke out; they called me names, told me I was a fool, and
I knew I was in the company of hateful men and women, fornicators
and adulterers, their minds given over to every evil thing.
“Go back to work, Jonah,” laughed Carl , the foreman, a tall, gangly man
who wore thick black-rimmed glasses. “Don’t no one hear want to hear this
Jesus crap again.” I felt squashed like a bug.
And when things got
worse, I was sure Carl was involved. Like at noon I’d go looking
for my lunch, and I would never find the sack. Or I’d find the sack, but
my sandwich would have been half-eaten and my potato chips crushed.
Or I’d be sitting in the bathroom, relieving myself, when someone
would turn the lights out. When I started screaming the first time it happened,
they figured out old Jonah was afraid of the dark, so every time I went
to piss or shit some one would turn out the lights, and wandering in the
dark it was like the place flipped upside down. I would start feeling dizzy
and sometimes couldn’t stand or find my way to the door. That’s when Carl
would come in and drag me out while other stood around and laughed. But
the Lord promises persecution. All true believers get persecuted.
Anyway, after that when I worked and had to go to the bathroom, I would
just hold it, relieving myself way out back, away from everyone else.
(Just don’t move, heh, heh,
heh. Don’t move. I don’t know what got into Mark. Haven’t seen him like
this for years, saliva drooling from his mouth. Holy cow.
Just sit dead still while I take these fucking dogs outside. Pardon my
French.
C’mon, Mark! Come
here! Matthew, John, all of you, outside—now!! I said now!!!
Now!!!
Ok, mister. I’ll just
shut the door like this They’ll be fine out there for a while, but
it’s getting dark and I gotta let them back in pretty soon. Anyway, let
me continue.)
Where was I? Hmmm.
OK. I got it.
Once when I went out to
my car after work, I found that someone had ripped off my wiper blades
and written on the dirt caked on the hood “Praise the Lord, Jonah.”
Sometimes, my tools would
disappear, and when I asked someone where was my hammer or my screwdriver,
they’d get angry and curse me. One tough guy named Bill—a short stocky
bulldog of a man whose body was covered with biker tattoos—met me out back
in the parking lot one afternoon after work and, in front of everyone,
beat me so bad and bloody that I couldn’t get up while everyone just watched
and cheered like it was some kind of circus act. When Bill finished, he
reached in his pockets, pulled out my hammer and screwdriver, and threw
them on the ground next to me. “Fuck you bud,” was all Bill said
as he walked away.
It was bad day after
day, week after week, month after month, until I finally started praying
to God to even the score. Something about God that a lot of folk don’t
know is that he will get even for you. He will take the side of the
righteous. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
It was early in ‘89 that I felt called to get me some dogs.
Not little dogs, but big dogs. Fighting dogs. I used to stay awake thinking
about this, and finally figured this was a desire God had laid on my heart.
So one weekend, having just been paid, I drove out to a farm way out by
Mountain Home where this guy’s bitch had had a litter of pups. Pit
bulls. I took four and, in honor of the Almighty, named them Matthew,
Mark, Luke, and John.
Those dogs and me became
one as, day after day, after work, I’d spend all my time with them, hugging
them, petting them, watching them grow. They were my friends. That’s
when I started thinking about training these dogs to fight. If I
got a weakness, it is that I love a good dog fight—and there was plenty
in the Treasure Valley. I actually made quite a bit of money
betting on dogs, and I used my winnings to buy the four Gospels—a
pet name for my beasts. Then, I talked to a few dog owners I knew,
and figured training these dogs to fight good would be easy. So that’s
what I did, making them mean to everyone but me, teaching them to attack
on command.
I had only fought them a
couple times the Saturday afternoon I took them to the plant in the camper
in the back of my pick-up. I knew Carl would be at the plant, doing
overtime, getting ready for the next week. And all I wanted
to do, I think, was scare Carl so he’d put the word out to leave Jonah
Isaac alone. I didn’t count on his daughter being there.
I remember the day
like it was yesterday. Dark clouds hung over heads, and
it was about seventy degrees as I came barreling into the unpaved parking
lot and drove through the open fence and down to the railroad cars where
Carl, Bill, and Carl’s gorgeous daughter Jeannie were unloading.
Jeannie was wearing a gray sweater that she’d cut off just above her belly
button and denim shorts with holes in them. She looked good enough to eat,
God forgive me for even entertaining the thought.
When they saw my truck,
they stopped what they were doing and stood in the door of the freight
car—“Who’s this jerk coming?” I know they asked themselves—when I
drove up, braked and got out of the truck. Silent as death, my dogs
stayed in the camper in the back. I had taught them not to bark when they
rode in the truck. I hadn’t fed them for two days.
“Well, well, well,” said
Carl in his usually superior voice, winking at Bill and his daughter, who
flanked him as I walked toward them. “Look who just showed up in time to
help.” Carl had his hands shoved deep in his pockets and was working on
a tooth pick. He grinned, revealing two or three missing teeth. “It’s old
Jonah ‘Save-Me-Jesus’ Isaac.”
I honestly hated this man,
but I believe it was a righteous hatred. Few people I can say that
about in this world, but I hated Carl Griffith. I could tell by his
tone that he was thinking to make me look foolish again. This
would be the last time Carl ever thought that about me.
“Gonna tell us about Jesus?”
Bill snarled, curling his fists at his sides, looking down at me
with a growl. He accented the Lord’s name in a blasphemous way.
Bill looked ready to beat me then and there. I didn’t have a
lot of Christian love for Bill either.
I was ready for whatever
came my way. “Oh, heck, yes, boys. I come to tell you about Jesus, preach
you all a sermon, get you to go to church tomorrow.” I smiled, looked up
at all three, waiting for an answer. Normally, when they said
something to me in a threatening manner, I kept silent.
“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
I shouted, raising my hands in the air the way they do at church service.
“That’s Jonah for ya,” spat
Bill. He’d never seen me praising God, and it made him mad.
“Well,” boomed Carl,
looking over at his gorgeous daughter for approval, “you gotta work
first, Jonah, before we gonna listen. And we sure wanna listen. Preach
it, Jonah. Hallelujah, brother, and amen.”
Bill muffled a laugh, said
“Hallelujah,” and his daughter—a tall raven-haired beauty graduating
from high school in spring—just giggled and said “Amen.”
“Actually,” I began, meek
and mild and cheerful, looking up at the three of them with piety
written on my face, “as a servant of the Almighty I brought you boys and
the little lady here some refreshments. In the manner of my Lord
Jesus Christ, I have humbled myself before God and man. Got the refreshments
in the back of my truck.” I figured they’d jump at the chance of
filling up on refreshments while I worked alone cleaning out the
box car for them. They’d play me for the fool.
“Say,” exclaimed Carl, smiling
hugely at me, then at his daughter and Bill, “why don’t you just jump up
in this rail car with us, Jonah, and help us clean it out while we
get the refreshments? Sound like a plan? Jonah, I think you are a
answer to prayer.”
“Sounds fine to me,” I said,
surprised things were falling into place so easy. I hopped
up into the box car just as Carl told his daughter to bring the refreshments.
“Jeannie,” he snapped at the girl that half the men at the plant wanted
to sleep with, “ jump down and step around back and open up old Jonah’s
cab and bring the refreshments. Do it now.”
“Surely, Daddy,” she said
in the sweetest voice I had ever heard, quickly jumping down off the car
and running to the back of my pickup before I could say a word. As
she started to open the door to my cab, she looked up and smiled
and winked at me, and I realized that she wasn’t like Carl and Bill.
I seen Jeannie was an angel.
I stopped, pained,
like God had hit me in the head with a hammer. Alarms went
off and I smelled death in the air. I felt sick to my stomach.
I don’t know why I didn’t act sooner. Before I could say anything,
Jeannie had opened the door to the camper.
Howling, hungry beasts,
my dogs were on her quick as lightening, all four of them, and I
could see the big black one Luke had her by the throat. Luke would kill
her in an instant. She didn’t even have time to scream. This would
be child’s play for these dogs. For an instant, I froze to the spot.
Then, life coming back into me, I jumped off the box car and ran to the
girl, but in the ten or so seconds it took me to get there each dog
had taken different limb, snarling and working like one mad unit,
pulling her apart. Bleeding profusely, she already had been
bitten on the face and the neck. I yelled and yelled, called on Jesus,
trying to get my dogs off the girl.
Following me off the box
car, Bill jumped in and grabbed the biggest one, Luke, took Luke
by the jaws and pulled the beast away from the girl, who couldn’t
have screamed for her daddy if she’d tried. Her clothes and the ground
around her were already crimson with blood. The other dogs tore at
her like she was no more than a rag doll.
When Carl sprang to help his daughter, grabbing Matthew around
the neck and tearing the dog away from the girl, rolling on the ground
with the beast, I did something surprising. It was like responding to a
still small voice inside, and as soon as Carl got to his knees, his
arms around the dog, I took a bat-size piece of wood that I had found on
the floor of the box-car and still held in my right hand and
brought it crashing to the side of Carl’s head.
The hard bone of Carl’s
skull quickly gave way, like hard rubber, and Carl let go of my dog, fell
sideways, and lay face twisted on the ground, not moving, blood
pouring from nose and mouth. Carl was dead.
Then, I turned to
help Luke. Bill had my dog in a death grip, his legs wrapped
around Luke’s body, crushing the dog’s ribs, forcing Luke’s mouth open
in order to break the jaw. I brought the piece of wood
up against Bill’s bald skull; it was like using a bat to smash a
pumpkin. Bill dropped the dog, which fell limp to the earth,
rolled in the dirt several times, rose to his feet, and covered with his
and the dog’s blood started to stiffly stagger to me, like a monster from
a grade-B 1950’s horror movie. When he was three feet from me, instead
of turning and running, I screamed in rage, lunged forward, and brought
the wood square down onto the top of his head, his skull cracking like
an egg. Bill stopped, looked at me like he’d just seen me for the
first time, and fell straight over, face first, onto the dirt. That was
the end of Bill.
Luke was dead, too,
and the girl wasn’t far from it. She lay in a bloody lump, not even moaning,
the three remaining dogs jumping around excitedly like they always do when
the know they’ve made their kill and it’s time to play. I looked
down at the girl, her face bloody beyond recognition, throat gashed
open, her stomach raw meat, saw that her left arm had been nearly torn
off, knew she would bleed to death in a matter of minutes.
So, after saying a brief
prayer over this bloodied beauty and asking God to forgive us all for what
we had done, I commanded Matthew, Mark, and John to get in the back
of the truck, took out some food for them, closed up the cab, hopped behind
the wheel, and got the heck out of there. Since I had a pocket full
of money and most of my valuables in the back (I’d just cleaned out my
apartment), I put the pedal to the floor when I hit the freeway and
headed north. In the next few days, I took as many side roads as
I could remember up through central and northern Idaho, stopping for gas
only in the most remote, back woods gas stations I could find, survived
on the food I had pack in the back for me and the dogs, and about midnight
four days later crossed into Canada on a dirt road that the U.S. Highway
probably didn’t know existed.
(Wonder how them dogs are
doing outside.) Anyway, never could figure why no one came after me.
It was by luck, I guess, that I found a group of gypsies traveling into
central Canada, and me and my dogs went with them. For two
years, in fact, I stayed with them, and they fed me, the friendliest though
most superstitious folks on the face of the earth, and my dogs never touched
one of them. I know the feds must have been looking for me, but they never
checked out the gypsies, maybe because gypsies are bad luck or are protected
by the same God that got me up here with my dogs in one piece.
I came to believe that,
as I traveled through the Canadian plains with this group, that the
Lord God Almighty must have made all of us invisible. Finally,
I found this old trailer up her in the wintry north, perched on a hill,
no one at home, heat and electricity generated by a pump built into
the hill out back of the trailer. I got to say that God surely provides.
The little shack twenty feet from the cabin had a storage basement with
all the food I’d ever need. I get my water from the pump next to
your car.
So I’m not doing too bad.
Gets colder than blazes up here, but I figure that Good Lord wants me to
stay away from people.
Well, I see it’s getting
dark and you have to get on your way, don’t you? Well, you got your story.
And your coffee and pancakes, heh, heh, heh. By the way, do
you see the pattern yet? Before you go, I’d like to bring my dogs
in—it’s time for them to eat and they’re hungry as starved mountain lions—and
have a word of prayer.
The End
