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Fiction Short Story

by Les Combs

Job's Curse

Me and God had a disagreement, a difference of opinion. I don't know how big a problem it was for Him, but it was a sure-enough trial for me.

Everybody knows God is a Democrat. I learned that early in life; entire generations of my family being rabidly red-dog in their thinking. Sometime during the last presidential campaign I changed my allegiance and decided to vote for the other party. This act of secession was not widely known. In fact, it was a secret between me and, as it turned out, God.

Knowledge of His interest in the matter came in dramatic revelation the Sunday morning before Election Day. It happened on the road to Damascus. That's Damascus, AR 72039. My folks live out that way, and I often drive up for Sunday dinner. I'd just passed Greenbrier when a voice boomed out, "BOY, WHO YOU GOING TO VOTE FOR?" James Earl Jones in SurroundSound.

There's not a lot of room in the cab of a pickup, but I looked all around and made sure the radio wasn't on. I even craned my neck to check the empty bed through the back glass.

"LET'S HEAR THE TRUTH NOW, BOY. WHO IS IT?"

I'm not one to be pushed around by just anybody, and my temper got the best of me. "I don't believe that's anybody's damn business but my own."

"YOU BETTER WATCH THAT MOUTH, BOY."

Man, I never knew you could get that kind of echo in a truck cab.

"I'M GOING TO SEE TO IT THAT YOU GET YOUR MIND RIGHT."

It wasn't a second later that I felt some discomfort in the vicinity of my wallet. By the time I got to my folks' house I was shifting positions on the seat, looking for relief.

"That's ugly," Mama said. I lay facedown across the bed, pants around my knees, while she applied a poultice to the flaring red boil on my right cheek. "How long have you had that?"

"Not long, Mama. Do you think that stuff will cure it?" She'd whipped up a paste of sulfur and mineral spirits, smeared it on a sanitary napkin and Scotch-taped it across the tender area.

"Hard to say, son. It's in God's hands now." Well that was comforting to know. I ate dinner standing up.

Driving home was possible only because of Mama's pink satin pillow borrowed off her couch. The radio offered no solace. Every station carried church services. Preachers hollered about sin and punishment, choirs sang of repentance and forgiveness. In a highly agitated state I clicked the radio off. With one ear cocked, I half hoped for a bargaining session from on high, but heard no thundering voices. The lonesome sound of tires on the pavement brought no relief from my pain.

Monday morning, after a sleepless night, I held a hand mirror to view my bottom reflected in the bathroom full-length glass. A rosy Mount Erebus greeted me, angry and throbbing. Purple rivers of inflammation extended from a base the size of an Oreo cookie.

"HA-HA-HA. NOW THAT'S UGLY." He was back, loud as before and showing a mean streak.

My neighbor in the next apartment pounded on the wall. "Turn it down!" The guy was a crank who frequently complained about the volume on my hi-fi. Anybody who doesn't appreciate Bob Wills' music must be sick.

God wasn't done with me. "CHANGE YOUR MIND YET, BOY?" Always cool, I maintained my bent-over position. If He wanted a good look, let Him get an eyeful.

More wall pounding. "I'm trying to sleep in here. Turn it down, for God's sake!" If this went on much longer I'd be evicted, thrown out in the parking lot with an erupting boil on my bottom.

"KNOCK IT OFF IN HERE, BUDDY, OR YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE REAL TROUBLE." This time the booming voice came from the next-door apartment, the sound muffled a bit by the walls. The neighbor's complaints abruptly ended. Not another peep to this very day.

"TOMORROW'S ELECTION DAY, BOY. I KNOW YOU'LL DO THE RIGHT THING." He left me staring into the mirror and not liking what I saw. I began to wonder if the road to independent thought might have a few too many bumps.

I was among the first at the polls Tuesday morning. The minute I brought the lever down on a straight-ticket Democratic vote, I felt whole again. The pain vanished as suddenly as it had come. I walked to my truck with jaunty step.

"NOW THAT WASN'T SO HARD, WAS IT, BOY?" I suppressed a smart-assed retort and got in my truck. Don't ever underestimate the power of a political activist.

© Copyright 2003 Les Combs

About the Author:

Les Combs is a retiree living in Arkansas. A dozen or more of his short stories have been published in various print and e-zine venues. He credits WVU and the Creative Energy Unlimited group with whatever writing skills he may possess.