BIG SOUTHERN CHAPTER 81

KALI, GILBERT, AND DAVID

David doesn't imagine his demeanor to be any different upon his return to the museum. He might be slightly glassy-eyed. His vision certainly seems somewhat askew—not blurry, but everything has a more distinct cast, ready to shift. His voice, when it comes, will bear no weight from knowing what he knows, he is sure. His face, hidden by a gray beard, can hardly reveal minor emotional changes.

Gilbert's mien, on the other hand rubs ecstatic, his first time left alone and in charge obviously productive. He's gotten himself on his emotional feet helping to fine tune the museum and David has coaxed his real dream out of secrecy's realm: being a chef. David maxed out his credit card to give Gilbert a loan for a used food truck—it sits to one side of the parking lot, to Doyle's displeasure—and Gilbert has been repairing it. Eager to tell David of the visitors in his absence, he greets him at his pickup before he's left his seat.

"Three ladies stopped in!" he exclaims. "And loved the museum. So much, they want a tour! You should have seen them."

David slams the door shut, goes around to the passenger side and retrieves two sacks, one holding prescriptions–which he may or may not use, he hasn't decided—and the other a fifth of Bushmill's—again, just in case he needs it, after nearly thirty years without alcohol. He couldn't remember if Jameson's was Catholic and Bushmill's Protestant or vice-versa, but he didn't figure his allegiance this far from Ireland would earn him a knee-capping.

"Good job," David says listlessly, unable to drum up an equivalent excitement. "Did you get contact information?"

"Just like you said." He shows all the eagerness of a twelve year old. That should be embarrassing but David finds it endearing. Who, at twenty years of age, registers unfettered glee over tiny things? You have to give it to the Mormons, he thinks: by keeping you in your family for eternity, you're always a child.

"You've been on some tours, do you think you could run one?" David asks.

Gilbert is at the same time taken aback and honored to be asked. 'Why sure, Mr. Burgess."

"David," he says. "I told you. Call me David. Please."

"Sorry, Mr. Burgess. David. But this lady specifically wanted you to be the guide. She said so."

They walk to the trailer door and step in. Gilbert races ahead of him, picks up the clipboard that serves as a place for visitors to leave comments. "The one lady," he says, handing David the board,"Was really, really nice." He points to a line on the paper. "She wrote that one."
 David, squinting and adjusting the page's distance, reads: "Absolutely nuclear!" His demeanor does change now, his body struck before his consciousness is hit. "Can't wait for the tour!"

He sets the clipboard down. "Do you have their names and numbers?"

Gilbert runs over to the desk for another clipboard and hands it to David. "Do you know them?" he asks, determining something in David's mien, which has collapsed.

Connie and Ilene are common enough names that he might know them. The third, though, coupled with the comment, insure the eruption of his memory. Kali.

Cancer and an old girlfriend in one day, he thinks, setting the clipboard down. "Go ahead and schedule a day, Gil," he says. "And if you can stick around for a couple hours, I need a nap."

He doesn't wait for Gilbert's reply, just walks to the back. Anyone who doesn't think God isn't Coyote needs to be me for a second, he thinks, dropping to the mattress.

One thing's for sure, he's not getting chemo. Or radiation. Neither has ever been on his bucket list. Surgery? He'll have to think about it.

© 2025 Ralph Thurston