Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Jeremy B. Jones
On Honduran Airwaves: Saturday
It’s election time in Honduras. This morning I am awakened
by gunshots and colonial music—blaring. I can’t decide exactly where
the gunshots come from. I am pretty sure most of the shots come
from my neighbor; but at dark o’clock in the morning, they seem to
come from a solid heavy cannon sitting in my bathroom. At times the
noise is so powerful that it sets off the car alarms of the two trucks
on the street. All of this noise is backed by music with piccolos and
drumming. I imagine men wearing knickers and bright red coats
marching down the street. I think of the bullets being fired by my
neighbor, and remember stories of riots in Asia—guns fired into the
air, and men killed by gunshot wounds to the top of the head. The
bullets have to land somewhere. I consider the physics of a speeding
bullet. At the right height, a bullet can be dropped from a hand and
another shot from a gun, and they will land in the same instant. It’s
too early to be mulling over physics.
I climb from my rickety bed and stumble to the window. My watch
says 5:45. I don’t see anything but the sky easing its way into the day.
The mountains are loosening themselves of the clouds that swallowed
them overnight. This could be a gentle scene to start the morning,
but a car alarm is still ringing out like a siren. The music is no longer.
There are no marching redcoats in the street, but I am standing in my
boxers when I wish I were sleeping. The wake of the music and the
guns has welcomed me to Saturday, ready or not.
Saturdays are strange days for me. During the week I feel like I live
here. I feel I am part of this place, and that, in many ways, this place
needs me. I teach fourth grade at one of the two elementary schools
in town. On weekday mornings I wake up to an alarm. I go to a job,
a purpose. I turn up the same streets, see the same people. I am like
everyone else because I contribute and eat and sleep and have a place.
On Saturdays I feel like an outsider, an observer. More often than not
I wake up to noise, not an alarm. If I go out, people are on their way to
the market. Even if I too am on my way to the market; even if I know
198 ◆ Crab Orchard Review