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

Jeremy B. Jones
my guitar. I say goodbye and move onward with my tortilla mission.
The Catholic bell starts ringing. My watch says 6:37. Every night,
the Catholic bell begins sometime after 6:30. It starts slow but speeds
up to the point that it is hard to differentiate the individual claps.
Then there is always a point when the ringing slows, almost stops,
and works its way back up to speed. It is a job for two boys. I imagine
one of them swinging his entire body until he just can’t anymore.
Then the other younger boy grabs the rope and works himself into a
steady but frenzied sway.
The bell speeds up and I can hear it over the evangelical music. I
wonder if those inside the evangelical service can hear the ringing of
the bell. Somewhere there is an impassioned church full of evangélicos.
They are singing and rocking their bodies to an inaudible rhythm.
I picture the boy ringing the bell. His body moves left to right, as
though he has become the rope. The air is filled with a mixture of
Christianity, and for a moment the dissonance consolidates itself into
a unified gradient of sound. The bell slows then speeds again. I step
over the gulley to enter the pulpería and see Miguel’s face floating
in the gutter water. Below his slick-backed hair and gapped smile it
reads, somos más—we are more. I wonder if I need cheese or just the
tortillas—maybe even some meat.
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