Found Objects
As the salt-and-pepper light of early Sunday morning fills the eastern sky, Gwendolyn the Gorgeous Bag Lady suddenly appears in the soft, new-fallen snow in the parking lot behind Big Alice’s Fine Wines and Burgers. Yawning and wiping the last traces of sleep from her eyes, she approaches the dumpster and lifts the lid. And savoring the sweet smell of breakfast that beckons from within, she opens a plastic bag and surveys the menu.
Saturday and Sunday mornings are bountiful here on her turf. On weeknights, customers come in sober and cranky and acutely conscious of their budgetary constraints. They order the soup and sandwich, and they leave precious little on their plates. But on Friday and Saturday nights, after having slaked a week-long thirst, they order the steak they can ill afford, in portions larger than befits their appetites. Occasionally sleep, or possibly the alcohol, overtakes them before their orders can be served, and Gwendolyn will be the beneficiary of their drowsiness. God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform.
Near the dumpster stand several garbage cans, each overflowing with empty, and often not-so-empty, beer bottles. Though the temperature is well below freezing, Gwendolyn knows from many years of experience that bottles near the center of the garbage can will have been protected from the cold, and the beer will not yet have frozen. Flat it may be, but it is cold, and connoisseurs know that the flavor of a good beer will survive a few hours in a garbage can. These are indeed good times to be a bag lady.
From the alley, a furtive figure approaches. Silently and unseen by the distracted Gwendolyn, he steals across the parking lot to the snowbird Chevrolet, which has stood there, abandoned by its owner, since its battery failed in early January. The seeker peers over the hood, piled high with new snow, at the subject of his quest busily searching among the garbage cans.
For Reverend Oral Dogoodly knows that, under the several layers of sweaters, skirts, sweatpants, and jackets, there breathes a trim and athletic body, unsullied by the groping hands and the lecherous looks of the godless habitués of Snoose Boulevard. There is still time. Her soul is not yet beyond redemption. If only he can convince her to hear the word of the Lord. If only she will listen to him. God knows he tries to bring her back to the path of righteousness, even though she laughs at him and calls him vulgar names. If only he can force her to listen.
And that is why he has been spying on her all these months now. That is what brings him out in the new snow on a Sunday morning. If he can discover where she spends the night, if he can surprise her while she sleeps, he will be able to hold her down, with the good Lord’s grace, while he preaches to her — all night if necessary — whatever it takes to bring her home to Jesus.
And now his perseverance has been rewarded. He will be able to follow her tracks in the new snow back to where she slept last night. And then tonight, after she has gone to sleep, he will pounce upon her and immobilize her with his great weight and God-given strength. And he will save her, and the Lord will be pleased. He tingles all over, and his pulse races as he pictures in his mind the glory of his victory. Tonight righteousness shall triumph over evil!
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From where he stands, he can trace her tracks in the snow back from the dumpster toward the center of the parking lot, but he dares not rise up for a better view. Creeping back to the rear of the car, he peeks over the trunk, hoping to see from whence the tracks lead. But from his perspective they don’t seem to lead from anywhere. They begin in the middle of the parking lot, as though she had been created out of nothing on that spot just moments ago.
Surely this is some satanic trick. She may have Indian blood. Perhaps she knows that he is spying on her. Perhaps she is aware of his noble purpose. He thinks it best to lie low until she leaves. Then a proper investigation will reveal the truth.
Spreading her bounty in a corner out of the wind, Gwendolyn selects an almost untouched sirloin and a large kaiser roll. As she eats, she wraps the rest in plastic and stows it away in her bag. She has found three half-full bottles of beer to wash down her breakfast and has taken a couple of empties in case one of the many thieving neighborhood dogs ventures within range. God, she hates those thieving neighborhood dogs. If you’re not careful, they’ll rip open your bag and tear up all your stuff while you’re not looking, just out of plain damned meanness. The bastards!
Spring breakup is just around the corner. And once the snow is gone, this parking lot will be a veritable mother lode. Gwendolyn knows that wherever rich people congregate, and especially wherever rich people congregate to drink, a lot of their money gets scattered in the snow. She reminisces about the wonderful things she has found in springs of years past, and she dreams of new riches lying beneath the snow waiting to be discovered. She can hardly wait for her first glimpse of bare asphalt.
Of course, other people know of these treasures too. In the few days following the thaw, she will several times drive off people who will come snooping around with metal detectors, hoping to turn up something of value. Gwendolyn will not allow any damned metal detectors, or any snoopers for that matter, on her turf. Anything in, on, or under the snow from here all the way to Seven Corners is her property, by virtue of her common law claim. A law student had told her that once.
She finishes her breakfast and rises to a standing position. Then, tugging at the several snaps, straps, and laces of her wardrobe, she releases her many layers of clothing, drops her numerous pairs of sweatpants, and squats in the early morning privacy of her realm. And now she spies the prying eyes of Reverend Oral Dogoodly as he ducks down behind the hood of the snowbird. With several empty bottles at hand and him in easy range, she finally has that preaching pervert where she wants him. With hasty calculation and deadly aim, she launches the first bottle into the deep new snow on the hood. The snow is soft, as she anticipated, and the bottle penetrates.
Reverend Dogoodly has ducked down behind the hood. He is not sure if he has been spotted, but he believes that his best course is to remain still and out of sight. There is, as yet, no sound from Gwendolyn. She will be wondering if she has actually seen him or only imagined it. And now he hears the low warble of the tumbling bottle. The snow erupts before his face, and the bottle strikes him soundly on his nose.
So much for stealth! A dignified retreat now seemingly the wiser course, he turns and scampers for safety. As he rounds the corner to the alley, he once again hears that ominous low warble, and a second bottle finds its mark behind his left ear. Bruised and bleeding profusely from the nose, he scrambles for safety down the alley, wondering if ever another Christian martyr suffered so much pain and indignity in his efforts to spread the Lord’s good tidings.
With Gwendolyn’s athletic ability, she can easily run him down and thump him properly. Unfortunately, in the excitement of the chase, she has forgotten to pull up her several sweatpants, and with her first step, she trips and pitches headlong into the snowbank. By the time she recovers, the preacher has made good his escape. But the crimson stain of fresh blood in the snow confirms that she has injured more than just his dignity this time. And it will be a while before Reverend Oral Dogoodly will again invade the privacy of Gwendolyn the Gorgeous Bag Lady.
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