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Mar. 10, 2010 It was a summer, and the auditorium was large and for some reason carpeted. There were speakers, but the speakers sat in chairs instead of standing at podiums, so there were no props really. The people that came to listen were not charged entry fees, and there was no place for donations- what’s more- there were no books or tapes for sale. The first few speakers had spoken about Amerindian beliefs and ceremony - the usually fair- healing plants or totem animals, maybe visions, and such like that. Everyone was waiting it seemed for a speaker named Lloyd, which Francis thought it a strange name for a speaker, but he too waited. After a break it was apparent that Lloyd was seated in a chair and the place became a buzz and filled up. Some men came and put tobacco in his hands, as some sort of offering but it didn’t seem very esoteric- more something done out of respect. Lloyd was eating out of a Styrofoam container, - a street vendor’s hotdog or something Francis thought- that someone had bought for him. This speaker was dressed in blue jeans and a button up shirt. The winds came though the doorway but not as a presence or magical omen- the winds came in because someone opened the auditorium doors just beyond the hallway. Lloyd began with, “Lets begin. I’m ready. There is white man’s time, Indian time, and Lloyd’s time,” and some people chuckled. He talked about things like great and definite signs when the world was crying out or trying to begin to heal itself. The crowd listened intently. The speaker also spoke on health problems, and even touched on numbers, saying that seven was a special number in all this, all these world events- but was clear that he didn’t know either why or how- but that that seemed to be an important number. At one point he was talking about his old days, and a time when he was far away from a city, and everyone was drinking heavily. He described part of that event by saying ‘There were a group of them, fifteen or so, and they had been drinking for days and days, and were very emotional. It came on the news that a Kennedy had died, that Robert Kennedy had died, and someone started crying and then they all hugged and started crying and drinking more, singing many sad songs. They kept saying “Oh- poor Bobby- he is dead. We have to drink to Bobby. This is the worst day for Bobby- the day that now he is dead.” And they drank like that the remainder of the time, very heavily, now in sadness of Robert Kennedy’s death.’ And the auditorium doors opened again and many winds came through. After a while this Lloyd was about done, and whoever he was he was a respected elder of some sort- because everyone crowded him- trying to speak to him, being as polite as they could, yet invading his social space somewhat. But he looked used to it, and handled it well. He had a funny kind of non-glamorous rugged beauty- there in a plain chair, in jeans with the button up white shirt, and it might, Francis thought, have to do with the good weathered look of having lived through all those decades and experiences and landing alive, landing at auditoriums so many years later being able to take it easy and have a street vendor lunch and give a bit of a talk to the folks that showed up. He seemed okay with whatever showed up, - and maybe that was the trick. ------------ About the Author: For more of Brian's short stories, visit his website: http://www.freewebs.com/storyandstory/. Email Brian Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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