Saltered States
by Bruce Salter
EN ROUTE TO SAN FRANCISCO, CA— (Weekly Hubris) —In a parched landscape a solitary figure sat on a rock beneath a twisting Cottonwood tree, vainly trying to shade himself from the relentless sun.
“Jeez, it’s hot,” he snarled, wiping his face with a soiled kerchief. “Where the hell is he? It must be Tuesday by now . . . or maybe even Wednesday. I can’t tell the days anymore, dammit. If only this heat would let up I’d be OK. Damn, I sure do wish he’d get here . . .”
Several hours passed and a second figure appeared through the rolling waves of heat, approaching from the mountains far to the south. The man on the rock stood. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he took a sip from his canteen and squinted into the sun.
“Nope, it’s not him,” he spat, slinging the canteen into the sand and returning to his rock. “Damn.”
“Hello there,” cried the stranger, skipping into the Cottonwood’s meager shade. “I do say, it’s bloody hot out there, isn’t it? Glad to find a bit of company, I don’t mind saying. Been on this road a terribly long time, you know, and haven’t seen a soul till now. Quite a relief, I must say.”
“Ain’t many folks about in this country, it bein’ so hot and dry an’ all,” the man on the rock replied, staring at the cracked ground. “My name’s Sam.”
“Where are my manners,” the stranger blushed, pulling up a rock next to Sam. “I’m McGill, Ledditbee McGill, but everybody calls me Nancy.”
“Nancy? That’s a hell of a name for a fella.”
“Don’t get me started! The stories I could tell you! But, never mind. Just call me Nan and that will be fine.”
“Any way you want it, Nan,” Sam shrugged. “Pleased to meet ya.”
Oh, the pleasure is mine, I assure you,” Nan smiled. “If I may be so bold, may I ask what you’re doing out here in this dreadful wilderness all alone?”
“Waitin’.”
“For whom are you waiting?”
“Waitin’ for LeBron.”
“LeBron? Why, who is that and why are you waiting for him?”
“Who is LeBron? Who is LeBron? I thought everyone knew who LeBron is.”
“I’m sorry,” Nan replied. “I guess I’ve been wandering out here longer than I realized. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.”
“Well, LeBron is the . . . no, he’s a very . . . no, um, he’s everyone’s, uh . . . hell, he’s LeBron! There’s nothin’ more to say than that.”
And he’s coming here to meet you?”
“Sure he is,” Sam crowed, retrieving his canteen. “I admit he’s a little overdue, but if he says he’s gonna do something, he does it, sure as hell, and I’m expecting him to show up any time now. Ya want a taste of this water?”
“Thank you, no,” Nan smiled, pulling a silver thermos from his belt. “I have my own. If I’m not being too nosey, may I ask how long you’ve been waiting?”
“How long? Hell, I don’t know, hours . . . days . . . weeks. Time don’t mean nothin’ when LeBron’s involved. The sun rises when he smiles and sets when he takes a dump. The birds learned to sing from him, and heaven itself was just a dream some people had until LeBron came along with his perfect physique and amazing ball-handling abilities and made it a reality. If it wasn’t for him we’d have nothin’, we’d be nothin’. Why, he defines us, makes us what we are, and we love him for that. And any minute now, LeBron is comin’ here!”
“You are a very patient man,” Nan observed, sipping at his thermos like a hummingbird.
“Patient? Hell, yes, I’m patient. I gotta be. I’ve got more nieces, nephews, cousins and kin than I can count, suffering and struggling just to stay alive, an’ LeBron’s the only one who can help them. He can lead them out of the valley of shadow into the light of hope itself. There ain’t nothin’ he can’t do, and I’m waitin’ right here on this rock, sweatin’ under this poor excuse for a tree until he comes.”
“Bravo, my good man! I admire your tenacity. This LeBron sounds like a most extraordinary chap. Perhaps, if it’s not an inconvenience, I’ll just flag out here with you for a bit and hopefully meet this fellow myself.”
“Suit yourself,” Sam yawned, stretching his cracked fingers to the sky. “It don’t matter to me. It’s a free country, I guess. But tell me, Nan, what are you doing wanderin’ about on your own in this blasted desert?”
“Well,” Nan grinned, betraying just a hint of embarrassment, “I’ve been conducting a, how would you say it, a kind of quest.”
“Quest?”
“Yes, dear man. For the longest time I’ve been searching for a Bieber.”
“A what?”
“A Bieber. Apparently it’s a quite common creature, sightings of the bloody thing everywhere, don’t you know. But I’m finding it to be quite the elusive little bugger and, confidentially, I’m almost to the point of calling it a day and quitting the chase.”
“But why do you want to find this thing, Nan?” Sam asked, swatting the ubiquitous sand flies from his face. “Is it worth something? Does it have some power? Can you eat it?”
“Eat it? Oh, heavens no,” Nan sniffed, shuddering at such a repugnant thought. “No nutritional value there, whatsoever. But the Bieber is in demand. Although it has no intrinsic value, produces nothing of merit, and is intellectually, artistically and socially bereft of worth, it does possess an amazing appeal, principally to the more mentally challenged members of my society which, of course, constitute the outstanding majority. A Bieber is a sort of security blanket for the emotionally vacuous, quite like a pile of excrement would be to those flies buzzing about your face, and it was my charge to safely secure one. But my mission has, up until now, been fruitless and, truth be told, waiting here with you to meet the wondrous LeBron seems a more rewarding alternative.”
“Well, just make yourself comfortable, Nan,” Sam grinned, shifting to follow the Cottonwood’s shadow. “I’m glad for the company. Waitin’ for LeBron is way better than lookin’ for this little Bieber critter. Hell, there’s no comparison, far as I can see.”
“Why, thank you Sam. I must say, I’m not averse to a bit of intelligent conversation after my long sojourn in this bloody wasteland. Seeking out the crafty Bieber to validate the shallow lives of its admirers is a thankless task—mind-numbing, really—and I could use a little intellectual stimulation. Now, tell me more of this singular fellow LeBron.”
“Well,” Sam began, crinkling his brow in the deepest of thoughts, “it all started way back in Akron, Ohio on December 30, 1984, the day of LeBron’s nativity. He opened his eyes for the first time and right away started bouncing a rubber ball around the room like nobody’s business, and people from everywhere came to watch him. Then, when he got a little older . . .”
For many hours, Sam amazed Nancy with tales of the remarkable LeBron, driving all thoughts of the phenomenal Bieber from his mind and converting him into a true apostle of the divinity incarnate.
Days passed as the pair waited patiently under that Cottonwood for LeBron. The sun was blistering, the heat merciless and the hardship almost intolerable, but they persisted, hanging their hopes and the hopes of the world they represented on the materialization of the god they had grown to love so much.
Finally, their water ran out and the pitiless sun did its work, leaving the adherents of LeBron prostrate in the sand, gasping for breath as their lives slipped away.
Suddenly, Sam, his eyes almost swollen shut, saw a shimmering figure approaching from the west. Could this be LeBron at last? Had their savior arrived to grant them transcendence? He tried to rouse Nancy but the vultures were already picking at his bones.
“Hello,” he rasped, barely making a sound. “Is that you, LeBron?”
The figure drew closer.
“I’m still here waiting for you, My Lord.”
The stranger, walking erratically, staggered up to Sam and cast a deep shadow across his face. This didn’t look like LeBron, he thought. This appeared to be a girl, and a rather repellent girl at that. Her stringy hair framed darting, listless, black eyes and saliva ran freely from the corners of her twitching, chapped lips.
Raising himself to his elbow, Sam gasped, “Are . . . are you LeBron? My Redeemer? Please, I beg you, help your humble follower . . .”
The girl cast a disdainful glance down, flung her hair back with a snap of her neck and laughed. “LeBron? LeBron? Do I look like LeBron, you idiot? I’m Lindsey and I have a date with Oprah, if I can ever find her.”
And with a “Harrumph” of contempt, she spun on her heels and disappeared back into the light, her echoing calls to Oprah fading in the sweltering afternoon heat.
