The Jesus Cow by Michael Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

thus the workshop terminated. On another cultural front, Carolyn got into regular shouting matches with Reverend Gary. Some of the disagreements were theological, but mostly it was over all the speaking in tongues after ten p.m. on Bible Study night.
    So it was, when Carolyn heard the old village water tower was slated for destruction, she had seen it as a cultural opportunity. More than that, a responsibility : if these people couldn’t recognize the treasure of their own history, she’d recognize it for them. And after years of navigating the world of government grants and foundation funds, Carolyn happened to know the governor had recently expanded a state program making funds and tax credits available for the renovation of historic landmarks—exactly the sort of thing about which these shortsighted Swivel knuckleheads were oblivious. She went into high gear, submitting the petition for landmark status, storming the village board meetings, and convincing Harley Jackson to let her assume the lease.
    Shortly thereafter, the governor reversed himself, announcing a series of budget cuts and putting the renovation program—and its funds—on hold, and Carolyn found herself stuck with a year-long lease on a rusty water tower full of nothing.

CHAPTER 8
    W ith the chores complete, Harley found himself hungry. What he needed was eggs and bacon and good fresh-ground coffee, but what he craved was the instantaneous fix of a gas station pastry washed down with a Styrofoam cup of industrial drip, both available at the Kwik Pump. For that matter, maybe he’d go for a drive. It was one of his favorite things, driving nowhere particular in his pickup truck with old-school country music on the radio, slowly knee-steering along with the coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other. Nutritional napalm, and no way to navigate, but the sort of unobtrusive decadence that suited him. He closed the barn door, started his pickup truck, and made the short drive across County Road M to the Kwik Pump, where a neon sign in the window promised BEER SALES TO MIDNIGHT , and a banner hung with bungee cords advertised a dollar-off special on twenty-four-packs of Old Milwaukee. Right below that was an official government-issuesign identifying the Kwik Pump as a deer carcass registration point. This was an accurate representation of the ratio of interests in the area, which ran about two to one beer to hunting.
    Harley parked before the propane cylinder exchange cage and left the truck idling, the heater blowing. Inside the door of the station, Harley stopped as he always did to read the community bulletin board, filled with homemade posters advertising housecleaning services, babysitting, dock repair, cabin winterization, taxidermy, bowling tournaments, cancer benefits, used snowmobiles for sale, and Pampered Chef parties. Down in one corner a piece of paper stapled to the cork featured a cartoonish rendering of a gooey-looking black teardrop falling toward a sad-faced cartoon Earth. A red circle/slash had been superimposed over the black teardrop. The caption below Earth said:
    TOP DOLLAR FOR YOUR USED MOTOR OIL
    &
    OTHER PETROLEUM-BASED WASTE
    I PICK UP, I PAY (CASH)
    (NONGOVERNMENT) (NO QUESTIONS ASKED)
    Below the caption was a fringe made of the same phone number printed vertically, over and over, each separated by a scissors snip. Harley noticed that several of the strips had been torn away.
    Harley knew that number. He dialed it whenever he needed to speak with Carolyn Sawchuck.
    MAKING HIS WAY through the ranks of foil-wrapped snacks, gallon jugs of window washer fluid, and artfully stacked rock salt, Harley approached the bakery case and chose a creme-filled, maple-frostedlong john, then moved to the coffee stand, where he drew a twenty-ounce Kona Luna from the vacuum thermos. Then he turned around, bumped directly into a woman, and slopped fresh hot Kona Luna across her boots.
    â€œOh, shoot, I—,” said Harley,