Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Dispatch from a City on Fire
Paganistan is burning.
I wake at 3:30. As is my wont, I make my rounds through the dark house.
From the back, I can see the smoke, livid red. Opening the door, I smell the smell of things not meant to burn, hear the unmistakable sound of a large fire.
I pull on clothes and go out. Two men, drunk, are sitting on the sidewalk across the street. One of them calls out to me, incoherently. I turn the corner onto Lake Street, artery of fire through the heart of the pagan neighborhood.
I walk toward the fire. Two blocks away, the auto parts store is burning.
Suddenly I'm filled with a bright red fury at all the breakers of the world. It takes months to carve a beautiful statue, only a few seconds to smash it.
I turn back towards home. Looters are coming out of the Somali adult day care center across Lake Street.
Back in the house, I dial 911.
Location of the emergency?
The northeast corner of Park and Lake, I say. The auto parts store is on fire. There are no emergency vehicles there.
Oh yes, O' Reilly's, says the operator, her tone oddly conversational. We know about that.
Really, there's nothing more for me to say. I thank her, and hang up.
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