Adhan
The protest had been growing since early in the morning, and the harsh February wind had done nothing to deter the new arrivals. They had come in all manner of motorized carriage, ranging from the caked in mud to the five inch lift kits. Despite the freezing temperatures, they proudly wore their Confederate flag t-shirts without much to provide for warmth aside from several layers of sweaty, unwashed fat.
They spat hellfire at passersby, waving their Bibles and printed off versions the Constitution in the winter air.
“Go home, towel heads!”
“You worship the Devil!”
“This here’s a Christian nation!”
The few police officers who had arrived to request them to leave had been shooed away with offhanded remarks of the highest intellectual caliber.
“Right to free speech, buddy!”
“We’re doing the Lord’s work.”
At some point, the voice of the Muezzin came over a loudspeaker, singing the Adhan through the air. However, it was largely cut out by a symphony of booing which gradually faded into a choppy rendition of “God Bless America”.
Families arrived, but found themselves unable to climb the steps, which by this point were completely blocked by the sweating crowd.
“Shave that nasty son of a bitch, camel jockey!”
“You’re in America now, honey. You can wear real clothes.”
Eventually, the Adhan ceased and the families quit coming. At some point, an American flag joined the fray, waving proudly as “God Bless America” resounded once more.
By the time the sun began to set, the protesters knew the battle had been won. Seeing no reason to stay, most began to trickle away, leaving the scene in their black-smoke spewing chariots.
By nightfall, the last protester left with a simple “God bless”, leaving only one man left, who sat on his scooter, his belly threatening to tear his Vietnam-era fatigues, and his ratty mane seemingly inflating his head to twice its size. A single three by five inch American flag hung by the end of the arm of his chair.
He was far too engrossed in a well-thumbed copy of the New Testament to see a figure approaching from around the corner.
He was coming from the direction of the local soup kitchen, and reeked of cheap gutter wine. His clothes were blotted with grime and shredded from neglectful abuse, and the only shoes that he had to cut through the week old snow were a pair of boots fished from a dumpster, held together by duct tape and string. His beard and hair were tangled and knotted, forming a nest even the most ambitious of barbers wouldn’t dare approach. He was dark, far darker than the man in the scooter, his skin similar in tone to his warm almond eyes.
“Excuse me,” he ventured with a shy voice, “Did I miss the call to prayer?”
The vet looked up from his Bible with a snort.
“You’re certainly ain’t excused, boy. Where you from?”
The young man’s eyes looked up and to the right as if he was trying to remember.
“Palestine.”
“I suspected as much.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I knew the minute you walked up here you were a god-damn sand nigger. You know your kind ain’t welcome here.”
“Liberty and justice for all.”
“One nation under God. Not one nation under Allah, you fuck.”
“Do you know any Arabic?”
“Do I what?”
“I’m not the most familiar myself, but from what I understand, Allah translates quite literally to ‘God’.”
“You’re gonna dare compare your camel-fucking pagan God to my savior?” the Vet spat in the snow at the young vagabond’s feet. “And if you start that shit again I’m gonna kick your brown ass.”
The Vagabond raised his hands in self defense.
“Peace, friend. We’re just speaking as God’s children.”
“I ain’t your goddamn friend. Now get the fuck out of here.”
The Vagabond dropped his hands, then turned and began to leave. The Vet watched him, a victorious grin growing over his face. He withdrew a half crushed and ancient cigarette from his pocket, sticking it into his mouth with satisfaction.
Around the corner, the Vagabond paused to watch the snow fall. He laughed quietly to himself at the spectacle. The freezing wind cut through the air, and he rubbed his hands together against the chill. Blowing into them, he glanced at the scars on his palms, which had long ago begun to fade. Looking to the sky, he felt the flakes melt on his face; and then he was gone with the drifting snow.