A Command of Facts

He was impressive, I'll give him that:
the way he set up shop on the hillside
without so much as a by-your-leave
and began telling them about God and all.
Fabulous talker. No arm waving, no
beating his palm with his fist, no
stabbing the air with his finger.
All pretty straightforward. If anything,
maybe a little light on the dramatics.
But you could tell—give him his due—
you could tell he wasn't in it for himself.
And when he gathered the kids around him,
he really seemed to like them. But then . . .
I don't know . . . the longer I listened
the less sure I became about the guy.
He started telling stories, and the thing is,
I wasn't sure they were true. They were
nice and all, and the old ladies, the stiffs,
the babes, even the snooty types
seemed to get off on them. But still,
they were just, you know, stories.
So I asked him, this kid who ran off
from his dad, what town was he from?
The guy who got rolled and the other guy
helped him, what inn did they stop at?
The lady two-timing her husband, was that
a first or second offense, or did anyone ask?
All reasonable questions, it seemed to me.
But he just looked at me. Not mean or nothing,
just sort of sad, if anything, and didn't answer.
He didn't seem to know. He didn't have
the facts at his fingertips. Well, that
just sort of did it for me. I mean,
a guy should have command of his facts.
It's not so much to ask. But like I say,
he just sort of looked at me.
                                                 Sad-like.



The Comstock Review, Spring/Summer 2004, 25.