Santa Cruz, Bolivia

    “Head shot.  Gained the lead,” said the game’s narrator in an overly stylized male voice from the Dolby 5.1 surround system mounted on the wall.
    “You suck,” Max’s voice rang through my headset.
    “Get over it, noob.” I yelled into the mic, smiling.
    For a brief moment the only sounds in the room were gunshots and button mashing.  The control sticks and trigger buttons clacked angrily as panic set in.
    “It sucks you’re in Bolivia, Jon.” Max’s serious statement came out of nowhere.  “Halo over the internet isn’t the same.  It’s more fun to be able to punch you when you kill me, especially on your birthday.”
    “Tell me about it.” I said.  “Mom didn’t even make banana bread this morning because she couldn’t find a mix.  Bolivia’s stuck in the dark ages.”
    Max chuckled.  “Hey, at least you’ve got in...”
    Suddenly the screen froze mid-shot and Max’s voice simply stopped.  Frustrated, I dropped the black and gray controller onto the hard parquet floor.  A resounding, and somewhat satisfying, crack hit my ears.  This was the fourth time in an hour.  What the heck was going on with the Internet connection?  I blamed the fact that we were in Santa Cruz, a city – if you could call it that– in Bolivia.
    I rolled off the couch, yanked my headset off, and stormed out of the room.  I didn’t even bother to turn off the Xbox.  All I wanted to do was be back in America sitting in the ratty, overstuffed recliner in the basement.  I’d love to have an Xbox controller in my hands and friends around me, but I’d settle for just sitting in the chair.  I could picture the old thing.  The red velvet was fraying at the corners.  I could hear the springs creak as I sat down in it.  The reek of hours of gaming seemed to rise almost visibly from the seat and back.  The wooden handle for reclining would lie on the thick blue carpet uselessly just out of reach.   
    Of course, when we moved to Bolivia, we had to leave the recliner behind.  Instead of the glorious recliner, I had to deal with a couch.  It sat squarely in the middle of the room, its sharp angles simply accentuated by the squareness of the room and the rectangular, wooden parquet on the floor.  I glanced back into the TV room with disgust.  I couldn’t believe Mom and Dad bought that.  They said it looked modern.  I said it looked boring.  Of course, no one listens to a sixteen-year-old even if they do actually know something about comfortable furniture.
    I shook my head and grabbed my sneakers.  As soon as I stepped outside, the mix of strange, uncomfortable smells assaulted me.  Exhaust from a car built back in the 1950s mixed with the smell of chicken frying next door.  The dust grating in my nostrils mingled with the lingering particles of spray paint from the graffiti artists still tagging the vacant lot down the street.  I gagged when the sickening stench of last week’s garbage wafted over to me on the slight breeze.
    A huge, dark green truck rumbled around the corner.  The garbage truck’s high pitched song squealed along with the the horns of angry drivers on the main drag.  I lowered my head, attempting to ignore the overwhelming sensations and simply walk.  The pavement’s dull gray stayed in focus for only a little while before becoming background noise to my thoughts.
    Dad had been transferred to Santa Cruz, Bolivia three weeks ago.  Both he and Mom thought it would be a good idea to move there instead of having Dad commute back and forth.  Round-trip tickets were around a thousand bucks.  Mining engineers get paid well, but not that well.  Of course I’d wanted to stay in West Chicago.  Everything I knew was there.  I’d even tried to talk my parents into letting me stay with Max’s family for the last couple years of high school.  They’d agreed to it already, but my parents said that Bolivia would be a “good learning experience for me.”  I gagged every time I remembered that phrase.
    In any case, my parents ignored my objections and dragged me to Bolivia.  They immediately took to the culture like a kid in a candy shop with free samples.  They sampled bits of the culture and adapted them to our family life.  Meal times were Bolivian; what we ate was Bolivian; how we traveled was Bolivian; and even how we dressed was Bolivian.  Mom and Dad even tried to learn Spanish to get around.  Neither of them could do it.  I mean, they got a couple phrases, but couldn’t learn the more detailed aspects of the language. Bolivia was driving me crazy.
    My mind returned to what I was doing.  I looked up briefly and recognized the main avenue by my house.  As I walked down the main drag, I could hear broken pieces of conversations flying around me.
    “Te quiero.” I like you, a girl said to her boyfriend as they walked past me.
    “No podemos hacer eso.” We can’t do that, a guy in a gray business suit said, seemingly into thin air.  It was only after a brief glance to his face did I notice the bluetooth headset in his right ear.
    “Carne!  Compren su carne aquí.” Meat! Buy your meat here, a man called out from a storefront.
    I couldn’t help but feel a bit accomplished.  My parents wouldn’t have understood anything that was going on on the street.  Granted I’d been studying Spanish in school for a couple of years.  I always thought it was useless.  I guess I was wrong.
    My thoughts wandered back to West Chicago.  I remembered the back streets my friends and I used to ride our bikes on.  There was a park two blocks from my house where we used to play pick-up games of football and baseball.  I could remember shouting out play changes only a split second before hiking the football and, later, throwing a knuckleball that floated right over the batter’s swing.
    I would walk to and from school since it was only four blocks away.  My feet could walk that path without even having to think about it.  Especially on bad days, muscle memory and instinct would take over, guiding me home.  I could remember the exact feeling of opening the door and hearing Mom call from down the hall, “Hi, Honey.  How was your day?”
    More often than not, I’d answer with a non-committal, “Fine.”  Once in a while I’d add a qualifier if something especially good or bad or funny happened.  I’d walk into the kitchen and grab a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich.  Then, I’d trudge up the stairs into my room, drop my backpack on my swiveling desk chair, and collapse in bed for a short afternoon nap.
    The fun I used to have at home reminded me of some of my past birthdays.  Mom’s banana chocolate-chip bread would wake me in the morning with its distinct smell creeping up the stairs.  Later in the day, we’d get sixteen people playing Halo at once.  The shouts of glee or dismay would resound through the house as one team defeated the other.  The memories of those birthdays only made today worse. 
    Anger replaced my nostalgia.  How could my parents drag me away from everything important?  Nothing I said mattered.  They didn’t listen to me when I gave my opinion about the couch they bought or when I argued against coming to Bolivia.
    I looked up in rage, hoping to stare down some innocent passerby just to make myself feel better.  Not only were there no people on the street, but there weren’t any cars either.  In fact, I didn’t recognize the street I was on at all.  It was a clean cobblestone alley wedged between the backsides of two tall high rises.
    All of my loud anger dissipated in a split second, replaced just as quickly by silent fear and dread.  I glanced at my watch.  Panic dropped into my stomach like an anvil on the Looney Tunes.  I’d been walking for a full half hour.  Who knew where I’d walked in that amount of time.
    I started walking back the way I’d come.  Hopefully I’d see some landmark I recognized and be able to head home.  No such luck.  I reached the corner just to see another cobblestone road stretching in either direction to uncertain destinations.  The silence began to really bother me.  I stood on the corner and strained to hear a familiar sound.  Where were all the angry shouts and blaring horns from the main avenue?  What happened to all the people talking, yelling, whispering, and muttering?
    Frantic, I turned right.  My walking speed grew each second.  Before I knew it, I was running.  All I wanted was to find something familiar.  Anything familiar would be better than being lost.  I sped around corners, zig-zagging through the streets as I looked for something I recognized.
    Finally I saw a small shop opening.  Maybe I could get directions there, I thought.  For a moment the panic relaxed.  Then I realized I had no idea what my address was.  The panic returned in full force, threatening to cripple me.  I stopped running outside the store, my feet almost seemed glued to the concrete.
    I shoved my hands into my pockets, hoping to find anything I could use to get home.  My left hand crumpled a small piece of paper.  I yanked it out, remembering immediately what it was.  Mom had practically forced me to carry a small card with our address on it whenever I went out just in case something like this happened.  In that moment, I praised Mom’s foresight and turned to the store’s entrance.
    There was a woman there, her eyes laughing at me as if she knew exactly what was going on.  I looked at her then back down at my paper.
    “Puedo ayudarte, hijo?” Can I help you, Son? she asked.
    “Sí.”  I answered quickly.  “Como llegar a la dirección?” How to get to the address? I asked, handing her the paper.
    Her rolling eyes said it all as she reached out to take the card. “Turista?” Tourist? she asked casually.
    “No. Mi papá es con la mina.” No, my Dad is with the mine.
    She looked at the paper for a short second followed by a series of rapid-fire sentences that were completely lost on me.
    “Bien, hijito.  Para nada difícil.  Primero vete a la esquinita.  A la derecha y sigues a la izquierdita.  Después de tres cuadritas, otra derechita y, ay, pucha! Ahisito está la avenida.  Facilito de allí.”
    She must have seen my scared and blank look because she repeated the sentences a second time.  This time I caught every fifth word or so, but nowhere near enough to really understand.  When she saw that I didn’t understand again, she held up one finger and turned to go back inside.
    “Espera un momento.” Wait a moment, she said.
    She was only gone for a second before she returned with a bigger piece of paper and a pencil.  I sighed in relief, she was going to draw me a map.
    “Ven aquí.” Come here.
    I walked over to her and watched as she very slowly explained how to get back to my neighborhood.  I strained to catch what she said and began to pick out details I had missed in the last two attempts.  When she was finally done, she handed me the map.
    “Entendiste?” Did you understand?  She asked
    “Sí.” Yes. I answered confidently.  I shook her hand and took off down the street.
    The map was simple enough to follow.  As I thought back to her first descriptions, I began to recognize some of the words I’d missed.  I was very glad I’d found someone to help, despite the language barrier. 
    As I turned the corner, I saw the wonderful sight of the main avenue cluttered with cars of all colors and ages and types.  Fifteen-passenger vans and pick-ups vied for a position on the road with motorcycles and sports cars.  The horns which had been blaring earlier now seemed like a comfortable symphony.  All panic dissipated like the anger it had replaced.  From the main drag it was a simple matter to get home.
    As I opened the front gate with my keys, a familiar aroma tickled my nose.  I couldn’t quite place it at first; it seemed too out of place.  The closer I got to the front door, however, the more familiar it became.  I walked into the kitchen and saw Mom standing by the counter placing a small yellow birthday candle right in the middle of a loaf of banana bread.
    “Oh hi, Kiddo.” she said.  “It took me a while, but I finally found a recipe and ingredients to make your banana bread.  It doesn’t have chocolate chips, though.”
    I breathed deep, taking in the rich aroma of the banana bread.  I couldn’t believe it.  I walked over to Mom and gave her a hug.
    “Thanks, Mom.”  I said.
    “You’re welcome, Jonathan.  Happy Birthday.”

The Worshipper

    My name is Klars.  I make a living from the fruit orchard that I have.  I live with my wife Sarah, my son Dreft, and my daughter Frega.  I live in a small town in the nation of Surdoma.  Most of the people that live here are farmers and small merchants.  Though it is a small town, it is the center for the worship of the Prince.
On the southern end of the town there is a tall green hill with a deep bowl with seats delved into the top.  Every spring people from all over the nation and the world come to our town to worship the Awesome Prince on the hill.  I don’t know how we can have so many people in this small town, but we do.  Most of the travelers bring tents and live on the edge of town.  It is the best time of year for business.  In the town, I set up a stand in the square with all the other farmers and sell my surplus fruit to travelers. 
Last year was the most extraordinary worship experience I had ever had.  It was the largest gathering I had ever seen.  People from almost every nation in the world came to worship the Prince.  I was surprised at the amount of people, but I was happy that my sales would be large.  I worked all day and got enough money to last me for a long time.  I was very happy.
When I got home that night I showed my wife the amount of money I had made.  She was ecstatic and insisted on having a celebration.  We had a large dinner with some of our best friends and family.  It was delicious.  We had sheep stew and fresh bread with real butter from one of my cows.  We all left the table satisfied and happy.
The next day was the day of worship.  I woke up early and dressed for the occasion.  I prayed for an hour like I did every morning.  I talked to the Prince of my troubles and thanked him especially for the bounty that he had given my family.  Then I walked with my family towards the hill.
The Prince has no priest, but every year he singles out one man to be the worship leader.  No one knew who it would be.  The leader was always chosen on the day of worship.  Before we went up the hill we washed our hands in basins of clear pure water and prayed for forgiveness for any offense we had committed.  The hill was holy ground and we must be pure of hand and heart to worship.
We were not the first to arrive.  We had gotten there early, but many people were already there preparing to worship.  We sat near the end because we did not want to be noticed.  No one from either of our families had ever led worship and we never expected to.  We followed the Prince passively, but many other families followed him more actively.  We would pray and spend time with him, but others would go to the rest of the world and spread the knowledge about him.
Finally, everybody was there.  The stadium was filled to overflowing with people.  In unison everyone began to sing a song of worship that would start off the ceremony of worship.  As I sang I felt a little different than in years before.  I felt that something important was going to happen this year.  I sang with a loud voice and before long was drowning out my family’s weaker voices.  Soon, the song came to a close.
Everyone fell silent.  They were waiting expectantly for the worship leader to be chosen.  Everyone felt that the Prince was making his choice.  When a worship leader was chosen, a bird that had been set in the middle of the ring of people would fly and land on that person’s right shoulder.  I kept my eyes closed in worship.  Soon I heard a slight flapping of wings and felt something land on my right shoulder.
I cracked open my right eye and saw the bird sitting on my shoulder staring at me with its deep blue eyes.  I knew I had been chosen.  I said a quick prayer for the right words and stood up.  My wife looked up at me with a proud look on her face.  I walked to the aisle and walked down the stairs as everybody watched me with awe.
When I reached the bottom and stood in the grassy ring I looked around me and saw everybody that had come to worship the Prince staring expectantly at me.  I felt overwhelmed.  I fell to my knees and said another prayer for guidance and ability.  I stood up and felt very confident.  The Prince was right next to me whispering the words to say.
“Have you come to worship the Prince?”  I yelled over the silence.
A small roar answered my question.
“I cannot hear the Worshippers of the King!”  I called out again.
This time, a roar that shook the entire hill answered me.  I knew I was ready.  This was what I had been created for.  I raised my voice in a song of worship and everyone soon joined in.  Though the entire nation was singing, I could still hear my voice above the thousands of other voices.
After the first song finished, I fell to my knees in prayerful worship.  I hear the rustling of thousands of clothes as almost everyone else did the same.  I must have stayed in that position for at least an hour, but no one seemed to mind.  We were all engrossed in the worship of the Prince.  When I finally stood up, I had tears in my eyes.  Once again I raised my voice in another song of worship.  Within seconds the entire congregation joined me.
We sang until noon.  At that time I felt the Prince telling me to stop.  I finished the song and then made a motion for everyone to sit down.  I then began a speech of thanks to the Prince for everything that he had given us that year.  I told the people there that we were supposed to thank him for good and bad things.  Everything in our lives had purpose.  I also explained that our thanks was also worship.  We had to worship the Prince year round, not only one day a year.  I spoke for about two hours.  When I finished, a round of deafening applause rang on the hill.
The whole time the bird had stood on my shoulder.  Everyone knew that when it took flight, the service was done.  It didn’t usually stay too long.  Usually it left after the worship leader spoke.  This time it stayed.  I began another song and everyone joined in.  We sang for a long time, but the bird wouldn’t leave.  Finally, in the middle of a song I asked the Prince what was going on.  He answered that he wanted the people to know that he was really in control.  He also wanted people to know that I was going to lead worship again soon.
When that song ended, I told the people what the Prince had said.  The thundering yells and applause of approval almost deafened me.  Once that had died down, the bird took flight.  Immediately, whispering could be heard throughout the stadium and everyone stood up and began to leave.  My wife and children came down the stairs to me and hugged me.
They were proud of me.  I knew it.  The Prince was proud of me.  I knew it.  I thanked him quietly as I watched the bird slowly fly towards the sky.