East of Eden Prairie
- W. Steinbeck
The river ran quietly along the Mississippi valley. The ruddy banks were littered with a variety of dense vegetation. The topsoil was fertile, and white and yellow flowers sprouted everywhere, littering the foothills. The river was down this year, part of its normal cycle. The dry summer and autumn suffocated the rivulets and and smaller streams that were often common, between the hills. Now the land was a saffron color, gaunt and cracked. The idea of lushness here was a weary pantomime.
Across the plains arose a giant structure-- evidence of man's dirty fingerprints on God's canvas. As you got closer to this monstrosity, you knew that you were no longer under the protection of the Creator. The bright afternoon sun glinted off of its corners and right angles. The wind blew across the road, scaring up leaves, cigarette butts, and dust. A man got out of his vehicle and began walking across the road. He paused, briefly, and inhaled deeply before continuing. His legs were long, lean, and muscular. Although he may not have toiled in the acres of farmland scattered across this section of Minnesota, he often wiped sweat from his brow.
As he completed his trek across the road, an automobile sped past. Someone yelled something indecipherable, the sounds dying on the hot dry earth before reaching anyone's ears. He stared off at the horizon, inching closer towards the miserable reality of his destination. He had a job to do. Sweat ran down his cleanly-shaved head. He ambled towards the door, under the glowing neon sign that proudly displayed the name "Champps," as though the proprietor was proud of the defamation of nature that his building represented.
The man entered, and heads turned. He had that affect on people, and disliked it from the first time he felt it. It was his posture, his stature, or maybe the two large diamonds that took up residence in his earlobes. He looked at the crowd of faces surrounding his-- they were neither poetic nor disparaging. What did these souls need, he wondered, as he sat. What can I provide them to ease their longing, their hunger, their desires? Would anything in their lives be solved by just a glimpse? They'd soon lose sight of their temporary joy and return to their lives filled with trivialities and mundaneness. It was always this way.
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