“Would you like some more sweet tea?” a lovely old woman asks, pouring more into a glass. You haven’t finished your first glass. There are three more glasses next to it. You dare not turn her down.
“Edmond, OK – A Good Place To Grow!” The star quarterback stares you down as he buys an assorted bag of illicit prescription pills from the National Honors Society president.
No one has actually left Oklahoma since the great depression. The prairies span infinite for attempted escapees.
A storm brews. It is noon on Saturday. The tornado sirens wail. No one pays them any heed.
The cicadas have stopped their buzzsaw whirr. Something is coming.
Whose blood stained the soil red?
“What would you like to drink, sweetie?” the waitress asks you. When you ask for a Coke, she presents you with Dr Pepper. It is always Dr Pepper. You drink it, and your stomach churns.
The weatherman predicts rain. The clouds part and the sun shines, stronger than ever. Meteorologists sweat and continue their work. Even with every incorrect prediction, they cannot stop. The tornado sirens hum on Saturdays, anticipating, waiting.
Everyone works in the oil fields. No one ever asks why they work in the oil fields. No one remembers when they started working in the oil fields. No one questions it. Better not.
The Devon tower is always clearly visible on the horizon. You hide from its panopticon.
Everyone you meet is an Okie from Muskogee. No one ever mentions why they left.
Fast food employees sweat, waiting in fear on Sunday shifts, for when the shackles break and the Masses come loose.
“Yeah, we came here through Miami,” says a tourist at the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum. His family wonders where he is when they prepare to leave. They will always wonder.
“I go to LifeChurch,” she says. Her eyes plead.