Ptar the Donkey - Chapter Three

Chapter 3

These Tumultuous Battles Between Piety and Pleasure

— or —

Strange Meetings on the Side of Road

Only one missionary ever came to Ptar’s village after the previous ones were beheaded.  He came when Ptar was still just a young boy.  His name was Doug and Doug’s body was as ill prepared for the climate he would find himself in as Ptar’s was.  Pale skin, fragile red hair, and a wispy beard was Doug.  Doug was from Omaha, Nebraska where his father managed a Hostess baked goods distributional and his mother worked for the post office as a seasonal mail sorter.  It should be said that Doug found himself in missionary work because of a woman.  This particular woman being the young wife of Ski Jacobs, the equally young new minister of the 42nd Street Baptist Church.  Doug and his parents weren’t regular attendees of the 42nd Street Baptist Church, but they, like many others, came the first day Ski Jacobs took over the parish to see what the new young minister had to say for himself.  Doug fell in love with Ski Jacob’s wife at first sight as she sat behind her husband — a vision of decorum coupled with sexual constraint.  From there on out Doug attended ever Sunday service and, after learning Mrs. Jacobs led them, he even started attending the 42nd Street Baptist Church’s Wednesday night youth prayer group.  Doug had just turned eighteen and, as his high school graduation neared, Doug’s intense love for the minister’s wife grew.

The combination of adolescent testosterone and an over active imagination caused Doug to start to believe Mrs. Jacobs reciprocated his feelings.  So, one fateful Wednesday night, Doug resolved to do something about the electric sexual and emotional tension he perceived to be between them.  As he often did, Doug volunteered that night to stay behind and helped pick up stray bits of refuse and to stack chairs.  Mrs. Jacobs was grateful for Doug’s help, and she told him so.  Once they were through cleaning up, Mrs. Jacobs suggested they discuss Doug’s future over a cup of tea before they headed home.

Doug was elated.  And he was nervous.  Of course she wanted to discuss his future, he thought.  Why wouldn’t she?

“What are you going to do after graduation?” she asked him as she casually leaned against the counter of the tiny kitchen in the basement of the 42nd Street Baptist Church, her legs crossed at the ankle and her back intently arched, Doug couldn’t help noticing.

Doug shrugged.  His palms had become sweaty and his throat had grown dry.  “I don’t really know,” he managed to say.

“The missionary program out of Kansas City is fabulous,” Mrs. Jacobs said.  “That’s how Ski and I met.”

“Really?” Doug squawked.  He took a drink of his tea in hopes of soothing his dry throat, but it was still much too hot to drink so it burned his upper lip and tongue.  He suffered this silently and only grimaced slightly.

“Oh, yes,” she said, placing her hand on Doug’s forearm.  “It was all very romantic, really.”  She took her hand off Doug’s forearm and brought her teacup to her lips but did not drink.  In her mind she was reliving her time in Burma with Ski, where neither of them worried about planning sermons or youth groups or had to live in Omaha, Nebraska.  Instead they would lay naked for hours in a hammock slung between two palm trees, smoking opium and making love whenever the notion struck them.  But, Doug believed Mrs. Jacobs’s longing look into her tea to be a coy, yet deliberate, flirtation with him.  So, he forgot his throbbing upper lip and tongue and set his teacup on the counter and leaned in to kiss Mrs. Jacobs.  And, she, lost in thought, hadn’t realized Doug’s intentions until he was only an inch or two from her.  She jumped, throwing hot tea on the both of them.

“Jesus Christ,” she said.  “Just look at this.”  She took up a dishtowel and began to pat her blouse with it.

Doug was consumed with embarrassment.  ‘I…” he said.  “I’m…”

Mrs. Jacobs quit dabbing her blouse with the dishtowel and looked at Doug.  “What, Doug?  You’re what?”

Doug could think of nothing to say, so he just left.  On his way out, he heard the minister’s wife laugh quietly to herself at the absurdness of boys and her inability to understand them.  Doug would never forget that quiet little laugh — always believing it to be directed solely at him and his lone ineptitude — and her laugh would often ring in his ears at various times over the rest of his life, mostly when he felt as if he was a failure or was in a general state of inadequacy as a man.

Doug never went back to the 42nd Street Baptist Church after that fateful Wednesday night.  But the day after his high school graduation he took the three p.m. bus to Kansas City and he joined up with the International Baptist Missionary Salvation Society the next morning.

Ptar’s village was far from Doug’s first missionary post.  In fact, over the years, Doug had been all over the world converting the unenlightened to Christianity, and by the time he volunteered for the long open assignment of Ptar’s village — which was still infamous for the beheadings — he was a seasoned missionary and had just turned sixty-four years old, having celebrated his forty-fifth year as a missionary, complete with a lovely ceremony and Doug receiving a silver-plated pen/pencil set in commemoration.  Doug, whenever he ever looked back, was pleased with his life and its pursuits.  He was fulfilled.  But he was getting old and tired, his knees always hurt and his back ached in the morning, and he knew his efforts in missioning where going to have to come to a close if for no other reason than his physical failings, so Doug thought what better way to end his career than throwing himself into the old proverbial Lion’s Den — headfirst.

Ptar’s grandfather, by the time Doug arrived at their village, was one the oldest and most useless of the village elders.  He still loathed missionaries, even more than most.  He had been a glad participant in the beheadings all those years ago.  He cursed Doug and warned the rest of the villagers of this devil in red hair and white skin, but the rest of the villagers no longer remembered the previous missionaries or the reasoning behind their beheadings.  Besides, Doug was a gregarious fellow that seemed harmless enough.

So Doug sauntered in and was more or less tolerated — he wasn’t beheaded at least, which he took to be a very good sign.  Sure the villagers’ hatred for Christian missionaries had lessened, but they were not an innately welcoming group to strangers, thus Doug found himself sleeping alone on the beach his first few nights — much to the chagrin of his back.  It was very height of the dry season, which was no drier than any other dry season, but Doug was overwhelmed by it.  He was in a constant dilemma of having to keep his pale skin covered from the intense rays of the sun and being stifled by his thick khaki hat, shirt, and pants he used to cover himself with.  Very quickly Doug broke one his most steadfast rules and conceded the fact that his standard missionary-issued attire was more than likely going to kill him, so he traded them in for pair of loose-fitting, light linen pants and a shirt with wide sleeves and open neck line to maximize airflow.  This was something he would never consider doing in his younger days, but things change, he thought.  He was still hot, but not suffocatingly so.

Doug was smart, experienced, wily, and most importantly patient.  He didn’t even mention Jesus Christ.  Instead he earnestly inquired into the village’s history and their industry.  He would tirelessly talk to the fisherman, divers, rice farmers, and, after a time, the village elders, except for Ptar’s grandfather who remained steadfast in his mistrust of Doug and would curse him and throw stones at him, all to little effect because his eyesight was tragically clouded by cataracts.  Eventually Doug became so well liked and trusted that he found himself to be the honored guest of the most revered families of the village, invited to eat and drink rice wine and sleep on special bed mats stuffed thick with hay.

Ptar was seven years old at this time.  When Ptar observed Doug’s skin reddening and his brow continually perspiring and his all around general discomfort, he felt an immediate connection with the man.  Ptar begged his father to allow Doug to stay with them — something that was absolutely forbidden by Ptar’s grandfather, who promised to slit the throat of any white-skinned bastard that stepped foot in their hut.  Form the moment Doug came to the village, Ptar was rarely far from him, which was nothing too unusual as most of the village children followed Doug around like lemmings, he being the only new and interesting thing to come to their village in quite some time.  Plus, none of the children had ever seen a man with such white skin.  And Doug was good with village children, earning their trust by always being kind and humble and comical, entertaining them with simple magic tricks, which would more often than not fail miserably.  The coin up his sleeve would slip out due to excessive sweat, or the card he was looking for would get scrambled in his mind due to the intense rays of the sun.  Still, the children loved him for his attempts and they enjoyed watching his pale skin grow redder and redder, often wondering amongst themselves if he would eventually just burst into flames.

One day, Ptar overheard two older boys speak of Doug.

“If his skin burns anymore, I think it will melt off and he’ll have to spend the remainder of his days in the hell his kind is so fearful of,” one boy said to the other.

“Serves him right,” the other boy said to the first boy.

Ptar was indignant at this affront to Doug.  “Doug won’t melt,” Ptar exclaimed.

Both boys shoved Ptar to the ground and the first boy said, “Yes, he will, Donkey.  He’s as ill equipped to be here as you are.”

“Do you think Donkey will spend the rest of his days in Christian hell too?” the second boy asked.

“Why not?  It’s as good a place for him as any,” was the response.

Ptar got up off the ground and ran away from the two boys screaming for Doug as he went.  Ptar searched and searched and eventually found Doug sitting under a palm tree discussing the maximum lung capacity of different divers with a group of village elders.

“Doug, Doug,” Ptar said, trying to catch his breath.

“What is it, Donkey?” Doug said, patting Ptar on the top of his head.

And this struck Ptar dumb.  He just stood there.  Doug and the village elders underneath the palm tree stared at him with the patience necessary for dealing with a slow wit or drunk.

“You called me Donkey,” Ptar said.

“Yes, little one.  I am growing more and more accustomed to your people’s ways.”  Doug rubbed Ptar’s head and then wiped his hand on his pants.  “Now run along, Donkey,” he said before turning back to the elders underneath the palm tree.

And Ptar did go away, his head bowed in the disappointment of having lost Doug forever to the rest of the village.

Eventually, over time, Doug’s skin stopped getting redder.  It never really tanned, it just seemed to find its peak redness and just stayed there.  And Doug grew to tolerate his sunburn by staying under the shade of palm trees during the hottest time of the day and applying a soothing mixture of gingerroot, aloe, and distilled water to his skin in the mornings and evenings.  His knees continued to continually ache and the pain in his lower back never seemed to lessen, even after he slept on the specially padded sleeping mats — in truth the hay in the padded bed mats did more harm than good, irritating his skin and causing his eyes to water and his nose to run.  Doug took all these trials and tribulations with a smile and silent prayers to his lord and savior, always reminding himself that at the very least, he wasn’t dead yet.  He also started finding comfort in drinking liberal amounts of rice wine.  And before anyone knew it, Doug had been in Ptar’s village for six months and he still hadn’t preached one sermon or discussed the virtues of Jesus Christ with anyone.  Doug realized that he had assimilated more to his surroundings than he had assimilated the villagers into civility.  It should now probably be said that it was a girl that ended Doug’s missionary career.

After proving himself to be so tolerant and not too sanctimonious, Doug eventually found himself to be the full time honored guest of the most respected of the villager elder’s family.  This most respected village elder’s first wife was unable to bear him children, so one day, many many years ago, she walked into the jungle and was never seen again.  This respected village elder didn’t marry again for a very long time, for he loved his first wife dearly — never blaming her for her barrenness — and he deeply lamented the loss of her.  Eventually, much later in his life when he thought he would never love again, a young woman came along and won his heart, or what was left of it to take, and this new wife bore him two fine boys and one lovely daughter.  The daughter was later kidnapped by a couple of pimps from The Capital and was only heard from once each year via a letter she sent on her birthday, which always stated that she was in decent health and thought of her family occasionally.  The respected elder and his second wife lived in the largest of huts in all the village with their two sons, their wives, and seven grandchildren.  One of these grandchildren was a thirteen-year-old girl named Carmon.  Carmon was sweet and had lovely hands.  She found Doug to be handsome and readily volunteered to apply the soothing mixture of gingerroot, aloe, and distilled water to his sunburned skin.

Doug had never forgotten Ski Jacob’s wife.  He had remained all this time chaste, suppressing his libido, for what exactly he could no longer recall — habit was all he could come up with now.  Sometimes Doug would wonder if he wasted his life doing what he was doing, but he wouldn’t wonder this often, just ever once in a while, then he would shrug his shoulders and remember he was doing God’s work.  So Doug was more than a little surprised when one evening Carmon’s grandfather offered Carmon to him as his bride.  This had never occurred to Doug.  It was on odd pairing — Doug being older than Carmon’s grandfather, the most respected of all the elders, and Carmon just being thirteen.  Still the match was greatly celebrated by everyone in the village.  Everyone but Doug.  He was ashamed for allowing this to all progress as far as it had.  The entire village became swept up in preparations for Doug and Carmon’s forthcoming nuptials.  Doug still had never agreed to marry the girl, but this was of little importance.  How could he refuse such a sweet girl with such lovely hands?

Doug was overwhelmed.  He told the most respected elder this, to which the man replied, “Come now, Doug, what is the worst that could happen?  You refuse the hand of my most beloved granddaughter and, I, to save face for such an egregious insult would have to behead you and put your beheaded head on a pike outside my hut, to show all the world what happens to those that perform such an egregious insult to anyone in this household.  That’s really the worst that could happen.”

Doug agreed with most respected elder that this would most likely be the worst thing that could happen.  He then asked the most respected elder if he could have the night to pray to his lord and savior, Jesus Christ, for guidance.

“Of course,” the respected elder said.  “Do your praying.  Then tell me in the morning what you’ve decided.”

That night Doug went to the beach with a bottle of rice in each hand.  He got there just as the sun was setting.  The pearl divers and fisherman were rowing their skiffs back in from their day’s work.  Doug knelt in the sand and wept and cried out to his lord.  The pearl divers and fisherman gave Doug a wide berth and left him to his prayers.  Doug quickly drank one of the bottles of rice wine and his mind became cluttered.  Alone on the beach he drank from the second bottle of rice wine and prayed, but his prayers were scattered, jumbled, and incoherent.  He soon was exhausted and he finally lay on the sand and prayed one last prayer.  He said, “Jesus, tell me what to do and I will do it.”  Doug listened.  He heard the water lapping on the beach.  He heard a seagull caw, which sounded very much like a child crying.  He heard a sand crab with a severed leg awkwardly drag itself over the moist sand.  He continued to listen for Jesus to tell him what to do, waiting a very long time with one ear to the sand and other ear to the sky.  Then Doug heard Mrs. Jacobs’s little laugh.  It was all around him.  He sat up, trying to determine where the laugh was coming from, but it was everywhere.  The soft little laugh of his failures.  He stretched and lay back on his back and laughed along with Mrs. Jacobs, until his own laughter became hysterical which culminated into a thirty minute coughing spell.  Eventually Doug passed out, passed out before he heard Jesus Christ, his lord and savior, answer him.  Jesus told him to get the hell out of there, get the hell out of there before he did irrevocable damage to his soul.  Instead of hearing Jesus Christ, Doug dreamed of making love with Mrs. Jacobs on the 42nd Street Baptist Church’s alter, with the entire congregation watching.  Mrs. Jacobs, in Doug’s dream, whispered into his ear, telling him he was an excellent lover, the best she’d ever had. 

Doug awoke the next morning with an enormous erection and tears in his eyes.  He also awoke to the most respected elder standing over him.  “What are we to do, Doug?  Have a celebration and a marriage or have a celebration and a murder?” the elder asked.

Doug sat up.  His back ached.  His head ached.  He brushed sand out his beard and rubbed his eyes.  He wondered about God as he took a handful of cool damp sand and let it sift through his fingers and concluded that God and Jesus Christ had spoke to him in his dream through Mrs. Jacobs.  What else could that dream have meant?  “Let’s have a celebration and marriage,” he said with a heavy heart, a heavy heart he was trying desperately to lift.

“Yes,” the respected elder said, clapping his hands together, “let’s.”

A grand and opulent four day celebration began that evening after Doug and Carmon exchanged wedding vows.  Nine months later, Carmon gave birth to her only child, a son, which they named Doug II.  All the villagers rejoiced in the birth of Doug II, and a grand three day celebration followed, which was only a little less grand and opulent than the one thrown after the Doug and Carmon’s wedding.  Doug II was the spitting image of his father — all red hair and white skin — so much so that many believed Doug II to be the reincarnation of his father, thinking father and son shared one Christian soul.    Doug tried to explain to them that this was impossible but he couldn’t really clearly articulate why.  These were just the kind of things people in Ptar’s village tended to believe.  Regardless of the possible soul-sharing, none could deny the intense triangle of love shared between mother, father, and son.  Doug seemed to have slipped effortlessly from the torment of abandoning everything he had previously believed in, to accepting and even relishing in the fact that he married a girl fifty-one years his junior and impregnated her most likely on their wedding night.  He took to being a husband and a father much more readily than he could have ever predicted.  Of course, this was all short lived, as six months after Doug II was born tragedy struck; Carmon died quietly in the night, in bed next to Doug.  The childbirth had been relatively routine, but something inside Carmon had been kicked loose as Doug II came through the birthing canal, causing her to bleed internally, killing her slowly over time.

The loss of his wife on Doug was profound, so profound that he never recovered.  Doug forevermore spiraled into depression, wanting nothing to do with his briefly-loved son, Doug II.  Doug spent all his waking hours drinking rice-wine and continually hearing Mrs. Jacobs’s little laugh echoing in his ears, which slowly drove him mad.  Meanwhile, Doug II was raised by his maternal great-grandparents — the most respected elder and his wife — whom couldn’t have loved their great-grandchild more.  In fact the entire village took Doug II into their hearts.  He was easy to love.  The boy was a beacon of joy and mirth, always with a smile and laugh at all life had to offer.  Still the son’s merriment was never enough to warm the heart of his grief-stricken father and three years to the day of his son’s birth, Doug, Mrs. Jacobs’s laugh now screaming in his ears, loaded the pockets of his linen pants with stones and walked into the ocean to be swallowed up there forever.

Even the tragedies surrounding the demise of both his parents could not dampen the spirit of Doug II.  He was quick and quick witted.  He excelled at swimming and diving, and unlike his father, his pale skin absorbed the sun’s rays, turning his skin to the most luscious of chestnut hues.  Time passed and Doug II became a handsome and successful pearl diver.  He married the most beautiful of all the eligible girls in all the village and she bore him a son, whom they christened Doug III.  And Doug III was the spitting image of his grandfather, Doug, with his alabaster white skin, a light tuft of red hair, and penchant for perspiring.  Doug III was deeply loved by his family and much celebrated by the entire village, all wondering if this Doug III would turn out to be the second coming of Doug. 

Just short of a year after Doug III’s birth, tragedy struck the family yet again.  Doug II’s skiff was swept away in a freakishly strong gale, launching him out to sea and, like his father before him, he was never to be seen again.  Shortly thereafter, Doug III’s mother stepped on a rusty nail and quickly contracted and died from a serious case of gangrene.

Doug III was raised and was much loved by his maternal great-great-grandfather — the still very much respected elder, now a widower.  Doug III’s great-great-grandfather cared for Doug III as best he could until his death, when Doug III was all of seven years old.  But he was a very precocious seven-year-old.  He struck out on his own the very night of his great-great-grandfather’s death, knowing even at that young of an age that he was destined for more than his tiny village could possibly ever offer.  And Doug III had been on his own ever since.  Although he would often return to his village, telling tales of his adventures.

Doug III just happened to be driving a customized ‘67 Chevrolet pickup heading north on the failed four-lane highway the very day of Ptar’s youngest daughter’s thirteenth birthday.  He was driving slowly — his truck’s speed was limited due to it being overly weighted down by a camper that Doug III had haphazardly attached using some bailing wire and dozen or so criss-crossing bungee cords to the flatbed — as he came upon Ptar and Sephie, who were also trudging along slowly, step after step, heading in the same direction as Doug III, toward The Capital.  Ptar was instantly recognizable to Doug III, he having known him all his life.  Doug III was also very aware of Ptar’s two eldest daughters and their beauty.  So, Doug III pulled over to see what Ptar and his companion were doing walking on the side of the road, hoping Ptar’s companion was another daughter whom was equally as beautiful as his two eldest daughters.

Ptar and Sephie stopped walking and watched as Doug III’s truck drove past them and then pulled over and stopped a few yards in front of them.  They approached tentatively.  They had never seen such a vehicle before and had no idea who or what was inside.  But they were going that direction anyway and had no other choice but to come upon the truck.  Ptar came to the passenger-side window and stepped up on the truck’s sideboard to get high enough to peer inside.  He recognized Doug III immediately and was glad to see him.  Doug III had never been overtly nice to Ptar, but he had also never been overtly mean to him either.

“Ho there, Donkey,” Doug III said.  “What are you doing so far from the village?”  In truth Ptar and Sephie were just a little over two miles from the village, but, also in truth, it was the farthest either had ever been from home.

“We are traveling to The Capital.  Today is my youngest daughter’s thirteenth birth—”

“Daughter, you say,” Doug III interrupted.  “Let’s get a look at this daughter.”

Ptar stepped down from the truck’s sideboard and Sephie stepped up so Doug III could get a look at her.  Doug III winced a bit.  Sephie was not offended; she was accustomed to people wincing after looking at her.

“My word, Donkey, she certainly is your daughter.  Much more so than the first two.”

“What’s that?” Ptar said, not hearing Doug III.  Sephie and her father switched places on the sideboard again and Doug III repeated what he had said before.  Ptar would normally have let such an insult go, but this was no normal day and he was unable to suffer things he customarily did.  “What do you mean by that, Doug III?” he asked with noticeable rancor in his voice.

“I only meant you have the same eyes, Donkey, my friend.  Same eyes,” Doug III said quickly.

“How far to The Capital?” Ptar asked.

“Many, many miles.”

“Well, thank you, Doug III.  Happy travels.”

Ptar got off the sideboard and he and Sephie started walking again in the direction of The Capital.  Doug III watched them as they did so.  Then he worked his finicky gearshift into first gear and drove up to the father and daughter. 

“Come on in,” he called to them.  “I’ll give you a lift to The Capital.  I have a couple of stops to make on the way, but we’ll get there eventually.”

Ptar and Sephie climbed into the truck’s cab, and with Sephie sitting in the middle the three took off, heading north at roughly 30 miles per hour — the truck’s maximum speed.  Sephie’s heart was filled with anticipation.  Ptar’s heart was filled with anxiety.  Both their heart’s had a twinge of excitement in them, this being the first time either of them had ever ridden in a motor vehicle.