Under the Dome

In the first ring of this circus, we have the townsfolk who have responded to the posters put up by Scarecrow Joe and his cadre. The protest turnout has been quite satisfying, almost two hundred, and the sixty signs the kids made (the most popular: LET US OUT, DAMN IT!!) were gone in no time. Luckily, many people did bring their own signs. Joe’s favorite is the one with prison bars inked over a map of The Mill. Lissa Jamieson is not just holding it but pumping it aggressively up and down. Jack Evans is there, looking pale and grim. His sign is a collage of photographs featuring the woman who bled to death the day before. WHO KILLED MY WIFE? it screams. Scarecrow Joe feels sorry for him… but what an awesome sign! If the press could see that one, they’d fill their collective pants with joyshit.

Joe organized the protestors into a big circle that rotates just in front of the Dome, which is marked by a line of dead birds on the Chester’s Mill side (those on the Motton side have been removed by the military personnel). The circle gives all of Joe’s people—for so he thinks of them—a chance to wave their signs at the posted guards, who stand with their backs resolutely (and maddeningly) turned. Joe also gave out printed “chant-sheets.” He wrote these with Benny Drake’s skateboarding idol, Norrie Calvert. Besides being balls-to the-wall on her Blitz deck, Norrie’s rhymes are simple but tight, yo? One chant goes, Ha-ha-ha! Hee-hee-hee! Chester’s Mill must be set free! Another: You did it! You did it! Come on out and just admit it! Joe has—with real reluctance—vetoed another Norrie masterpiece that goes Take off the gags! Take off the gags! Let us talk to the press, you fags! “We have to be politically correct about this,” he told her. What he’s wondering just now is if Norrie Calvert is too young to kiss. And if she would slip him any tongue if he did. He has never kissed a girl, but if they’re all going to die like starving bugs trapped under a Tupper-ware bowl, he probably should kiss this one while there’s still time.

In the second ring is Pastor Coggins’s prayer circle. They are really getting God-sent. And, in a fine show of ecclesiastical détente, the Holy Redeemer choir has been joined by a dozen men and women from the Congo church choir. They’re singing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” and a good number of unaffiliated townsfolk who know the words have joined in. Their voices rise to the blameless blue sky, with Lester’s shrill exhortations and the prayer circle’s supporting cries of amen and hallelujah weaving in and out of the singing in perfect counterpoint (although not harmony—that would be going too far). The prayer circle keeps growing as other townsfolk drop to their knees and join in, laying their signs temporarily aside so they can raise their clasped hands in supplication. The soldiers have turned their backs; perhaps God has not.

But the center ring of this circus is the biggest and most bodacious. Romeo Burpee pitched the End of Summer Blowout Sale tent well back from the Dome and sixty yards east of the prayer circle, calculating the location by testing the faint gasp of breeze that’s blowing. He wants to make sure that the smoke from his rank of Hibachis reaches both those praying and those protesting. His only concession to the afternoon’s religious aspect is to make Toby Manning turn off his boombox, which was blaring that James McMurtry song about living in a small town; it didn’t mix well with “How Great Thou Art” and “Won’t You Come to Jesus.” Business is good and will only get better. Of this Romeo is sure. The hotdogs—thawing even as they cook—may gripe some bellies later, but they smell perfect in the warm afternoon sun; like a county fair instead of chowtime in prison. Kids race around waving pinwheels and threatening to set Dinsmore’s grass on fire with leftover Fourth of July sparklers. Empty paper cups that held either citrus-powder drinks (foul) or hastily brewed coffee (fouler still) are littered everywhere. Later on, Romeo will have Toby Manning pay some kid, maybe Dinsmore’s, ten bucks to pick up the litter. Community relations, always important. Right now, though, Romeo’s totally focused on his jackleg cash register, a carton that once contained Charmin toilet paper. He takes in long green and returns short silver: it’s the way America does business, honeybunch. He’s charging four bucks per dog, and he’s goddamned if people aren’t paying it. He expects to clear at least 3K by sundown, maybe a lot more.