Alyse Morell

If You’re Noah, and It’s raining, Where Is The Ark?

Alyse Morell

I can’t recall what made me want to talk to him in the first place? Guilt, probably. That Christian guilt that always festers within good girls who believe they are wicked. This was the third time I’d seen him there, in that same spot. The second time I saw him, I told myself, it is a sign if he is there again.

I found him hunched over, like a baby bird with a broken wing, by the curb of Food Town’s entrance. Trying to make myself discreet felt pointless, considering he spoke to me first.

“Excuse me ma’am, I’m sure you’re busy, but I wanted to ask you, if you’re going inside, could you buy me some tape? It’s only a dollar, I already checked, and I’d buy it myself, but they won’t let me into the store.”

Taken by surprise, “What do you need tape for?”

“The spine of my bible is falling off.” He holds his brown leather bible, and the pages are fishes, flopping from his angler grip. “I just want to fix my bible.”

I kneel down so I can talk to him at eye level, but keeping my legs ready to run if need be. From this position I can see his foot is bleeding pretty badly within his flip-flop.

“Oh no, do you need a band aid?” I ask, pointing to his feet. “How did that happen?”

“I think I stepped on some glass? I honestly didn’t notice until you pointed it out. It doesn’t hurt. I get cuts on my feet all the time.”

“Do you want me to get you Band Aides too, and maybe rubbing alcohol to clean it?”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that for me. I just really want to make sure my bible doesn’t break more,” strokes the cover of the book like it’s a family pet.

“What’s your name?”

“Noah.” He looks barely old enough to be called an adult, and although his clothes and body show wear and tear, he holds a sweet smile on his face.

Coming back from within the store, I squat more comfortably next to Noah and show him all that I bought: a deli sandwich, two waters, one for now and one for later, because it’s only going to get hotter throughout the day in a Texas summer, and of course, the tape and box of bandages. He shares his appreciation, but only pays attention to the tape and proceeds to mend his bible.

Feeling like maybe there should be more that I can do for him, I walk away. If I had another person with me, I would feel more comfortable offering him a ride, but I doubt Noah would accept anyway.

A hurricane blew in later that week, and I worried about Noah during that time. I worried if he stayed in a safe place. Did he, like his namesake, survive the flood, holding his precious bible in tow? I looked for him later, but never

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Voices

saw him there again. It’s possible the Food Town manager finally scooched him from their property. A part of me wonders if he avoided that spot because of me. Did I seem too overbearing with all of my questions? Was I rubbing my privilege in his face? Was I supposed to do more than what I gave, or was what I provided to him so minimal compared to all his other problems?

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