Children of the Sun, Chap. One

At a time when it had become apparent that I had to quit drinking, among other things, I find myself at the bar near my American Airlines gate in Miami, savoring my last cold American beers before a month of drying out with a bunch of Christian evangelicals, staying no less, at a pastor’s home in Pifo, Ecuador.  Pastor Ramiro Baez is the very man in fact who runs the two schools — a very animated and good man — who also runs the Church.  You could say he “runs the show.”

“What do you think about all that Gaza nonsense?” I said the the bartender then, with a well-practiced world-weariness as the TV in the corner spat on.

“Yeah — crazy,” he said.  He was a tan-skinned bug-eyed young man.  “You like another?”

“1800,” I said.

“Alright man, you got it,” he said.

“At last we’re not over there,” I added to the TV as they shifted to the latest Islamic idiots over in Iraq.

“Rippin’ it up where it all started,” I mumbled.  “They’ve been slitting each other’s throats since the dawn of time.  Why intervene in the course of nature…however biblically heinous, if it don’t involve us?  Violence begets violence…” I trailed off into my drink.  Time to get on that plane.


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