Second to last part (pt 5)

•••pt 5 of the ongoing epic, please scroll to the previous sections•••

Splayed out in an ugly arc, stuffing the silent space of the 6AM to 8PM daytime viewing veranda, glassy eyed oglers huffed suffocating air and gazed over the masses and through the glass. Behind the smudged, scratched Pyrex brooded a blotchy captive circling his confines. Rusty red smears of oxidized blood muddied several of the panels forming the southern wall of the estate, along with soap, causing a shuffling discomfort in the populace. Yet despite the visual obfuscation, waves of washing purity emanated from the blotted partition.

Twelve days had passed since the last weekly town meeting. Dubbed by the next generation as "the shillyshally vs. the reactionary," the populace battled between two main factions. Those of the knee-jerk variety were verbose on the pulpit. Their platform stood on the assumption that should their shining idol be discovered, he would be eventually taken away. The meek and meager opposition to their argument was exactly that: meek and meager.

And so it was decided that a glass enclosure would be constructed, housed beneath a wooden shield. The passing of information regarding their new resident between towns would be punished accordingly. The shimmering beaches were quarantined to reduce the influx of tourists. A lone figure was allowed to prowl the surf's break, being still in everyone's best interest.

At some point of the evening, between the repelling remarks, quitely coagulated a collective shame. Eyes were cast to the scuffed floor, yet nobody in the room raised objection.

And now, on the veranda, a dozen days later, the crowd shifted it's weight from foot to foot, reading Dirvin's bizzare narrative scrawled in soap across the inside of the glass.

Reprinted here is his allegory:

Once there was an Irishman whose shit didn't stink. And one evening in a state of injudiciousness he proclaimed this vile aptitude to his audience of drunks. He lowered his trousers and strained a dirt upon the floor. His neighbors and friends came forth, delicately positioning their noses above the turd, withdrawing several moments later to proclaim his truth: there was no stink from his shite.
Then they hoisted him up and cast him out on the gravel.
"But why?" he asked. "There was no odor."
To which they replied, "Shit is shit."

With the cleaning crew assembling around their buckets and restraints, the spectators turned and dispersed. They whistled, for Dirvin's gift had left them lighter. The benefits of their captive canary, his very presence in fact, expunged any guilt they might have otherwise felt.

Except for the one person allowed on the beach whose grief was intact.