Floyd Kelly

It was a sweltering afternoon on Route 66. My old pickup hummed as I spotted an abandoned shopping mall with parked cars. Curiosity got the best of me; I had to check it out. I parked my truck and walked towards a crowd.

The crowd was focused on a man, bald, tall, wearing a purple robe, and holding up a gaudy ring into the air. People in the crowd were stepping forward to obey. “Kiss the ring!” he boomed.

Suddenly, the bald man saw me and then hurriedly approached me and extended his ring-hand to my face. Up close, beads of sweat glistened on his bald head, and dark stains marred his robe around the armpits. My eyes fixed on the ring—coated with lipstick imprints and glistening goo. He then deepened his voice. “I said kiss the ring!”

His gaze remained fixed on me. “You will be kissing the ring.” Just then, a man beside me whispered, “Don’t do it. My buddy kissed the ring last week and he got a cold sore!” Germs! The sheer thought made me shudder, and I muttered, “Gross!” I knew I had to get out, fast, to disable his focus on me. As he adjusted his robe, I used the distraction to blend into the crowd and quickly returned to my truck.

Just as I fumbled with the keys, a booming voice echoed. “You will be kissing the ring!” The bald man yelled loudly, “You’re not leaving here until you kiss the ring!” I jammed the key in, cranked the engine, and zoomed off, the tires kicking up clouds of dust. In my rearview mirror, he was running flat out towards me, a purple blur, his arm outstretched, still yelling, “Kiss the ring!”