Ashes and ailments

Phoenix sneezes, twice in succession as I sip my beer. My instinct, and as I did, was to sign the cross. This action is met with a gaze, apprehension and derision, “It’s too late.”
“Huh?” I said (the bar was loud).
“It’s too late for me.”
“Yea? What. The Cross? The Catholics?” I replied already knowing the answer.
“Um, Yea, huh, I gave that up years ago,” Phoenix replies in his jolly way. In a way that both holds confidence and reveals his youthful spirit. Confrontation without violence. Still I prod.
“Well, you know, the Catholics believe that it is unnecessary to be a believer. That you will be saved through the faith of others. If you’re married at least. Maybe I’ll marry you.”
“No, I can’t live in Massachusetts. Besides you’re promised to Buttercup.”
“I can have two wives. You’ll be the bottom boy.”
“Uh, I’m flattered but no, huh, I’ll do just fine in the arms of my baby.” Phoenix is dating a whip, a wild risk and she’s just perfect for him.
“Fair enough.”

I stared into my beer again, thought of the spider and the dinosaur and the bat. There must be some symbolism there, there must be a purpose. I searched for the camera which was left at the studio. I felt naked without it so turned to the pad and the red pen to jot the experience of the hour prior:
The pink and chrome vehicle, neon track lighting echoed in the highlights of the late summer sun filtered through the late summer clouds over the Mount Hope Cemetery, through the congestion of early evening commuter traffic, lights waning, the green of summer persisting on. I walked with the boy, insisting on holding hands as we crossed the lot to the white Nissan where Papa lay napping as we waited for the prescription to be filled, tossing a cheap bean bag around to pass the time. The vision of the exalted truck moving me to jot it down, the boy observing.
“Daniel?”
“Yea,” I mutter distracted.
“What are you writing?”
“What I see.”
The boy nods.
“I’ll share it with you when I get it down.”
“OK Daniel.” And we move out, heading for the next move, heading for the next minute, building something from the dirty brick town on down, building on the foothold of disease. Prefabricating spirits.