Frank Dixon - Home

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It was Sunday when he decided on moving in. Frank Dixon sat on the bench he took from the porch of the church recognizing the chorus of 'come as you are' as he sat picking his nails with his nub of a pocket knife. When the front doors to the church opened, that's what that congregation saw. Frank Dixon picking his nails, sitting on their bench that once was on the porch of their church. As the people poured out of the doors they fanned out away from Frank like tiny fish against an aquarium glass. Frank eyed his knife as the sunlight peered through the leaves of the big oak tree that he rested under. When the preacher stepped out on the porch, Frank stabbed the knife into the bench and spit. His eyes walked up through the yard and met the preacher's. Met them in a way they might meet a patch of briars on the way to a fishing hole.

Frank looked out at the men beginning to gather. He seemed to cast a net around them with his gaze and pulled his eyes back to the preacher. As if it was his mess to clean.

The preacher walked down the steps. Stopped. "Can I help you?" He was trying to smile.

Frank spit again. "Nah, I've just got the one bag. I reckon I can get it myself."

"Excuse me?" the Preacher asks.

"I don't need no help."

"Oh. Well ok. You just resting then? I ... I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

Franks stopped and acknowledged the men gathering in tentative support of the preacher. "Some do." He said.

The preacher laughed uncertainly. Frank picked up his hat, spit, folded his knife into his pocket. Picked up the bench. He walked more at than past the preacher who had to move or else catch that bench in the shin.

The preacher followed Frank at a distance. "Brother, you are welcome in our church. We are open to all sinners here, as that is all we are. Would you join us next Sunday?"

Frank sat the bench back down on the porch and spit and took a look around. He stepped to the edge of the porch unzipped his pants and loosed his water.

The preacher stared in bewilderment. He opened his mouth to respond but no words came. His lips collapsed like two worn out old blankets falling to the floor.

Frank spat again. "Alright then." He said to the preacher and walked down to his truck, grabbed his shotgun and duffel. When he stepped back on the porch, he toed a line in the dirt next to the first step. He looked at the preacher, no one else, and back at the line. Then nodded as he turned up the steps and inside.

One young fellow began to walk up the steps after Frank when the doors of the church opened and two twin barrels welcomed him.

"Preacher, you better tell this disciple of yours which side of that line he's supposed to be on. Next fellow ends up on the wrong side of that line is going to cause me to get loud."

After that the folks seemed to get the gist and went home confused to their dinners. Frank Dixon's reputation was enough to hold folks wary, propped up even more with the comfort he seemed to have holding that shotgun. It took the preacher nearly three months to convince the law to do something. The hesitation wasn't due to a lack of resources or necessarily a fear of Frank. More so it was just that the sheriff knew that very little could be done to draw Frank Dixon from his den and a small congregation like this one didn't possess enough votes to risk a fight. Though as it goes, the sheriff finally agreed to drive out to the church.

He walked up on the old church as he might a shot hog. Sitting nestled into the growing weeds as if it was letting go of its final breath, but that one last burst of life could flare up like hell come forth at any moment. As he approached, Frank Dixon eased out of the church, shotgun held in his right hand not so much pointed at the sheriff, as acknowledging him. His left hand shaded his eyes as he watched the lawman walking through the overgrown churchyard. Ten yards out the sheriff stopped, hands at the small of his back.

'Frank, what the hell you doing up here?'

'Ah, just resting I reckon. You?'

'I come to talk to ya. Folks ain't real keen on you living up here in the church. It being the house of God and all.'

'Then we ain't got no trouble Sheriff.'

'You leaving then?' He asked, hopeful.

'No, not directly.' he hacked and spit off the porch, the dog fennel growing up the porch rail now swaying like a metronome with the weight of the mucus. 'We ain't got no trouble me being here, if 'n they worried about me living in the house of God.' Rolling his eyes to the sky and back to the sheriff. 'I reckon God moved out the day I moved in. And I don't 'expect him moving back anytime soon neither.' The shotgun now draped over his shoulder, his left hand adjusting what it would.

The sheriff looked over the unkempt yard, briars starting to climb up the walls of the church. Fallen branches littered through the knee high grass. But behind the church he could see the corner of a well-manicured garden. Tomatoes red like fireballs, glistening in the sun.

'Looks like you got a damn good garden going there.' The lawman said lightly, nodding around the back of the church.

'Yep' spitting again. 'He may not live here anymore but he still comes by to water the plants.'