He’s a clean cut young man, his hair is very short, very red, and he’s wearing black slacks and a nice white shirt, with long sleeves, and he’s crying. The clean cut young man is holding an orange soda, a Fanta, out with his right hand, like an orange on the end of a white branch, like he’s walking a dog, with the label showing as if it’s product placement in a bad movie, and he’s walking down fourth avenue (northeast), on the bridge over the Okapilco Creek, in Moultrie Georgia and he’s crying. Men don’t cry in public, they don’t openly walk down the road sobbing, with tears running down the face, and snot running amok, but this man is walking like a man drunk on misery, weaving towards the traffic then back towards the bridge, and he’s weeping like Judas. Moultrie’s named a lot of their streets with number names, and the streets run north and South while the avenues run east and west, so you can be at the corner of first and first or second and second, and there’s got to be a comedy routine waiting for this moment, but not for the man with the orange hair, and the orange Fanta, who is walking, and crying. I want to stop and ask him why and I feel bad about wanting to stop because I really do not care about him at all, not in the least, but I think it would make for an interesting story, and I feel guilty about this, but not so much that I’ll stop. It’s a human thing for a person to feel bad about something, but not so bad as to actually act upon the feeling, it’s just the feeling that counts, the thought that counts, not the actual doing something about it. There’s a tent revival going on just a mile from where the young man with orange hair and an orange Fanta is walking, and I wonder if he works there, and got fired for downloading porn on the preacher’s computer, or if he got caught stealing money, or if he caught the preacher with a young woman, both naked and in frenzied repose under the big top tent with the clear plastic windows, which is a new twist from the old olive drab used army tents usually used for this sort of thing . The tent itself is white, like a whale, or an elephant, and it has clear plastic windows, with white plastic tape dividing the clear plastic into panes and I know the young man with orange hair and an orange Fanta has something to do with it all, and I want to stop and ask. It’s revealing, Bonnie tells me, what crimes and sins we imagine other people doing, or have done, and that will tell us a lot about what crimes and sins we are guilty of when we are alone with our thoughts, and when we know we can commit crimes and sins in our minds without getting caught.