Nudge

April 23, 2025. Along the American Tobacco Trail

Tedium plagues my long run. I’m on the American Tobacco Trail, the remnant of an abandoned capitalist effort by J.B. Duke to establish a railway system. The company of The Picture of Dorian Grey is lackluster: I find myself rolling my eyes at Lord Henry Wotton philosophical soliloquies. Occasionally a plot point with shock me out of my shuffling reverie, but I mostly feel like a burnt out cashier scanning an onslaught of inscrutable barcodes: Beauty ($20.99), Jealousy ($14.55), Youth ($1.89), and Manipulation ($7.01) fill up the check-out screen.

There’s a man standing on the path with a bike, unmoving. I’m wary – people don’t often stop on the ATT. I straighten my gaze into the far distance, but when I pass him the man addresses me.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I slow down. Basil’s lecture to Dorian on righteousness drones lightly in the background.

“What?” I ask, anxious.

“Look.” He points to my left.

When I turn my head, the view is disorienting. For most of the trail, the path cowers under lofty sun-soaking trees bred by southern heat. But this section opens up to a suburban field, and the sky swarms my vision. Zeus has swept his arm across this small North Carolinian town, and his fingers have left behind a rainbow.

I come to a full stop, mouth agape with fish-like awe. The sky god must have trimmed his beard recently — the heavens are heavy with clouds. Yet, the colored arch bears the burden with ease. It must stand somewhere, I muse: who has the honor of touching its shimmering ends? Surely not the leprechauns, those greedy bastards. I imagine it kissing a farm that houses an old man in his midday slumber.

I look back to smile at my benefactor, but my eyes find a little boy instead. His eyes are blue. He shuffles past me to catch up with his father.

As I listen to Dorian Gray’s final deformation, I wonder if I’ve met Jupiter himself.