Chastity's Song

Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, in our likeness.” So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. So I think it's pretty evident that God was an alcoholic.

Chastity's Song

So I figured I'd kick this off on a positive note. The only woman I ever loved finally got the sense to leave me after I was caught cheating three times in the same month with three different prostitutes addicted to three different drugs and, with any luck, infected with three different types of sexually transmitted disease. Faithfulness and discretion both proved to be arduous tasks, especially when twenty percent of my life was spent wishing I knew what happened to the other eighty percent in the afterglow of a binge that’d put Yeltsin to shame. My mind as skewed as a three year olds interpretation of a Kandinsky painting; love, sex and basically any other form of human contact in general was drained of all pleasure and replaced with a mindless sense of ritualistic obligation. Shit, everything was like that...even my music. So, as any man made painfully aware of a soul crushing disconnect, I decided to force religion down my own throat. It seemed to be a good idea at the time.

Sure, I went to church, but you'd be a complete moron to assume that I went through the trouble to dress myself up in ridiculously dry attire and partake in all the “joyous festivities” that go on. After all, nothing says “festive” like standing stiff in the company of judgmental and arrogant white folk and moaning out hymns with an intentional lack of passion! For everyone in that room, in that disgusting community, church seemed just a chore and a habit. But as the monotone voices kicked in their preprogrammed and reprogrammed songs of lackluster repentance for all the sinning they did the week before, one voice sailed above and beyond with a conviction like no other. The pastors daughter, Chastity. That's right, he named her Chastity, but for the sake of the story we'll steer clear of listing all the things that make that funny. Chasity's voice rang through with a sound so beautiful you'd think God himself would step down from heaven just to ask her out for coffee. She had a fine set a lungs and the rest of her filled out just as well. Let's just say that if God created this chick in his image, our holy father is at a serious risk of incestuous rape come judgment day. So, yeah, I'd come every Sunday and sit in the empty pew in the back right, and watch and listen as she sang while avoiding the cold, accusing stares of everyone but her with the brim of my dirty old Yankees cap. She was the reason I showed up every Sunday, and God just had to deal with that.

Sometimes as I'd sit at that piano bench, sweaty and pale, maybe a cigarette dangling itself from my just-chapped-enough lower lip, I'd wonder if what I did ever made any kind of difference at all. I'd been playing that bar for years and if I learned one thing and one thing only, it was that drunk men are easy to please. Still, even when the pills caused my fingers to shake and the whiskey made my stomach to churn, every note rang as true as I was ever taught, and any doubt I had was temporarily suppressed for the duration of any given melody. So hey, there was that. I'd never put much effort in defining the nature of the greatness I had once longed for, but greatness and my current situation were in completely different time-zones. Luckily enough, the bar was closed on Sunday, so I had nothing standing between myself and the glorious, miraculous, weekly spiritual experience of coveting my pastors daughter. But in all honesty, as arrogant and pig-headed as you might think me, sex was the last thing on my mind when I stared at her. The last thing! I mean, don't get the idea that it wasn't on my mind at all. Lucky as it may be, my equipment still serves its function.

I never gathered the nerve to speak to the girl myself, there was a warming light about her that was just as repelling as it was welcoming, but on one particular Sunday Chastity saved me the trouble of bravery. By this time I'd come to be expected by the flock, those hypocritical fucking pretenders, so any suspicion of me by the sheep of her father's herd had dulled itself to a mild discomfort. Just enough suspicion let up to allow her to approach me as I sat and smoked on the church steps, eyes locked on the conveniently placed funeral home at the end of the street, and took a seat next to me – not too far, not close enough.

“You bring the fear of God into them.” I could sense a hint of admiration in her voice. My smile reflected that sort of dark satisfaction a child gets from scattering the unity of a flock of birds, arms waving and screaming like nothing else. “They'd be more than happy to see you go.”

“And you wouldn't?” Something told me, by the returned, lighter smile that graced and heightened the purity of her face, that she expected me to respond this way. I guess anyone would.

“No.” She sighed. “No, I'm a Christian.”

Laughing, and then stricken with a sense of awkward and somewhat disturbingly uncharacteristic chivalry, I pulled off my hat and apologized for my rudeness. Chastity, in her subtle and gentle way, immediately brought up the fact that I had kept the hat on in church. Perhaps I shouldn't have? I can't say for sure, but it was an impulse rarely submitted to, or even noticed, yet somehow wholly necessary for this particular occasion. She asked me what I did, and I replied in full honesty despite my urge to lie. She asked me what it was like to work in such a place, speculating on how magical it must be to make a living from a passion for music. Funny how naivety so often coincides with the way things should be. Still, against my will I couldn't lie. She did to me what all the liquor in a judges cabinet couldn't, she got me to “emote”, whatever the hell that is. I told her of the drugs, drunks, liquor and pain and that it all, in my mind, centers around that God forsaken home away from home. And, unlike the tender of the bar to the patron, she listened to every single word. When I crawled back into myself, sparked up another smoke, and pretended it was no big deal, she paused for a bit and then completely blew my mind to pieces.

“Can I sing with you one night?” She blurted out with all the excitement of a ten year old girl on her first tour of Fantasy Land.

What?!

“What?!” Words just aren't good enough to sum up that kind of surprise, so imagine this moment in time really hard and congratulate yourself on the effort. You'll probably fail, but at least you tried.

“Some people need music more than others, that's all!”

I stood up and smiled kindly, and prepared to take my leave. Her request was inconceivable! There wasn't a single holy force at work on this planet that could have allowed me, despite my tainted heart, to introduce such a fragile thing to such a callous and unforgiving environment.

“I'm sorry. I just don't think it's a good idea.” I said with a polite firmness.

We entered through the back door. There are a million things I would have said, could have said to refuse Chastity if she wasn't her, but she was her and she only had to ask a second time before I caved. Even so, I didn't bring her there as a favor for her, and we both knew that. As she crossed over from piss stained alley to puke stained bar I watched her face with fascination as it failed to flinch in disgust. She was every bit as calm, collected, and majestic in this hell as she was in her own element. A few of the regulars made their jokes as this would be the first time in years I entered this place with a woman who looked, in the eyes of the perverse...expensive. I kept my arm around her as I guided her up to the stage and nodded at the bartender that I was on duty. From just behind the stage, I pulled out a mic stand as dusty and clearly unused as any I'd seen. Everyone continued about their business until that fucker was plugged in and, instead of me, Chastity grabbed the mic to say hello.

Suddenly, everything stopped. The clashing of the glass, the cursing, the moaning of the distraught, and the ringing of the register all came to a complete halt as Chastity commanded the small stage. Before she even opened her mouth the graffitied walls, stained tables, and dusty neon signs shined with an unusual beauty as Chastity's light, her soul, washed over the room. All of the hearts of the damned in that room kicked back to life. There must have been widespread confusion when my calloused fingers started to play to the tune of gospel music, and her voice followed with purity, youth and perhaps the first echos of hope to bounce off of these ragged, dirty walls. When she sang that song – my God, when she sang it, it was brilliant...it was hers. It was hers, and if only for that night, we all were. Here and now there was no distortion whatsoever to hide the truth that, even when taken to the very depths of hell, here was the true reflection of God.

I have to go now. It's Sunday.