'My Name is John'...memoir chapter 8

Chapter 8




I felt uncomfortable. I never wore a collar in my life, and things just didn’t feel right tucked in and pressed. I looked down. My upper body seemed to lose by half and I was nothing but legs. I pulled down on my trousers, inching my shirt over the kitsch, silver belt buckle. I never liked that conservative look: people dressing for other people. And I never saw the point in a collar. It only served a purpose when you were wearing a tie, not on these short sleeved cotton numbers.

“How you going there, son?”

“Good…yeah alright.”

“Great.” He whispered. I could smell his after shave. He wore too much, figured the whole church thought so too.

I looked around. Floral prints seemed to be the dress code for anyone over fifty, and the ruffled-at-the-shoulders look for the pre menopause type. There was enough elastic in this place to make a bungy cord ten times over. The men were more casual, the consensus being a single colour polo and khaki slacks. Not many suits, though there were a few thick, oversized plaid jackets. Old people loved those heavy plaid blazers, square at the shoulder and unbuttoned, thick as insulation.

It had been a long time since I been to church. There were always the staples: an alter, a stage, a few crosses, a man on a podium everyone fawned over as if he was the second coming himself. But it sure looked different than the churches I remembered. There weren’t any stained glass windows or organ pipes. No wooden pews or hymn books; or bibles that would fall clear from their binding if you weren’t careful. I couldn’t see any purples or burgundies, and nothing was sun warped or splintered. There was nothing extravagant about the building all, a bland set-up of office carpet and folding chairs. And a running theme of plastic tables that sat in the corners of the room, empty and buckled at the legs. It was more like a small community hall or a banquet room, something that could go from conference to Bar Mitzvah in an hour.

“Jesus loves…….YOU!” The pastor walked to the front of the stage, sat. “And my Jesus wants YOU….. to love you.” His eyes gave birth, the cordless microphone pointing left then right.

‘Amen’…. ‘Praaaaise God!...............’Amen’

“And when YOU-love-YOU…..” He stood up, lowering his voice “….you can truly be……a messenger of God.”

‘Amen’…’Halleluiah’…….’Amen’.

I looked around. It kept going. I couldn’t see where or who, but they kept coming. New voices joined the masses, each one word affirmation overlapping the next and so on. It wasn’t the broadest of vocabularies but effective, each instigating the next until it suddenly died. As if cued from the man himself.

Dad put his arm around my shoulder; his head bowed for a moment and he squeezed, closing his eyes. I looked over. His arm raised slow and he waved it from side to side. It was almost unnoticeable, like this sluggish drift that followed the natural sway of his body. He looked up, smiled. “So….what do you think? Powerful message ….…always is.”

I didn’t respond, just smiled like a courteous son would do. After all, it was church. My father the chosen one, all neat and tidy with his tie in order and cigarettes stashed in the car, rather than in his pocket or rolled up in his sleeve. Even his moustache had a trim- each hair in order falling neatly onto the next, right down to his jaw line and faded at the end. Faded at the end? Now that took a conscious effort.

I was a bit taken back. I didn’t see a radio hidden somewhere, with some sort of contraption or light that blinked with every touchdown. Twice for an interception. Thrice if his team covered the point margin and he could collect. No. He just sat there looking at the young pastor with these interested eyes, his sinking brows closing down on the hub of wonder. All I could see were two pupils surrounded by lines and folds of skin as he stared past rows of French braids, chunky pearls, dandruff and lint and trimmed nape lines. He seemed so focused; shaking his head and squirming on top of the tasselled cushion, occasionally raising his palms in the air or leaning forward to the edge of his seat, his chin falling in the cusp of his hands, then back just as quick.

I couldn’t help but stare at him through the corner of my eye. He looked like he had a mild disability, unable to fully control his movements and was having some sort crisp, fluent muscle spasms that made him appear drunk and aloof. He couldn’t sit still. His head: left then right, and back to front and around. I figured the up and down thing was agreement; or like his thoughts and questions were somehow being validated from the thirty-something man of God. Left to right: awe or disbelief. And when he pulled back and breathed, falling to a slow bobble: sweet Jesus I’m havin’ an orgasm!

“Let us stand please.”

The congregation lifted out of their seats. Before it could even register, I was staring at a blockade of devote Christians, swamped by rows of vertical obedience. Dad nudged me with his leg. I stood. I don’t know why it took so long, sitting there, bemused. I suppose I wasn’t one for direct orders. At least not from a balding prophet, one that could go from the manufactured smile look to a look of acute constipation in a matter of seconds.

“Lord…” He lowered his head. “…Lord, we are here…here in BUFORD, Georgia.” He Paused. “And Lord Jesus……you know Buford. Yes sir, you do.” The pastor paced the edge of the stage, his arm raised in salute. “You know New York and Philadelphia.” Pause. “And Cape Town and Baton Rouge and Copen-HAGEN, Denmark.” Removing his glasses, he winced. “And you know Buford. That’s right……we know that Lord.…..”

I looked around. Everyone had their eyes closed. Some were bowing their heads, others to the ceiling or shaking back and forth and rolling at the neck as if it was a pilates class. Even the children closed their eyes. Some stood with their hands folded below their waistline or clasped behind their back like a prison muster. Others found mom’s skirt tail or dad’s shallow pocket, tiredly leaning into their side.

I closed my eyes, afraid to be called out and scorned in front of hundred, more than likely Republican churchgoers. Or worse: by a child, spotted in the middle of morning devotion:

.....‘Mom…mom. Look! Look at Brother John’s son…the one from California.’ She tugs her mom’s finger, eyes closed. ‘He didn’t close his eyes mom!’ The congregation turns; opening their eyes they sneer. The prayer goes from a delivery of hope and praise, to one of redemption and forgiveness as the pastor catches whiff of my mortal sin......


I peeked through the drape of eyelash, catching the pastor’s blurred silhouette. His fingers clamped the bridge of his nose and it looked as though his eyes were swelling with tear. I opened my eyes further.

‘And Buford…you too know the Lord.’ Taking a deep breath, the pastor found his spot behind the podium. ‘That’s right…he knows you.’ Pause….. ‘And YOU know him.’

I looked around, figured these people couldn’t care less about a visitor not following church protocol. It seemed to go on forever that prayer: you love him and he knows you, and how the Lord knows where you live and what you say and when you brush your teeth. And if you use hard, medium, or the soft bristle variety. He used words like cool and awesome to describe what others would say was a guiding light, a man of divine intervention, a light onto thee.

I couldn’t help but listen, his sermon far from that monotone delivery I was used to as a child. He didn’t speak in five syllable words or dictate those biblical pronouns: thy thou, thine. And he didn’t say one thing that was cryptic. I wasn’t left trying to interpret the literal meaning of sacrifice or lamb; or why some guy killed his son because of famine or a plague of locus. No. He had this post-modern way about him. A way that even I could understand. He could have been talking to a room of ten year olds for all I knew, the way he would point and smile, and repeat himself in different tone and pitch.

“In the Lords name we pray….Amen.”

I sat down. It was still quiet. I looked around. Not the noise I would’ve expected from a hundred people adjusting, post- meditative state. In fact, no one was moving at all. I waited. Nothing. I was staring at that same wall of people from before, the backs of colourful sundresses and crisp white cotton; and I was just about eye level with some of the younger kids, their cowlicks and hair ribbons closer than they seemed from up top.

I jumped out of my seat. Shit! Dad looked over. I smiled, dusting my hands over my trousers. I looked around; no one had taken notice. Everyone seemed too relaxed to notice me sitting prematurely. They stood, miming their hellos back and forth, turning about and signing to one another: The I’ll-catch-up-with-you-later sign and where’d-you-get-that-dress-sign. They were all pretty self explanatory, dodging the crowds with their overt telegram. The he’s-driving-me-nuts-I-need-a-break-sign: that was usually an inconspicuous head nod with a bat of eyes, followed by a surreptitious look at the naïve victim and a kiss to the cheek, guilty. And the pretentious hey-sister-so-glad-to-see-you sign. That seemed to be the fashionable one. The way the hands flailed with such animation, like they were hailing a cab and smiles that stretched clear through to the day’s earring of choice. I couldn’t say for sure, but I figured the happier they seemed, the more obliged they felt. It was one of those things woman do with each other to keep the peace. Or maybe stop each other from stealing husbands.

“Here now…this is where it gets good son.” Dad folded his hands at his crotch and shifted. Standing tall, he found a clearway between the just as curious heads obscuring our view.

I found my spot; sharing it with dad, I leaned in. He turned, smiling. Microphones appeared and lengths of cord, an amplifier carried by two dapper men and sheets of music. The room buzzed in quiet conversation, an intermission sound of voices trading anticipation, a muffled mess of talk.

I leaned over. “What’s going on?”

“Oh…well, music is a big part of this congregation. These guys sure can play.”

“Nice.”

“Wait for the drummer. He is quick as lightning boy. Pastor’s son, Ezekiel.” Dad shifted the other way, following the tide of bodies.

“Ezekiel?”

“Yeah…Ezekiel. You wait for it….somethin’ else.” He rubbed his hands together. His fingers started tapping, followed by his foot in unison.

Ezekiel? That was a name that reminded me of mangers and straw bedding. I thought: indulgent kings, promiscuous widows, slingshots, lepers, little caves and mummified births that gave us Easter eggs and annual stomach cramps. I didn’t know people actually used name likes that. Ezekiel? I laughed, watching the stage transformed into a Vegas show stage, a small one down the back of some dim cocktail bar.

“Hey dad.”

“Yeah?”

“They do this every week…get all them things on stage and sing and stuff?”

“Yeah…they sure do. Then they leave em’ up there for the rest of the sermon.” Dad’s foot started tapping and I could see him taste the music; like it was a beer or a shot of smack. He needed it.

“Well, why don’t they just leave all that stuff up there then from the get go?”

“Oh…they use that stage for all sorts of things during the week.”

“Oh…hey what is that thing up there with the….

“Son..son……that’s him.”

“Who?” I asked, turning.

Dad’s torso stretched ninety degrees. Falling back upright, he stood on the tips of his toes and pulled me close. “Ezekiel...the pastor’s son.” He turned, tapping the seam of his pants. “You wait boy….you just wait.” Smile.

“Ok….ok..” I laughed.

“Yes…heeths vury good John.” Chris appeared. I forgot she was there. She looked different, her face a single tone of beige with reddish highlights around the cheekbone.

“You mean…that’s the pastor’s son?”

“Yeah.” Dad said.

“What…not what you expect John?” Chris added

“Well…no, not really.”

Chris smiled. “Jesus doesn’t have a dress codes John.” She turned. Her lips pouted; I could see her tongue swab the inside of her mouth. She leaned into dad, dabbing her claret lips together.

Ezekiel huh? Dragging himself on stage, he moved as though we were a paying audience, trudging confidently behind a face full of shaggy strands. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Sixteen if he buttoned his shirt, maybe ran a comb through his hair or tied it back. He accessorised with wrinkles than ran the full length of his boot cuts, from his sporty loafers through the fray at his knee. A tight blue skivvy hugged his body as the free falling button up slipped further down his shoulders.

“So, when did churches start having drummers dad?”

“A lot of churches have drums now boy….and electric guitars even.”

“Electric guitars?”

“Yeah, electric guitars…..you bettcha” Dad plucked the air and dipped. “You just wait.” Smile.

The lights dimmed. It became quiet and I could see couples inch closer together, holding hands or draping one other. A projector screen lowered behind the stage and rows filled with excitement, the old ones clearing their throats and children tapping the carpet with their synthetic Sundays. I looked over. Dad was moving again. Biting down on his lip, he wiggled at the knees and snapped in rhythm. The lights dimmed further. I looked up. A spotlight appeared.

‘One, tow, three, four…..’

I flinched. Ezekiel pounced on the drums. His hair danced wildly with each thump of the stick and he became faceless, staring down through the swinging locks. I wondered if that was his natural colour, or if he had streaks of blond layered through the tangled mess. He got louder, using his feet, choking up on the wooden batons and berating the symbols.

A slow clap started. It got heavier, catching up to Ezekiel’s lead. Music poured through the sound system and it started to sound like a recording studio, with bass and electric keyboard; and twinkle and shake sounds fading in and out, joining the solo.

I looked around. I felt out of place. People seemed so damn godly. Even with the modern theme thing going on, I still didn’t fit in. I looked the part: starched, pressed, and tucked; I could be running for student body president with the outfit I had on. But I felt more parched, stressed, and fucked than anything. These New Testament type would choke on their unleavened bread if they knew half the stuff I got up to. I didn’t even believe in creation. I sure wasn’ t the smartest kid around, but I thought logically. I knew we didn’t come from some garden mishap. I knew all the animals in the world, paired, couldn’t fit on a boat. I knew an angel named Gabriel was more likely to be in a Mari Gras parade than invisible and alert. And I knew that religion swayed ballot boxes and started wars. I was a debate waiting to happen.

I looked up. Words appeared on the projector, running like movie credits up the vinyl curtain. Suddenly the room exploded. Ordinary shades of cloth flashed with colour, oranges and blues spitting from the ceiling, left and right then around through a small, filtered spotlight. The congregation opened in chant like song, clapping louder and moving side to side, thrusting their hands in the air, in tune.

A hundred voices: ‘You-are-the-LIGHT’ Clap. Pause.

‘OUR light……YOUR light.’ Clap. Pause.

“Who’s light?” A voice raised from the crowd. “I say…..who’s light?”

“MY LIGHT!!’

“WHO’s light?”

“MY LIGHT!!”

“Who’s?”

“OURS”

“Who’s?....

Fists raised: “OURS…OURS…OURS!!!” The church screamed, one big deafening voice.

I looked at the screen. It all sounded so improvisational. But, there it was…word for word. Everything. The who and the my and our light; and the word ‘audience’ wrapped up in brackets with an exclamation mark at the end for added effect. There was even a break in words, between the last ‘who’ and the fist pump.

“Oh, yeah…give it to me Lord. Come on Jesus…..test me. Test me Lord!” Dad’s arms shot up. Palms flat, he closed his eyes. “Come on Lord…COME ON.” He screamed, a dawn red swiping at his face.

I looked over. What’s he talking about? And why the hell is he screaming so loud? I glanced the room. No one seemed to notice. In fact, they were doing the same. Maybe not as loud- certainly not as uncouth and desperate, but they all had their own way of expressing themselves. I looked at Chris. She stood there, her arm wrapped at dad’s belt, rubbing back and forth where his bulge of stomach drooped over the tight leather strap.

‘Now c’mon people!’ Ezekiel shouted, ditching his melancholy look.

“Man…it’s getting’ heated now, eh?” I bumped dad.

“It sure is son…sure is.”

“Hey…who are they?” I pointed.

Two women ran on stage, clapping in these long, reach-out slaps; and they had a skip to their step, almost dance like, bobbing at the knees and thrusting their shoulders back and forth. Even when they navigated up the steps and along the carpeted stage, they didn’t stop, just kept moving to the percussive invite.

“That’s the Polanski sisters.”

“Who?”

“Polanski sisters…..they’re great, you watch.

“Polanski? What kind of name is that?”

“Huh?” He wasn’t listening.

“What…are they Polish or something? Polanski?”

“Yeah..yeah….just listen, they’re real swell these two. Can belt some fine notes…hit real high too.”

They stopped moving. The drums slowed and the lights dimmed a neutral tone; the church was nothing but shadow and sound. Ezekiel slapped the drums with what looked like a paint brush, stiff lengths of wire hitting the stretched hide in a cha-cha-cha melody. The background music lowered as the sisters adjusted the microphones.

I looked around, head straight. The mood went from one of ‘rock concert’ to ‘candle light vigil’ in five seconds flat. People stopped moving and their heads all seemed to be slightly tilted up. Dad had that same look, his eyes squinted and firm at the lips and jaw. He looked focused. Real focused. Armageddon focused. He held The German close, rubbing her side with a slow thumb as their heads fell together at an angle, a breath apart. He closed his eyes. So did the German.


****



I didn’t remember it all taking so long. I remembered one hour. That was it. I looked down at my father’s side. It was hard to make out, but it looked as though the minute hand did two rotations. He kept moving his arm and I couldn’t be sure.

“Almost done son…you alright?”

“Yeah…yeah of course.”

He smiled. “Almost there.”

I wondered how many times he noticed me looking at his watch. What did he expect? I was prepared for an in and out sermon: a couple songs, a few prayers, the mandatory meet and greet on the way in, maybe a cup of coffee or a piece banana bread as we walked to the car. Two hours? Lord have mercy. And we were still going, couldn’t even see the end in sight. You can usually tell these things are wrapping up, the way the pastor’s tie loosened at the neck and the odd smoker inching his way towards the back.

“Let us stand.” The pastor said.

I stood, anxious. I thought this may be it: the last prayer where he consolidates everything into a few words and tells us to be kind or go in peace. Then he would break character, making last minute announcements about the summer camp program or the fundraiser for Sister Marion’s hip replacement.

Those fucking lights again. It dimmed once again. I looked up. I didn’t think I could take another song. And those roving back lights that beamed reds and blues across out backs, then switched directions. They gave me a headache. All that was missing the last two hours was a smoke machine and the smell of pot.

The stage became just as dark and everyone looked to the screen. There were no coloured lights, just a faint glow of the mahogany podium, slightly brighter than the dulled centrepiece. I waited for the music. Nothing. I wondered where Ezekiel had run off to. Maybe he was out the back gambling or taking stock of his porn collection. Or listening to death metal tracks, fantasising of a real stage, one with security guards and stage diving.

I waited for words to roll down the screen, followed by a chorus of voices and hands sprouting through the crowd. Nothing. It lit up. The room became brighter, an image of blue skies and chunks of cloud appeared on the projector’s backdrop. A soft melody of violin and keyboard opened as the picture faded to the next.

“Lord, Jesus….” The pastor walked to the podium. “ We come to you…. open and humble. We come to you free of pain and suffering and burden.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, smothering his forehead on to the back of his neck. “ Lord, as we leave today….as we go…we know you are watching after us. You are watching us Lord….”

All I heard was the ‘leave today’ part. I felt like throwing my hands in the air and screaming: yes, yes, yes….Messiah..YES. I figured that wouldn’t be appropriate and kept looking at the oversize monitor scroll through landscape pictures and stills of birds and ocean tides.

“…and Lord, as we leave today…I just want to send a message of hope and encouragement to a special visitor here today.”

Dad tapped my foot with his. He looked over, one eye pried. I looked at him. He smiled, falling back to The German’s bow.

“…and Lord, we ask you to watch over this visitor. Lord, we ask you to guide this young man in his journey and in his travels. You stay with him Lord and GIVE him guidance…….. you give this young man the guidance to GUIDE others…” Pause. The pastor gripped the sides of the podium, slumping in with shirt cuffs rolled high. “Lord….this young man is taking a big step….a brave step…”

Dad kicked again. He seemed excited for some reason, sucking the inside of his cheeks and rolling his tongue through his bottom gum. He must need a smoke, I thought, transfixed on the slow motion hay bail drifting on screen. He kicked again. I turned, kicking back.

“Dad…pssst.” I kicked again. “Dad.”

He leaned over. “Just a second, son….you listen up alright.” He whispered, nodding. He reached around my shoulder and pulled. I shuffled over. Chris burrowed into dad’s chest and I could smell the shampoo of perfume that lathered her neck.

“…And Lord….we all know Brother John. Brother John has been a part of this congregation for a long time Lord. We’ve prayed for him…. and Lord…… he’s PRAYED for us.”

Chris stroked my father’s hair. A hand appeared from behind and people started looking. Brother John? My father, the Brother? No…can’t be. Another hand broke rank, stroking my father’s back and squeezing his collarbone. And again. Another. Arms and smiles came from two rows back, glances from every corner of the small room.

He stood there looking at the ground, arms folded at the wrists. There was a glaze in his eyes and he looked defeated, his face this passive limp that I hadn’t seen all day. Maybe it was something about all that touchy-feely Brother John stuff; it wasn’t everyday you got a plug from an ordained minister and groped by baptised do-gooders. Turning, he managed a smile, The German’s arm still at his waist.

“Dad…hey you alright.”

“Huh?

”You alright?”

Reaching over, he pinched the back of my neck.“Yeah, son….I’m alright.” He squeezed. “I’m alright.”

He sure didn’t look alright. It was like he was over thinking something. Something confrontational. Like this collaborative effort of guilt and shame and memory, pulling and twisting, shouting in high pitch and vivid imagery. He just stood there, blank.

“Yeah…you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Ok.”

Pause….“You bettcha.” As if interrupted with a bucket of cold water, he bounced back . “Yeah…you betcha son.” He smiled. Standing straight, he buried his hands into a pocket full of coin, thumbing circles through the satin lining. He looked to The German, nodding. She moved in even closer, her arms linked at his gut.

“And Lord…as we bless Brother John today.” The pastor raised his arm. “We also ask you Lord that you walk with that special visitor. We ask you Lord…that as Brother John’s son sits here-TODAY-WITH-US-lord…”

‘Amen…Praise the Lord.’ ‘Amen’…’That’s right!’ A soft cry of voices crawled through the air.

“..As father and son sit side by side.”

Oh shit! I tried not to look. I knew it would be a stream of looks and smiles, teary eyed grandmas staring and whispering: 'Isn’t that something hun? Isn’t it?' ’So, that’s John’s son?’ Maybe even some of my father’s friends, some ex convict turned believer that knew the whole truth, nothing but the truth and would be in tears as well.

“Lord…you walk with this young man as he takes a brave step for our country, a step of courage and sacrifice….a selfless step…” The pastor walked to the edge of the stage, sat down. I could see his veins grow, a bulge of line that ran down his neck, contacting between words. “We ask you Lord to watch OVER this young man…I repeat….watch over this young man, Lord.”

Oh fuck! Come on Pastor….shut the fuck up already. I looked at dad. He turned, ear to ear with false veneers. I shook my head. “Dad, come on…what’s all this?” I whispered.

“Well, son…like I said, this congregation is my family. Yours too.”

Biting my nails, I could feel my skin heating up. I figured if they invited me on stage I would run. I would run fast, wouldn’t look back, not for a second. Dad reached over.

“Don’t bite your nails, boy.”

“Yeah…well, you didn’t have to go telling the whole world my business, man. I don’t even know these people.”

“Hey…come on.” Dad’s face pulled back.

I sneered. “Yeah… don’t come on me, old man.”

“Old man?”

“Yeah…o-l-d.”

“Hey, don’t get upset. Can you hear what he is sayin’ up there son?” He smiled. “He prayin’ for you boy….we all are. Now hush, listen up.”

He kicked my foot. I kicked back. We turned to each other, smiled. I watched the pastor pace back and forth, then turn and stop and lift his head or bow for a moment. He was good at what he did, confident, a real smooth talker. He had perfect timing and his receding hairline seemed to make him more believable. I don’t know why, but it did. Something about a balding man that had innocence. He looked harmless enough.

But, bald or not, I never could trust a preacher. They all got paid well and lived in some leafy suburb. They were usually new to town, moving around every few years, bringing with them nothing but smiles and vague backgrounds. And all they ever did was talk for a couple hours a week. Once and awhile they would run a seminar or go on retreats and conferences. They never had a day job. Never. I didn’t add up.

I looked at the man himself. He seemed to be having a gastric episode, his face tight, sweat covering his short crew cut right down to the edge of his white collar. I wondered what his salary was, how much he got paid to perform his little choreographed routine every Sunday and if the church funds were in order. He was probably just like the rest of them, copping blow jobs in some back alley or putting the alter money into property developments. He would retire to Key West for sure, I though as he looked out over the church.

“Let me hear you say amen…”

‘A-M-E-M’

His foot stomped the hollow stage. “Come on Buford….let-me-hear-you-say………..AMEN.”

‘A-M-E-N.’

A bunch of damn parrots I thought. I looked around. No one was looking at me. In fact, people seemed to be anxious to go. Their formal stand-straight-and-smile attitude turned to bad postures and they started stretching and fidgeting about. The room became brighter. Shirts unbuttoned at the neck and the mothers started to pack, collecting crayons and scribbled sermon paper. I rubbed my eyes, adjusting to the light. Dad stood there, looking over The German’s shoulder. He didn’t move, just stood there with this manufactured grin stapled up his face. A bundle of wrinkles formed at the top of his cheeks, spraying down from the corner of his eyes. He looked like shit. I still didn’t believe the hype. Brother John? What a load of bullshit. My dad: the false prophet.

“Almost there son…just another minute or so” He brushed my arm.

“Yep.….but, this is taking all afternoon, my feet are killing me dad.” I whispered, rubbing my hands over my face. “How long does this dude go for?”

“I know, I know….we got a good lunch for you at my sisters, boy. Couple more minutes.”

I tuned out. My eyes started to close and I could feel my muscles tightening around the thighs. All I heard were syllables echoing off the thin plasterboard walls and people rustling in their spots, just as tired as myself. I figured anything I missed I could pick up later. The prime time interview about money laundering and how Buford Baptist is on its’ third mortage, on the brink of foreclosure. The one where Pastor so-and-so runs off camera with a clipboard over his face, hidden by oversized sunglasses and a vivacious blond.





***


I leaned against the side panel. I tried imagining the car lowered with tread on the tires, framed in a flat white. Maybe a little tint running through the glass or some shiny metallic rims. I wasn’t sure if it was too far gone; Oldsmobiles were a dime a dozen, probably more trouble than it was worth. And I figured the paint job alone would cost more than the car’s market value.

I started scribbling words on the hood of the car: Praise God, clean me…. Hell. The disco gold came up through the dust. It wasn’t a bad colour, could be worse. It was that brownish gold you would see in roller skating rinks back in the 70’s, or in those retro skin flicks. It would be a great colour new, running down the few contours of the old model and along the flat, stretched bonnet.

“Hey dad.” I smiled, quickly running my arm along the ashy build up.

He looked down. “Yeah, I know…need to wash this thing.”

“I’ll give it a wash for you before I go.”

“Well…I’ll hold you to that, son” He brushed his hand across the hood. “This thing sure needs some work.” He leaned back, wiping his hands together. “So what did you think, boy?”

I didn’t know what to say. I could have told him that it was the longest two hours of my life, two hours I wouldn’t get back. I suppose I could have talked about science and primate characteristics. Or I could have told him how I thought he was The German’s personal case study, that she probably was boasting to her friends as we speak:

....‘See…I tolds you. I said give me eight year and I will have him crying by za second prayer. And it tis only six.’ She whips her head back, walks away....


I figured the last thing he needed was a speech on random mutation and inherited traits; and The German case study thing would have been downright low.

“Yeah…it was alright. Haven’t been to church in a long time.”

“That’s good. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Yeah…it’s one to remember alright. Was like a disco in there.”

“Yeah…they sure do get going.” Dad stripped his tie off in one fluid motion, hanging it around his neck, uneven. “Pity Zechariah wasn’t here today….he sure plays some mean riffs on that electric gui-tar.”

“Zechariah?”

“Yeah, Zechariah….young fella who plays up there every Sunday.” He rubbed his hand down his neck, kneading his shoulders. “Must be sick or sumpin’”.

“Why don’t you just call him Zack? Zechariah sounds way too formal.” I smiled. “Zechariah…Ezekiel….what’s the pastor’s name, Noah?”

“Very funny son. Well, we got bible names too.”

“Yeah, but John is pretty common you know…don’t think it refers to the bible much these days.”

“Oh, it sure does.”

“Oh, does it now?”

“Boy…you betcha sweet behind it does.” He stood tall, flaring his neck back with conviction.

“So…come on. What does it mean then?” I asked.
Dad knelt down, lifting his trousers. He reached in his socks and pulled out a soft pack of cigarettes, crinkled from the tight elastic. Finding a lighter in his back pocket, he cusped the smoke, lit it. Pause. “Grace or mercy of the Lord…that’s what it means boy.” He said, getting upright.

“Come on, you made that up.”

“Sure didn’t, son.” His eyes opened. “We are the grace of the Lord….you and me.”

“That’s ridiculous. Only reason you named me after you was so you wouldn’t forget.”

“Now that is ridiculous.”

I propped myself on the top of the hood, looking around. The church had emptied into a full parking lot. Everyone seemed to walk slow, drained from song and dance, or cramped from the sit and stand routine. The pastor stood by the building’s brick façade, shaking hands with the last few stragglers.

My feet dangled over the plastic hub cap, slapping the bald rubber with the heels of my feet. “So anyways…..you come here every Sunday or what?

“Sure do son.” He said, a mouth full of smoke coming through his nose.

“We couldn’t even get you off the couch to come with us when I was little.”

“Nope. You sure couldn’t” He looked over. “Boy…stop kicking that tire. You gonna dirty them pants up.”

“Sorry.” I stopped. “Man…I can’t believe you come here every Sunday, dad. That takes some dedication. All those football games you must miss and baseball. Man… that’s rough. Chris got you on lockdown.”

“No one’s got me on lockdown son.”

“I just mean that….”

“I know what you mean, son. But, no one’s got me on lockdown you hear. Noone.”

I looked over. Smoke filed up the side of his pants as his cigarette burned, pinched at his course fingertips. Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he took a drag. I could hear the paper burn as he sucked the smoke through his veteran lungs. He held it in, letting the smoke come out naturally through his mouth and nose. He still had that lazy style, clouds of white rolling up his face and out the corners of his mouth. He looked around, dropping the butt under the car. “Boy, I’m just gonna’ rest my head for a minute…wait til’ Chris gets here.”

“Yeah, sure….must be you all prayed out.”

He opened the car door, laughed. “Son…when you got as much as me to pray about, your body sure does let you know.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Dad slid into the passenger seat, closed his eyes. I reached down, untucking my shirt. It was getting warmer out; I looked forward to slipping into something more practical, something loose. Something that didn’t have buttons gnawing at my chest and an embroidered horseman loitering about. My whole body seemed to itch, from the polished black slip ons right through to dad’s gel that I used to tame my thick head of hair.

I wouldn’t make a good candidate for this stuff, I thought, falling back on the hood. I closed my eyes. The sun got hotter at each breath and brighter, slapping down on my face and arms. I sat up, stripping down to my undershirt. I covered my face and lowered again, the sun soaked hood noticeable through the thin cotton as I lay flat toward the sky.

“Hey dad, you awake?” I yelled. I could smell him on that shirt, his discount cologne and second hand smoke, diluted by washing powders and moth balls. I made room for my nose, shoving the sleeves between my head and the car’s baking steel.

“Yo.”

“Where’d you learn that…that name thing?”

“Boy, I told you. We are merciful ones…you and me. Mighty and merciful. I always knew that.” He said, his voice seeping through the car door.

“Come on.”

“True, son.”

“Merciful huh?”

“That’s right boy…merciful ones.” He said, his voice softer. “You and me.”

“Ok, dad…merciful. I got it.”


Silence. I could hear engines start and families walk past, chatting about ice cream and gratitude and how ‘this week’s message was just what I needed.’ I figured half of them would forget about today as quick as they could say: ‘Who’s got the remote’ or ‘What’s for dinner………...and it better not be burnt this time woman!

I looked over. Dad’s mouth was wide open. His hands rested behind his head and his shirt stretched with a heavy breath. I watched his stomach balloon and retract like some deep water oddity. Merciful one eh? I laughed. I wondered what television program he got that one from, who wrote it on his last ‘get well’ card, what website he searched after reading some self help book on rapport building and ‘Bridging the Gap Between Father and Son’: Chapter 7.

“Look at za two of you.”

I sat up. The German stood there, arms crossed.

“My two sleepy giant.” She ducked down, kissing dad’s forehead. “I bet you two are hungry.”

Dad sat up. “You hungry son?’

I slapped my stomach. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

“What?”

“The Pope….is he Catholic?”

Dad looked over at The German, rubbing a hand down his thick, fallen moustache. “The Pope?”

“Don’t worry about it, dad.”

The German reached in her purse. “What does za Pope have to do with it?”

“Nothing….nothing. Yeah I’m starving…..that’s all.”

“Great.” Dad said. Lifting up, he loosened his belt. “Well…we gonna’ eat like the Pope boy. A real Vatican lunch.”



I opened the back door, slid in. It felt smaller than it should, the micro fibre roof lining falling at our heads and dad’s seat pushed against my knees. I leaned back. Dad reached across the centre console, squeezing The German’s thigh. She turned the ignition. Nothing. She closed her eyes and breathed. She tried again, revving the gas with her suede flats while her painted lips fluttered in silence.

VROOM!!

“Thank you Jezus.” She said, opening her eyes.

Dad turned around as the car reversed. “Yeah….you’re good babe, all clear.” He looked up, sighed. “We need to fix this roof hun’. Keeps gettin’ lower and lower….driving me nuts.” He prodded the beige interior and watched it fall.

“Juts thank Jezus we haves a car.”

“Yeah, true babe.”

The German reached over, stroking dad’s neck. “Zis car gets us to church every Sunday…never hads a problem have we, dear?”

Eternal optimist, that one. I stared out the window. Gravel churned to dust as we peeled from the parking lot. I looked back. Good riddance, I thought as the mounted cross disappeared behind the low lying shingled roof. The smell of forgiveness became one of retired air fresheners and an over filled ash tray. I made it out alive. Not once did I question my fate post mortem or take a moral self inventory. Or feel inclined to put something in that felt lined tray that passed, streaming of cash and small white envelopes. I left none the wiser. I made it.