Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  “Why do you want to do this, James?”

  “It’s not so much the intrigue of foul play at the revival meeting, amigo. It’s not that I want to see how he’s going to bring down the talk show host, Barry Romans.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “He’s successful. I think we need to explore success, whenever the opportunity arises.”

  It sounded like James. Always trying to find the next get-rich-quick idea. “Okay, I’ll go with you. We’ll see what this man has up his sleeve. But, James, I can’t help but believe the guy is a little crazy.”

  “And I make it a rule to never get involved with possessed people. Actually, it’s more of a guideline than a rule.” He gave me a wicked grin.

  “So you’re breaking your rule and —” and then it hit me. “Bill Murray, from Ghostbusters?”

  “Let’s do the tent, compadre. Let’s see what makes a possessed man tick.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  James was my best friend. We’d known each other since we were in grade school, and we balanced each other well. James was a little headstrong, I was a little cautious. I’m not saying that the balance stopped us from making some pretty big mistakes, but we did have a good relationship.

  I also used to have another good relationship. My on-again-off-again relationship with Emily. Emily was what I affectionately call my “Rich Bitch.” Her father was a wealthy contractor in the Miami area and she didn’t do too badly herself. She worked for the old man as they built multimillion dollar mansions in the tonier sections of Miami Beach. Em kept the books and invested the spoils for the old man as he continued to expand his empire. She and I had been through some really good times and some really bad times. Good times when we could laugh, talk about the future, and I could dream a little. Bad times when she found out she was pregnant. It turned out to be a false pregnancy, but she left town for about three months and I hadn’t heard from her since she got back. I knew she was back. I saw her flashy red T-Bird convertible at her condo on Biscayne Bay. I drove by the condo about every other day. The T-Bird just appeared two days ago. I’d driven by only about twenty-two times to make sure it was hers. Twenty-two or thirty, who was counting? I figured she’d call eventually, maybe today or tomorrow.

  She had issues to work out. She was back, so I assume she’s worked through them. Of course, I was probably one of the issues and if she didn’t call, then I assumed she’d worked that issue out as well.

  I could talk to Em. I could talk about things that I can’t even broach with James. And I miss her company, in every way.

  I thought about her as we drove from Carol City to the park. She’d be the first person I would talk to about Cashdollar and the odd assortment of people he collected as vendors. She’d sit back and listen, study the situation, then suggest that I back off. She’d tell me that James was a bad influence, and I was better off distancing myself from anything he was planning. And, of course, I wouldn’t listen to her. Maybe that’s why I’m an issue with her.

  Oleta River Park is right off 163rd street, the Sunny Isle Causeway that runs down to A1A. A1A runs down to South Beach. Distance-wise nothing is that far away. Traffic-wise, it can sometimes take forever. Friday afternoon for some reason the traffic was light and we got to the park a little before four. James parked the truck in our great up-front spot, hooked up water, plugged in our refrigerator, and I sorted out the plates and plastic utensils.

  I’d been here before. With Emily. It was a great place to visit, lots of things to do like hike, explore, kayak, and visit the butterflies. CSI Miami and other TV shows and movies shot here on a regular basis, and Florida’s largest urban park had a sense of familiarity. “Could be another big night, Tonto.” James laid out his stained apron. “Look at all the cars.”

  “So the meeting starts at five —”

  “And we can visit the tent from five to six. We didn’t do much dinner business until about seven.”

  I glanced next door. There was no sign of Bruce Crayer or any of the vendors. Cars pulled into the paved lot, a steady stream of vans and trucks, Cadillacs and SUVs, all depositing the faithful where they could walk to the faded yellow salvation tent.

  “Apparently the early birds get salvation.” James watched the parade. “Lots of Cadillacs, Skip.”

  James’s dad died several years ago. He’d been an entrepreneur, just like his son, but he’d run into a partner who skipped out and left Mr. Lessor with a whole bunch of tax and other financial liabilities. Between prison and cancer, his old man was beat to death, but his biggest regret was that he’d never driven a Cadillac. That defined success for the man. We all have our own definition of success. I watched James, nodding his head up and down almost in respect as every Cadillac rolled past our truck. I knew exactly what he was thinking.

  Silently we walked up the path, following the disciples to the open flap. Most of them carried Bibles, and they were dressed in shorts, jeans, Sunday finery, suits, and even bathing attire. It was as if some of them had come straight out of the lagoon, off the beach, or maybe they’d just been kayaking the Oleta River. Em and I had taken that tour one afternoon just last year. I had fond memories of the place.

  “You can’t stereotype this bunch. Some look like they’re already rich and famous.” James pointed to a couple of men in suits and ties.

  “And then there are all those who look like us.” I looked at James with his one-day growth, his Jimi Hendrix T-shirt and jeans, and me with my cutoffs and uncombed hair.

  “The Lord doesn’t care who you are, Skip.” James gave me that big grin. “As long as you come with an open heart.”

  “You’re gonna go to hell, James.”

  “I go to work there every day, pardner. I’m used to it.”

  We worked our way through the thickening crowd, looking for seats on the aisle so we could make a fast getaway when it came time. Halfway to the big stage we found the perfect chairs.

  “Look at that stage.” James was staring in awe at the mammoth structure in front of us. It rose probably ten feet in the air, and was maybe sixty feet wide. The stage was covered in a shimmering gold cloth that caught the colored spots from above and reflected blinding patterns of light into the crowd.

  “There are three semis parked out to the side of the tent that must carry that thing everywhere.” I glanced up and in block letters probably five feet tall I read,

  YOU WILL BE MADE RICH

  IN EVERY WAY SO THAT

  YOU CAN BE GENEROUS

  ON EVERY OCCASION.

  — 2 CORINTHIANS 9:11

  “One truck just to carry the message.” James whispered it to me as the throng milled about.

  Three podiums graced the glittering stage, each one with a large cross on the front and the two monster screens were mounted on either side of the stage. The Reverend Cashdollar’s huge face and toothy smile covered the screens.

  “Wonder how much it takes to fund this extravaganza every night?” James kept staring at the spectacle.

  “We’re helping pay for it.”

  “Yeah, but think about how much we’re making.”

  I had thought about it. We owed Skip’s girlfriend Brook $500, we owed the cost of our basic food products, the money every night to the rev and his crew, cost and maintenance of the truck and equipment, and whatever James was losing in poker. It never seems as good as it seems, if you know what I mean. Or maybe I should be an optimist and think positively. As Tim Holt said in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, “You know, the worst ain’t so bad when it finally happens. Not half as bad as you figure it’ll be before it’s happened.” Then again —

  The congregation provided a pretty good sideshow, but as James said, “in the house of the Lord —” The appointed time grew near and the wooden folding chairs were full as far as the eye could see. It was warm and whatever breeze blew outside was certainly not available under the hot canvas tent. I remembered a song, from the sixties I think, by a guy named Diamond. Neil I believe it was. So
mething about a hot August night and a revival meeting. A traveling salvation show. That was it.

  “Pard, in the wings over there.” James pointed to the side curtains where I could barely make out two figures huddled just off the stage. “I swear that’s the pizza guy. I can tell by the gut hanging out.”

  “Stan?”

  “Yeah. The guy who had the poker game last night.”

  “I can’t tell.”

  “I think it’s him. I guess if you’ve been with the rev long enough, you get to go onstage.”

  I shook my head. “That’s what I aspire to. Being on stage with the rev. Who’s with him?”

  James squinted. “That’s our finance guy. The one who gets the money, Thomas LeRoy.”

  I could make out the well-dressed man talking to Stan. The guy would talk, nod, then glance into the palm of his hand. Talk, nod, glance into his hand.

  “Thomas LeRoy,” James said it like he was very impressed. “You can see he’s going to his organizer there, making notes or whatever.”

  It appeared that Stan was doing the same thing. These two guys didn’t need to carry on a conversation. They could just punch their words, numbers, or thoughts into their organizers and read them.

  “Skip, we’ve got to get one of those.”

  “What?”

  “An organizer, pard.”

  I ignored him. “And LeRoy is in charge of all the financial doings of this organization?”

  “Son, you’re going to be our business manager when this whole thing gets off the ground, and you’ll make more money than Thomas LeRoy ever dreamed of.”

  “Yeah. But you’re the one that’s going to buy me an organizer or a BlackBerry — something so I can look important.”

  “I’ll do it, pard.”

  There was a hush as the spotlights went dim, then they came up full force, flashing off the gold stage and dancing in wild patterns. From somewhere, a huge organ chord thundered through the tent and a line of men and women wearing multicolored robes paraded onto the platform. Black, white, Oriental, they kept coming until there must have been forty of them. They faced the rear of the stage and, with one unseen command, spun around. Then, in one loud vibrant voice they all started singing with an up-tempo gospel beat.

  Free up your spirit, free up your heart

  Give to the Lord, get a fresh start.

  It’s all in the giving, it’s what you must do.

  Rewards from your Father, it’s all up to you.

  I remember the lyrics, because I heard them over and over again throughout the hour. Every time the rev wanted to emphasize a point, he’d bring the choir back in for a reprise.

  And then, I swear to you, the stage started filling with that phony fog that they used to use in discos back in the seventies. I saw movies of it. It is cheesy and if you’re too close to it the stuff gets in your throat and makes it all scratchy. But it started rolling across the stage, like smoke from a fire, and you could hear over one thousand people gasp. The organ was building to a thunderous volume and through the billowing fog this large black figure in a flowing robe came walking to the front of the stage. The lights hit him perfectly for a moment, a wind machine blowing his robe, and it seemed as if he was the anointed savior. All things considered, I was quite impressed. I glanced at my roommate and saw he was mesmerized. This was so James.

  “Impressed?” The voice came from everywhere. Speakers must have been placed in numerous locations, because I thought the voice belonged to someone in the next row.

  “Well don’t be!” If God has a speaking voice, this had to be it. It boomed. It rocked.

  The congregation started applauding. The man held up his hands as the wind died down and the fog slowly drifted out into the tent. He gripped a gold-covered Bible in his right hand. I could feel my throat tickling already.

  “God doesn’t believe in fancy entrances.” The word entrances echoed from speaker to speaker. “God doesn’t believe in noisy announcements. God brings his message to the world from a stable, from a manger in that stable. Man believes in fancy entrances. Man believes in noisy announcements. God will quietly enter your heart, and make a true believer of you. Quietly.”

  A slight cough all the way in the back of the tent was the only sound to break the silence. Everything was very quiet. This guy had made a knockout entrance. He’d made an entrance to rival all entrances, then told us all to ignore that entrance. What a performer. Cashdollar tossed off the robe, and was now dressed in a tailored black suit that hid his ample girth. He accented the look with a simple red tie. Walking to the podium on the left of the stage, he held that gold Bible tightly.

  “I have a message for you tonight. A message that will set your hearts free. A message that could help you move mountains. Ask me what that message is. Let me hear you say ‘What is the message, reverend?’ Let me hear you!” He stepped back and put his hand to his ear. The response was deafening.

  “What is the message, reverend?”

  “I can’t hear you, friends.”

  I figured the guy must be deaf, because they’d about blown my eardrums out.

  “What is the message, reverend?”

  If this guy didn’t believe in fancy entrances and noisy announcements, I must be crazy.

  “It’s a very simple message.” He shouted back at us. “God wants you to be rich. God wants you to have an abundance of everything. Do you believe God’s message?”

  Like a well-rehearsed group, the several thousand people screamed, “Yes.”

  “Do you believe that God, your Father, wants you to be rich?”

  “Yes.”

  Cashdollar turned and pointed with his Bible to the huge letters that hung above his head. “Let me read to you why your God wants you to be rich.”

  The air was sprinkled with a light smattering of excited applause.

  “You will be made rich in every way, so that you can be generous on every occasion. Do you understand? Do you?”

  The resounding answer was “Yes.”

  “God wants you to be rich, but demands that you be generous with your wealth.”

  The choir sang their four-line song again, and Cashdollar smiled. A video camera picked up his face and flashed it on the big screens. The wide smile, the gleaming teeth.

  “Be serious about your generosity and God will be serious about your riches. We will start off tonight with a free-will offering. Can I please have the ushers pass the plates?”

  Dozens of dark-suited men stepped off the far end of the aisles and started passing collection plates down each row. James dug into his pocket and pulled a five and some ones.

  “What are you doing?”

  He looked at me through squinted eyes. “I’ve never given a dime to any religious group. What can it hurt?”

  “Never one to take any chances, are you?”

  “Skip, it’s like insurance. You never know when you might need some riches, right?” He dropped the money in as the plate passed and I saw a look of contentment on his face.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We stayed for another fifteen minutes, just before they asked for collection number two, and right after the choir had reprised the song about three more times. Cashdollar mentioned that this collection was the serious one. I found out later there were two more during the service.

  “There are those people who give and there are those who take away. Do you know who I’m talkin’ about? Do you understand the people who would stand in your way to the riches that God will give you?” He’d moved to the center podium, and he was working up to fire and brimstone, pointing his left index finger at the crowd. On the huge screens you could see his hand and the huge diamond ring on his ring finger flashing under the spotlight.

  “You have a man who lives in your community, a man who eats in the same restaurants as you, who sends his children to the same schools you send your children to, a man who drives the same streets as you,” and with each “who lives,” “who eats,” “who sends,” and “who dr
ives” he got louder, and angrier, “but a man who does not, does not, my brothers and sisters, get his riches from the Lord. This man is a racist.” Now he was roaring.

  Another gasp from the crowd. It was almost as if it had been scripted.

  At the top of his voice he shouted. “A racist, a coward, a man who believes that the downtrodden deserve, do you hear me, they deserve to be kept in their place. He wants the poor to remain poor.”

  The word poor seemed to bounce around the cavernous arena. The glint of perspiration on his face was brilliant on the large screen. This was one of the best presentations I’d ever witnessed.

  “He wants the weary to remain weary.”

  The crowd was murmuring. Who was this terrible individual?

  “And he wants the sufferers to keep on suffering.”

  Now they were shouting back at the stage. Cashdollar moved to the next podium, held up his hand, and the camera zoomed in on his eyes. Black on the screen. I’d expected animation, a sparkling flash. The eyes appeared to be empty and soulless. But then, hey, this was television. I could have been wrong.

  “This man, this instrument of the Devil, has access to your home, your car, your place of business. He comes in and takes control. Every day.” Cashdollar held up his watch and somewhere a camera zoomed in and the watch with its ticking hand exploded on the large screens beside the stage. “Somewhere, at this exact minute, this man is talking to thousands of people, spreading his brand of venom and hate.”

  Again there was a hum in the air, voices from the assembled, buzzing, talking to each other, and getting worked up.

  “Barry Romans! You know him. Barry Romans. The man is evil, and he stands for everything that we oppose. If you believed in the gospel according to Barry, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

  Spontaneous applause, a session that was punctuated with whistling, shouts, and screams.

  “What does he say? He says ‘The welfare problem is caused by the blacks.’ That’s right, the blacks. I’m black. Do I appear to be part of the problem?”