by Dijorn Moss
When we arrive at the rental car site, I get off the first shuttle and I do a slight jog to Dollar Rent A Car. A young Latina does data entry on her computer until she sees me approach.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome to Dollar Rent A Car.”
“I have a reservation,” I say as I hand the girl a printed-out version of my confirmation.
“Thank you,” she says while she inputs my information. “And do you have your—”
I hand her my ID and other information before she even finishes.
“Thank you.” The rep takes the information and makes eye contact with me while she inputs my information. “Here you go.” She hands me my ID and a pamphlet with the keys. “The car is out back.”
“Thank you.” I grab my things and head outside. Once outside I find a cherry red Camry. The car is too flashy, but I love the Camry for the purpose of completing my assignments. The car has room and is reliable. Space and consistency in my field is equivalent to speed and accuracy in any sport.
The congested rental car parking lot is all that resembles Los Angeles. As I drive out of the parking lot and onto the freeway, I see a city that is unchanged through the persistence of time. There are tall buildings, gas stations, fast food restaurants, and Walmart, but for the most part Sacramento remains a massive farmland. Life seems to operate at a slower pace in Sacramento as opposed to its sibling. The 80 freeway is not well lit so I rely heavily on my lights, as opposed to the skyscrapers and the Staples Center that light up Los Angeles. I see my exit, Fernrock, and I take the snakelike exit to the surface streets and arrive at the executive-stay hotel.
I know I have spent too much time on the road when I can pull into a parking lot of a familiar hotel and feel like I am home. I guess that means that my apartment in Carson is nothing more than a permanent hotel room. I pull into an empty parking space and turn off the car. I rest my head back on the seat and take in deep breaths and I exhale. This will be one of a few moments when I am able to rest and relax before I enter the chaotic world of problem solving.
I open a crack in the window to let the smoke out. I don’t know if I am addicted to smoking or if I just find comfort in it. Life carries with it many challenges and twists and turns. Stress can produce cancer cells just like smoking, so it is a catch-22 all around. I can’t worry about the multiplicity of ways that I can die; that is unproductive.
After I finish my cigarette, I flick the butt into the night as I exit the car. I follow the neon lights of the executive stay and enter an empty lobby.
“Welcome to Executive Suites,” the cheerful girl at the help desk says.
“Reservations under Nicodemus Dungy.” I hand her all of my documentation.
It takes her only a minute to process my reservation. Preparation is the key for me and I can’t expect to be successful if I can’t even book a decent hotel.
“Here you go.” She hands me both my ID and my room key. “The elevator is to the left.”
“Thank you and good night.” I make my way to the elevator and on to the second floor where I find my room on the other end of the hall.
After a couple of failed attempts, the key finally grants me access. I open the room door and turn on the lights. The room has a living room with a TV, wet bar, and a desk. The bedroom is in the next room. This room is designed for both business and pleasure. I systematically start to unpack and hang all my clothes up in the closet and lay out all of my valuables in order from wallet to watch along the dresser in my bedroom.
I take a peek at the wet bar and figure that since the church will pick up the tab on my hotel room, I might as well have a glass of Jack Daniel’s before I go to bed. Sometimes I’ll read the Word and go to bed. Other times I read the Word with single malt and go to bed. I know that God doesn’t approve of my drinking, but I have seen some things that would shake anyone’s faith. My faith hasn’t been destroyed, but it has been damaged to the point where I feel like I need more than prayer to get by.
I read a passage from the Book of Nehemiah. This book has a lot to do with rebuilding. I know that there are areas of my life that have been broken. I grew up in a broken home where my mother left my father. I grew up in a broken neighborhood where decadence reigned supreme and I work in a ministry that is broken by idol worship of its leaders. The inside of my stomach has a burning sensation both from the Jack and the burning sensation that came from the Word. That is the last recollection I have before I go to bed.
At two in the morning I am awakened from a light sleep by an urgent knock. I fumble my way, half asleep, from the bed to the urgent knock. I open the door to find Minister Blackwell on the other side.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She wants to see you.”
It takes me a moment to figure out who she is until I realize that “she” is Pastor Robinson. I open the door wide enough to let Minister Blackwell inside the hotel room. I turn on the lights as I close the door.
“I need you to come with me,” Minister Blackwell says.
“What happened to tomorrow at eleven A.M.?” I am supposed to meet with Pastor Robinson tomorrow at the church when the sun is out.
“She doesn’t want to wait.”
“Where are we going?”
Minister Blackwell hesitates to answer. Minister Blackwell is a pushover; anyone can see that, so I decide to be devious. I walk toward Minister Blackwell and he backs up until the heel of his foot touches the wall.
“Okay, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me.”
“Minister Dungy, may I remind you that we’re paying you a lot of money and—”
“And may I remind you that my contract requires full disclosure.”
Minister Blackwell grumbles and mumbles under his breath, “The Sunset Inn.”
Unless there is an all-night revival that I have never heard of, the Sunset Inn does not sound like a religious event; it sounds like a sleazy motel. Okay, now I am game to go and check this whole situation out.
“Give me a minute,” I say before I close the door and throw on my slacks and sport coat. Moments later, I walk out the door and follow Minister Blackwell down the hallway.
Nothing is said while we walk to the elevator. In fact we are silent in the elevator as well. I observe Minister Blackwell, who doesn’t appear to be nervous nor on the edge. He does appear to be a little stiff-necked, but I believe that is his natural disposition.
We walk outside into the night cool air. It’s not as cold as it is in Detroit, but it is cold nonetheless. Minister Blackwell turns off the alarm of his black Cadillac with his keys. Even his car lacks personality. I get into the car and the leather interior does not ease my chill factor. The one thing that I will give him credit for is that the good Minister Blackwell is a pretty efficient driver. I almost forget that I am the passenger considering how well Blackwell maneuvers out of the parking lot.
“It takes a lot of dedication to do ministry in the wee hours of the morning,” I say and Minister Blackwell does not answer; he just continues to drive. I know what may get his goat. “I’m sure you and your wife have had a lot of fallings-out as a result.”
“Lorraine died of ovarian cancer four years ago. No children and nothing else you need to know about me.”
Wow, and I thought I was tight. Minister Blackwell is a no-nonsense person. He is different from when we met in Los Angeles. People wear different faces at different times for different people. Minister Blackwell is probably all smiles and jokes and encouraging words on Sunday, but on a Tuesday night in a car with a problem solver, I get to see the real Minister Blackwell.
“We will be there in a few minutes, Minister Dungy,” Black says.
We ride along the 80 freeway and it is unnerving to travel along a poorly lit highway, especially when I am unsure of the destination.
The Sunset Inn is a motel located off of the 80 freeway. The motel is perfect for a slasher film but what I discover when I arrive is not a psycho serial killer running loose but women in short
skirts and revealing clothes escorting desperate men into one of their rooms. I can only imagine why I or anyone a part of Jubilee ministry is here at 2:30 A.M. Minister Blackwell seems comfortable in this element.
“This way, Minister.” The minister marches onto the grounds without the slightest hesitation. I follow him with my eyes wide open.
It is a shame to see women so dejected that the only way they can get by is by using their body as a scheme. I feel equally appalled by the clientele. What can cause a man with a good job and family to seek comfort with a desperate woman?
“Hey, handsome, you want to party?” a woman says to me. The woman’s hair is a carrot orange and her skin-tight black skirt is way too short in the front. I ignore the woman’s advances and follow Minister Blackwell to the room door.
Minister Blackwell knocks on the door and a young woman opens the door. She puts one finger over her mouth for us to be silent. She then uses the other hand to bring us in.
“Thank you, Father.” A heavyset woman says as she holds the hands of one of the prostitutes in a hot pink spandex dress with splits along the side.
The heavyset woman has tears flowing down her face and words of fire flow from her tongue. I felt the omnipresence of God fill the room, and only an eternal being could transform a hotel room used for turning tricks into a holy place of worship.
I bow my head and begin to pray to God. Not only for the sins of the hookers and johns, but for my sins as well. The prayer concludes and the heavyset woman hands the girl about three twenty dollar bills from what I observe.
“Go and get you something to eat, honey. And listen, God loves you. Don’t let the devil make you think that this is all that life has for you. You are beautiful and God has a beautiful plan for your life.”
The girl in the skin-tight pink spandex skirt takes the money and wipes the tears from her eyes. The young woman who opens the door also escorts the girl out of the door. I am left alone with Minister Blackwell and my client, Pastor Robinson.
I can tell Pastor Robinson has a beautiful personality. She can make any man happy who doesn’t mind a woman with a little extra weight.
“One night a month I come here. I rent a room and my people pretend to be clients and lure the girls in. Anyone who doesn’t want to stay can leave, but those who want to hear the good news, well, I pay them for their time and I pray for them.” Pastor Robinson takes a seat on the bed and crosses her legs. “There are at least twenty women who go to the church that was walking the track when I met them.”
I give Pastor Robinson a lot of credit. She is a maverick by most religious circles. I like her because she had tremendous confidence and belief in her calling.
“So you’re the one who they call Mr. Clean?” Pastor Robinson asks me.
“People can call me whatever they want. I go by Nic or Minister Dungy if I’m feeling ecclesiastical.”
Pastor Robinson lets out a chuckle. Her laugh resembles a squeal and she covers her mouth out of embarrassment. It takes Pastor Robinson a moment to gather herself. “I just want you to know that when Minister Blackwell presented me with this idea I was opposed to it.”
Now I feel like I am in a motel and it is time for me to get down to business. “Most pastors do and I understand if you want to resolve this issue on your own.”
That is what I love about this job. I agreed to help the church and as a result the church had to put up half the money. If Pastor Robinson decides that she no longer wants my services, well, then I just got $75,000 richer without breaking a sweat. But Pastor Robinson will not back out; she just wants to air her reservations in order to save face.
“Well, it would be a waste to bring you out here for nothing, so how does this work?” Pastor Robinson says.
I sink my hands into my pockets and walk over to Pastor Robinson. I make sure that my shoulders are up and that I do not give the slightest hint of insecurity. “I need full disclosure. I need to know everything, before I can do anything.”
Pastor Robinson uncrosses her legs and folds her hands. “What do you want to know?”
“The last night you saw your husband.”
“Two weeks ago we had an argument. He thought that I had been neglecting him and I guess the rumors started to get to him. He wanted me to take some time away from ministry to work on our marriage.”
“I guess you said no; otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”
Pastor Robinson did not respond. I have seen too many occasions where ambition has robbed marriages and blinded leaders. Pastor Robinson is no exception.
“Were the rumors true?”
“No,” Pastor Robinson says.
“Don’t lie to me. Don’t ever lie to me. If the rumors are true then let me know and I will still help, but don’t lie to me or I walk.” I walk up toward Pastor Robinson so that she can know that I’m not playing. “Now I’m going to ask one more time, are the rumors true?”
“No! They’re not. They are evil lies made up by my detractors,” Robinson says with a look of discontent.
“So why would your husband give into the rumors? It has to be more than your husband feeling neglected. Most pastors neglect their spouses; it’s in the bylaws.”
“Jeremy is not only a promising basketball player, but he is a skilled musician. I have bragged about him to the point where it started to arouse suspicion and no man can handle their wife talking about another man more than them. So what should we do?” Pastor Robinson asks.
“I suggest that Pastor continues to do as she’s been doing. She continues to preach the Gospel while you locate her husband and talk some sense into him,” Minister Blackwell says.
“Really? That’s funny. I was about to suggest the opposite. In fact we’re going to do the exact opposite,” I reply.
“I don’t want to draw attention to his absence,” Minister says.
“There is already attention being paid to her husband’s absence. I’m not just a Mr. Fix-it; I am a minister and when I step into a situation I look to resolve it. I neither take nor do I have repeat customers. There’s your way of doing things and then there is my way of doing things, which is the right way.”
So after I put Minister Blackwell back in his place, I then turn my sights to Pastor Robinson, who is eager to hear my suggestions. “Once I find your husband I can guarantee you that there is nothing I could say that will repair things. You’ll have to do that on your own. So I want you to still preach the special events that you made commitments for, but I want you to turn over your weekday and weekend services to some of your other ministers.”
I can tell that Pastor Robinson really takes heed to my words. I pray that I will be successful in my endeavor. I hate to lose more than anything, especially in the arena of ministry.
“So what happens now?” Pastor Robinson asks.
“First Minister Blackwell is going to drive me back to my hotel so I can get some sleep. Then I am going to return in the morning to the church and start to do my work. I will need for you to pull any information you have on your husband. Check stubs, identification, articles, you name it.”
“Okay,” Pastor Robinson says.
“Great! See you tomorrow.” I head toward the door knowing that this meeting provided new information that has my head spinning with the possibilities of what could’ve happened to the first gentleman.
“Wait!” Pastor Robinson says before I reached the door.
My back is still turned. I look back to see Pastor Robinson still on the bed.
“What are we supposed to say when the congregation starts to see you around a lot?”
“The truth. That I’m a visiting minister who’s here to serve Jubilee Temple.”
And that is not a lie. I am a minister who is here to serve both the church and my own interests.
Chapter Nine
I wake up the next morning around 7:30 A.M. I forgot to close the curtains in my hotel room, so the sun makes its presence known in my room and I cannot afford to sleep in. I have to d
o my job so I get up and stretch. My shirt, tie, and sports coat are draped over the chair. Last night I slept in my slacks and my white undershirt. Since I am half dressed I grab my watch, wallet, and room key off the table, slip on my shoes, and head out door. I’ll brush my teeth and wash my face later. I hate the aftertaste of eating right after I have brushed my teeth.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator and that will be my exercise for today. The weather is sunny and brisk and since we are in the middle of November, I know that the good weather won’t last. By noon the weather will be overcast and I can tell by the way the clouds are gathering in the sky that there might even be rain.
I walk across the street to Lane’s Diner. I have not eaten since yesterday afternoon so I need some type of food in my system. It’s real easy for me to forget to do simple things like eat, shave, or sleep when I’m on a job.
“Hello, welcome to Lane’s. Is this a party of one?” The hostess has already grabbed a menu.
“Actually, I know what I want and I need it to go.”
“Okay,” the girl says, somewhat surprised.
It is not often, I assume, she encounters a man who knows what he wants.
“Go ahead to the counter and they’ll place your order there.”
I walk over to the counter, but I don’t take a seat. I get the attention of the waitress and she comes over right away.
“What can I get for you, sir?”
“Two eggs over easy, hash, bacon, and sourdough toast.” I go into my wallet and place a twenty on the counter.
“Okay, let me get two eggs over easy, hash, bacon, and sourdough toast coming up and you can pay up front with cashier.”
“That’s for you.” I point to the twenty dollar bill.
“Thank you, sir. A girl could use it.”
I consider myself a part of the same industry as the waitress. We both are in the service industry, but while she serves patrons, I serve the church. I pay the bill on the way out and I walk across the street to the gas station on the corner. I need a pack of cigarettes. I crave a cigarette and I am low on my pack I bought yesterday.
