by Peter Plate
You name it—I get an earful. But I’m a child of Jesus. Vaccinated by his gospel. Ordained by Blessed World. I am spiritually immune to rancor.
A wheelchair-bound man rolls over to me. His hand is out, a bloody bandage wrapped around his blackened fingers. A crusty blue bandanna slants over his left eye. Jailhouse tattoos bifurcate his forehead. The rest of him is bundled inside an oversized North Face goose-down parka held together with duct tape. I suspect he’s a recent graduate of Patton State Hospital, the nuthouse by the orange groves in Highland.
“What’s up, Pastor? You have a cigarette for me?”
“No, my son. I don’t.”
“Why not? Everybody smokes out here.”
“I don’t smoke. It’s not salubrious. For body or soul.”
“I wasn’t asking for a speech. I was asking for a cigarette.”
“Well, my child. I don’t have any. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, okay. You don’t have to be an asshole about it. So, you got a quarter I can have?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Come again?”
“I said I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a crummy quarter?”
“That’s correct.”
“You’re nothing but a goddamn liar.”
“Then we should pray together. To heal our spiritual rift.”
“Don’t get sarcastic with me, mister. You’re here all day hustling cash. You got money. What makes you think you’re better than the rest of us? That fucked up uniform? You being a religious figure and shit? You think it makes you superior to me?”
How do I tell him I’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, other than a pint of nonfat yogurt? That I’m an injured soul just like him? I vent: “Use your fucking eyes. There’s nothing in the bucket. When there’s nothing in the bucket, there’s nothing in my pockets. And when there’s nothing in my pockets, I’m in the same damn boat as you.”
He does a three-sixty in his chair, and says by way of a farewell before wheeling off: “You don’t have to get weird, dude. Shit, I was just talking. Take a break.”
I am aggravated. Which is not kosher. I’m usually a barometer of human kindness. But now the barometer is very low. I should pack it in for the day. There is nothing in the bucket. Nothing in my belly.
Then I see Sugar Child.
She’s heavily medicated, drifting over the sidewalk with little to no forward motion. Each step the journey of a thousand miles. The walk of patients just released from General Hospital’s acute psych ward.
The look on her tired face is interplanetary, as though she dropped off a spaceship onto E Street. It’s clear she doesn’t know where she is. She’s a visitor from outer space who wants to take off for the stars again. The sooner, the better.
Her eyes struggle to read my face, but she’s forgotten the language that once came so naturally. The ability to flirt, to find a place in herself by connecting with strangers.
She tries to remember me—her mouth is pursed from the effort—in the same way a fish comes up from the bottom of a deep pool. Only to reach the top to find out it can’t breathe there. That it might be better to go back down the way she came, back to the bottom.
I ache to take her in my arms—but people on psychotropic meds hate to be touched. I chirr: “You okay, girl?” I laugh nervously. Tuning in to my discomfiture, she laughs back: “I’m fucked. You know?”
Slow as glue, Sugar Child moves on. I can’t stop her. She doesn’t want to be stopped. To stop her from walking away, I have to stop the world.
I stammer: “Merry Christmas, baby.”
She gives me the saddest smile, a smile that lets me know it’s taking everything in her heart to make the gesture. She’s doing it for me, with a grace that seemingly comes from the earth itself.
“Merry Christmas, daddy.”
FIVE
Seeing Sugar Child in that condition kills me. Her wig is gone. I get back to the hotel, too disoriented to do anything. Later that night a fire starts in the foothills above Devil Canyon—deer and coyote flee down the canyon floor to the North End. At bedtime, I say a Christmas prayer: “Jesus in the manger, in the tiny hamlet of Bethlehem, we’re getting our asses reamed out here. Have mercy on us.”
I drop into a shallow doze at three o’clock, diving headlong into my very own pond of nightmares—daily life’s reconstructed episodes, restitched to fit inside my psyche, like wild animals are stuffed into cages at the zoo. Shazam: my mother is posing in a blue oxford shirt, a plastic bag over her head. Propping a hand on her flabby hip, she sings to me: “You’re a big little man. A big little man. You want to be Superman, don’t you?”
I dream that my mom makes a speech against the Vietnam War in her high school civics class. It’s a stifling hot October 1968 afternoon. The next day she’s summoned to a meeting by her vocational counselor, a pasty-faced white man with connections to Campus Crusade for Christ. He wastes no time being polite. “You’re against the war. And your family’s on welfare, right? You keep up your antiwar sentiments, I’ll make sure you never get off welfare or go to college. Now get out of here.”
The only doctor in town who accepts welfare patients has an office on Base Line near Tippecanoe. It’s in a shabby blue stucco bungalow, minus a waiting room—his patients wait in the dirt-packed front yard, oftentimes all day with smarter folks bringing picnic baskets and umbrellas. Disturbed by the clash with her counselor, my mother visits the doctor. He diagnoses her as hysterical and prescribes phenobarbital, what they give condemned men on death row in prison. Three weeks later, she’s committed to Patton State.
□ □ □
I wake up crying, my heart beating faster than a metronome, having slept less than five minutes—if only I could sleep a little more—but it’s the greatest moment of clarity I’ve ever known. I have never felt safe in my life. Not from the second I was born. Not until the day I die. Maybe I’ll be safe in the afterlife. I have the strangest feeling I won’t.
SIX
I receive a phone call from Blessed World at seven in the morning. I have a new assignment. Good for one afternoon. I marvel at what I’m hearing.
I drawl: “You’re joking.”
The voice on the horn belongs to a man I’ve never met, a bishop high up in the church’s hierarchy. He tells me it’s not a joke. I’m to report to a children’s Christmas party on Valencia Avenue in the North End. The organization is short on manpower. No other donations solicitors are available.
I don’t like it. The North End is as far away from the California Hotel as one can get in this city and still be in the same town. Getting there will be a hassle. It will take an hour or more. I’ll have to ride the bus through the Marshall Boulevard checkpoint. Oh, well. Here I go.
At two o’clock I’m on the westbound bus. I’ve taken a shower and shaved. My robe is unlaundered. But the .25 is not on me. No need for a firearm at a children’s party.
The address I’ve been given is near the golf course. I’m nervous. Will I fit in? What will the kids think of me? More horrifying, what will their parents think? All I can do is pray everything turns out okay. What I need is the right attitude—I don’t think I have it.
I disembark from the bus a hundred yards before the Marshall Boulevard checkpoint. I don’t want to deal with SWAT or any of their bullshit, so I cut through an alley. I walk quickly because I can’t be late to the party. Sad to say, I don’t notice the SWAT security cruiser until it’s too late. A trio of cops catapults from the semi-armored vehicle. All in black uniforms, two in sunglasses, the third with an F-19 rifle.
I titter: “Hey, guys, what’s up?”
No sooner does the question leave my mouth than the cops grab me by the arms. I’m booted facedown onto the curb; my cleric’s collar flies into the gutter. Thank god I didn’t bring the .25.
I’m handcuffed, lifted off the pavement, then flung against the security car’s hood. Once again, my face collides with an unyielding surface. This time, blood
gushes from my nose. But I don’t say a word. Nary a peep from me. I know the golden rule: don’t speak until spoken to. There I am, beached on the hood. One cop screeches: “Who are you?”
I give him the address of the party and the owner’s name, plus a phone number. He radios in the information; the others insult me, saying I’m nothing but a faggot. My contact info proves correct. The SWAT cops uncuff me. They let me go.
My destination is a glass-and-steel mansion. It’s new, brand new, more imposing than its neighbors—new money wants to outdo old money. Tech money versus real estate money. The driveway is enormous, the front garden an acre of roses. I press the doorbell by the security gate—I get a quote from Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue.”
After awhile, I scope out a youngish woman—regal in a purple Dior gown—careening in high heels across the never-ending lawn. She must be coming from the house. The place is so far off, I can scarcely see it.
She unlocks the gate and ushers me into a shaded courtyard. She’s all smiles, pretends not to notice the fresh blood on my cummerbund. “Thanks for coming, Pastor.”
She isn’t polite. That’s not her aura. Politeness is the most violent form of sarcasm possible. She’s just gracious. And her graciousness puts me at ease. Together, we’re old friends. Buddies from the country club, or wherever she hangs out when she’s not skiing in Europe.
We stroll toward the house, which gets bigger and bigger the closer we get. It’s not a piece of stationary architecture, but an ever-changing optical illusion.
Inside the house my host hands me off to the housekeeper. I’m instantly mobbed by an army of children. They climb all over me, cheering and yelling, pulling at my robe and cummerbund.
I shout: “Merry Christmas, you rug rats!”
The kids burst into war whoops of laughter. They march me into a living room larger than a cathedral. Five stories high with a vaulted ceiling studded by skylights. One corner is hogged by a gigantic Christmas tree festooned with gold baubles and silver lights. Beneath the tree is a hummock of presents wrapped in matte red gift paper.
The children escort me to a low cushioned seat. I sit down. They line up in front of the chair. Then the first kid climbs onto my lap, a tiny girl in a blue silk dress. Her soft brown eyes eat me alive with their innocence.
I ask: “What do you want for Christmas?”
She gets real subdued, stares down at her patent leather shoes, then gazes up at me. “I want everybody to be happy.”
I almost burst into tears.
One after another, the kids scrabble onto my lap. They peer into my face, searching for signs of falsity or impurity. When they don’t find any, they tell me their wishes. By the time everyone is finished, I’m a complete wreck.
My host reappears in the living room—god knows where she’s been. She murmurs: “You were splendid. The check is in the mail. Thank you.”
She takes my arm, and with a sly smile leads me out of the house and down a flagstone side path to the front gate. She stands on her tiptoes and pecks me on the cheek. “The children loved you. Blessed World must be proud of your talents. Goodbye, Pastor.”
I’m elated—my work is valued. And I did today’s job on short notice. There just might be a future for me in this business. I am feeling pretty good—how rare.
Near my bus stop I come across a free box. Curbside free boxes on Valencia Avenue often yield unforeseen treasures. To my delight, I discover a vintage paperback edition of Isaac Babel’s Red Cavalry. The cover has a full-color reproduction of a 1920s Red Army poster. The book is in mint condition. It’s a nifty find. I’m quite pleased with myself.
I wish I could say the crosstown bus ride was as positive as finding the Babel paperback. It’s not, and I’m not surprised. At the Highland checkpoint, an outpost bristling with sandbags and razor wire, SWAT personnel halt the bus. All passengers are asked to produce their travel permit cards. That’s just how it is. You make do with what you’ve got. You can’t overreach. If you try, you get badly fucked. On the bright side, I pass through the checkpoint.
SEVEN
The telephone rings when I enter my rooms. I’m flummoxed—the phone almost never rings. My only calls are from Blessed World. Is it them? Offering another gig? I don’t know what to think. I’m completely shattered, my uniform stinks with blood and dirt. Breathing hard, I grab the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Is that you, man?”
I give the caller a taste of his own medicine. “Who else would it be? The chief of police?”
“Don’t fuck with me, asshole.”
“Who the hell is this?”
“You don’t know? It’s Alonzo.”
Alonzo is from Waterman Gardens, the toughest projects in town. Midway through his high school senior year, after his teachers urged him to pursue a career as a janitor, he went to the principal’s office with a stolen hand grenade and a list of demands from the other Mexican students. The hand grenade didn’t work. The administration refused to honor the demands. Alonzo got slapped with thirty-six months in California Youth Authority at Chino. After doing the time, he celebrated his release by getting drunk in Perris Hill Park.
He’s been drinking a pint of whiskey every day for years. Only the best brands, he is fond of saying. I haven’t spoken to him in six weeks. Not since he went into an evangelical-funded rehab facility in the Del Rosa district.
“Alonzo? What’s wrong with your voice? It’s scratchy. That’s why I didn’t know it was you. Do you have a cold?”
“I just had a tracheotomy.”
“A tracheotomy? Christ almighty. What’s wrong?”
“What ain’t? It’s my second one in a month. I’ve got cancer in my throat. Had a damn tumor in there bigger than a golf ball. Now I’m third stage.”
Navigating the medical conditions of friends is more dangerous than a battle zone. With every passing decade, our bodies deteriorate and reconfigure themselves into an ever-growing continent of illnesses. Third stage is a synonym for war.
“Alonzo?”
“What?”
“How much do you weigh?”
“I was up to three hundred.”
“And now?”
“I’m skin and bones, thanks to chemo.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’m down to two hundred.”
“That’s pretty good. More like you used to be.”
“Yeah, well, whatever.”
“Are you still drinking?”
“Uh, no. I mean, sometimes. When I was done with that damn chemo, I wanted to celebrate. Then my mom came to stay with me. She was taking out the garbage one day and found a bottle. I lied to her, told her it wasn’t mine.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t want her to feel bad.”
“Jesus, man, what the fuck is going on?”
He adroitly switches the topic. “So what’s up with you?” “You’re not going to answer my question?”
“No, I’m not.”
“That’s chicken shit.”
“I won’t deny it.”
“Okay. Be that way. But things have changed with me.”
“How poetic.”
“Yeah, it is. I’ve become a priest.”
“A priest? You go to seminary school since we last talked?”
“Blessed World hired me. I paid fifteen bucks for a certificate.”
“And that made you a priest?”
“Actually, I’m a donations solicitor. I hustle money.”
“Huh? Where’s the profit in that? I can’t see it.”
“I work on E Street. But today I did a kid’s party. It was great.”
“Sounds fucked up, if you ask me. You getting paid?”
“Yeah. I started as an intern. Now I get a flat wage.”
“Hallelujah. What a genesis. Any benefits?”
“No.”
“See what I mean? You’re getting ripped off.”
He’s trying to pull me down. It
’s an old dynamic between us—when he dances in the mire, he expects me to do the same. I don’t, I’m an outright enemy. I hate adulthood.
“Alonzo, I’m a felon. I’m lucky I’ve got the gig.”
“Sure, sure.”
“And I make people feel good.”
“How?”
“I bring mythology into their lives.”
“What a load of crap. Totally bogus.”
“I believe in myths.”
“That makes you an idiot.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Then get this. Your dad fought in Vietnam, didn’t he?”
“You know he did.”
“What did your old man say about it?”
“He said when it ended, the war at home began. The final war. The last war.”
“He was realistic. Not like you.”
“Don’t be shitty, Alonzo. I know you got issues.”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“From you.”
“How so?”
“You said you’re sick.”
“So what if I am? And guess what? Rudy from Muscoy wants to speak with you. That ain’t good.”
Alonzo hangs up on me—I’m paralyzed with the dial tone in my ear.
□ □ □
Mormons settled the town during the 1850s. Campus Crusade came here in the early 1960s. My father said when the 1965 Watts riots started, North End white boys slept with their rifles. Alonzo’s own favorite pastime is manufacturing reloads for his Colt .38. Nothing brings him greater pleasure than to crimp cartridges at his worktable. Double-notched armor-piercing hollow-point bullets overpacked with gunpowder. Now and then, he looks out the window—his neighbors fly a Confederate battle flag in their backyard. Later he’ll inform me: “As history passes through us, we’re passing through hell.”
And Dalton? He’s a cowboy, a throwback to the days when the white boys ran the police department. When only white people lived north of Highland. Black folks had the flatlands west of the freeway. Mexicans south of Base Line.
I’d better watch out for Dalton.
EIGHT
