The Line
Long
Beach Transit Journals
Written
on the 111 from Lakewood to Downtown: Via Cell Phone
We
lined up like we did every Sunday. It was the end of service and time to take
the collection which I never minded. I gave what I could. I was five people away
from the apostle: an average height, chocolate skinned man of sixty, who had a
fashion taste ripped from the better men’s clothing rags. He had a southern
voice which reverberated in the speaker system. He probably sounded
like Paul. He probably sounded like Peter. He had the gifts of the spirit and once put on you
would change your Sundays forever.
On
that day, I was hoping to hear good news. Just a while ago good news was rare
and bad news seemed to reach my ears everyday. I walked slowly with the line.
The church was in a good sized room in a medium sized building next to a large
pool hall which I believed was a strip club at one point which I vaguely
remember patronizing years ago. But it was a new day and the lustful bizarre
was closed for business.
I
walked to the front before the altar. I tossed my offering of ten dollars into
a small basket held by an auxiliary Minster. The preacher looked at my hands
and his eyes opened wide as his voice lowered to a whisper.
"Be
very careful where you go."
Goosebumps raised on my arms as my mind wondered: because I went
to so many bad places.
Edited in Hot Java on Broadway