Double Whammy

Deacon Johnson was up early. The importance of the day weighed heavily, and he had reason to be anxious. He put on his favorite desert-tan leisure suit, buffed his cream-colored shoes, and trimmed his nose hairs. At the breakfast table he chewed halfheartedly on raisin bagels, scanned the sports page to make sure they hadn't screwed up the big display ad for the tournament, then called for the limousine.

He decided to give the VA hospital one more try.

This time, two doctors were waiting at the admissions desk.

Deacon Johnson smiled and stuck out his hand, but the doctors regarded it as if it were a rattlesnake.

"I'm sorry," one said, "but you'll have to leave."

"You've been upsetting the patients," said the other.

"Isn't there one," Deacon Johnson said, "who wants to be on TV?"

"They said you offered them money."

"I had to," Deacon Johnson lied. "FCC rules."

"Money," the doctor went on, "in exchange for lying about their illnesses."

"Not lying—dramatizing.There's a big difference." Deacon Johnson folded his arms indignantly. "We run a thoroughly Christian enterprise at OCN."

"Several of the patients became quite upset when you were here before."

"I certainly meant no harm."

"They've discussed violence," said the other doctor, apparently a psychiatrist.

"Violence?" said Deacon Johnson.

"That's why we can't let you back inside."

"But there was one, Corporal Clement. He expressed an interest in appearing with Reverend Weeb today."

The two doctors traded glances.

"Clement," Deacon Johnson repeated, spelling out the name. 'The fellow with the trick knees."

The psychiatrist said, Tm afraid Corporal Clement has been moved inpatient to the sixth floor."

"It appears he got into the pharmacy last night," the other doctor explained.

"He won't be available for television appearances," the psychiatrist added. "Please go now, Mr. Johnson, before we call for Security."

Deacon Johnson got back in the limo and sulked.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"You know this town?"

"Born and raised," the driver said.

"Good. Find me some bums."

Charlie Weeb would be royally ticked off; he'd specifically said no street people, it was too risky. Lofty standards were fine and dandy, but Deacon Johnson was running out of time. The healing was only hours away.

The limousine driver took him to the dissolute stretch of Fort Lauderdale beach known as the Strip, but there all the bums had bleached hair and great tans. "Too healthy-looking," Deacon Johnson decided.

"There's a soup kitchen down Sunrise Boulevard," the driver said.

"Let's give it a try."

Deacon Johnson saw that the driver was right about the soup kitchen: wall-to-wall winos; sallow, toothless, oily-haired vagabonds, the hardest of the hard-core. Some were so haggard that no makeup artist possibly could have rendered them presentable in time for the show. Worse, most of the men were too hung-over to comprehend Deacon Johnson's offer; the money they understood just fine, it was the part about dressing up and rehearsing that seemed to sail over their heads.

"It's television, for Christ's sake," Deacon Johnson implored.

The men just grinned and scratched themselves.

In desperation, Deacon Johnson selected a skinny bum named Clu, who was in a wheelchair. The driver lifted Clu into the back seat of the limo and folded the wheelchair into the trunk.

As they rode back to Lunker Lakes, Deacon Johnson said: "Are you sure you can rise up?"

"You bet."

"On command?"

"You bet."

Clu wore a mischievous smile that made Deacon Johnson wonder. "So what's wrong with your legs?" he asked.

"Not a thing," Clu replied.

"Then why the wheelchair?"

"I got it on a trade," Clu said. "Three cans of Sterno and a wool sock. Pretty good deal, I'd say."

"Indeed," Deacon Johnson said. "And how long ago was this?"

"Nineteen and eighty-one," said Clu, still smirking.

"And you've been in the chair ever since?"

"Every minute," Clu said. "No need to get up."

Deacon Johnson leaned forward and told the limo driver to pull over.

"Get out," he said to Clu.

"What for?"

"It's just a test," Deacon Johnson said. "Get out and walk around the car."

When the driver opened the door, Clu tumbled facedown onto the pavement. The driver reached down to help him, but Deacon Johnson shook his finger.

He said, "Can you rise up, son?"

Clu tried with all his might until he was pink in the face, but his skinny legs would not work. "I don't believe this," he whined.

"Just as I thought," said Deacon Johnson stiffly.

On the ground Clu continued to grunt and squirm. "Let me work on this a minute," he pleaded.

"Give him back the damn wheelchair," Deacon Johnson snapped at the driver, "and let's go."

Just when he was certain that the grand TV mega-healing would have to be called off, or at least scaled back to a sheep or a cat, Deacon Johnson spotted the blind man.