Neal Pollack

“Ain’t got nothing smaller?” I asked. But before I could look up, he’d patted me on the left shoulder and propped open his back door as a United jet roared over my “For Hire” sign—couldn'’t even shake the serpent’s hand cause I was busy unraveling the torn dollar bills from my pockets.

“What a friend we have in Jesus, hey Moral?” Teddy crooned in funky gospel rhythm as his steppers tapped against O’Hare’s tar street. “You take it slow and easy and keep your eyes peeled ahead on that path riding home, will you?”

Sly serpent left the rest of his message in my backseat. Not another c-note, no, that there lump sitting snug up under the Saturday edition of the Chicago Tribune Metro section (y’all know sly Teddy’s bout the only soul you’ll still see round here reading the Trib, Church). I brushed the thin paper sheets to the floor, and there was his black steel, same one he wears underneath the flaps of his snakeskin leather as he slithers about the city, a cold killer .357 piece, chromed to shine in its camel pouch. Tried to call out the window to let him know he left it, I did, but that driver’s-side glass wouldn'’t roll down. Swear, Church.

Been riding round the Mount three weeks now with this message and its thick holster right next to the spare cash in my glove compartment. The Metro section, I threw that away long before making it back to 79th Street for Reverend Jack’s early service.

For as I passed by and beheld your devotions, I found an altar with this inscription: TO THE UNKNOWN GOD. Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you. God that made the world all things therein, seeing that He is Lord of Heaven and Earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands.

This is what their Bible book says proper. I snatch the soft cover from the Row A pew before this crusty-lipped child hops about and screams with the Good News at the end of our days. Heist this scripture from the cross-eyed and the stupid to read the words of Acts as written by old dark fellow Hebrews. I’'ve freed the bound holy book and tucked it into the chest pocket of my driving shirt. Because I need the word kept close to life, as I ain’t one of these just-up-from-the-Down-Deep flock, bouncing mad about the Mount’s pews and aisles as the reverend preaches his sermon.

“Am I my brother’s keeper, Church? Y’all come on, come on and tell me now—”

“Yes, siree, Reverend,” Deacon Nate replies, “that’s what it say.”

“Well. Somebody been coming to Bible study like they suppose to.” Reverend Jack’s gray-blacks cut to the choir bandstand. “Yes, Church, Good Book tell us we’re our brother’s keeper, indeed. Repeat it with me: indeed. It’s on us to certify he ain’t strayed from Paradise or off the Mount. Book don’t tell us something though, Church—cause back there in Paradise, the answer was obvious. But today we’ve got to ask the question. Need to get some kind of resolution before we go out and proselytize in His holy name. Uh-oh, Reverend

y’all like the sound of that fancy word now, don’t you? I'’ll break it down for you next week—y’all remind me, Church. What I got to know now before I send y’all out to do the good works, is who is ‘my brother,’ Church? Hah. Who is my brother?”

The drum sergeant lets cymbals quake as his foot pounds the bass drum pedal to cover the church’s silence—yes, finally, silence from the flock—raining down from both balconies. Reverend Jack’s eyes switch about holes in the movie screen pictures as he wipes the ballpoint end of his nose.

“We gotta know who our brother is if He expects us to be keeping him, don’t we, Church? You gotta answer soon if You expect me to look out for him on our way to Your bosom. I’m gon listen to what You tell me, whatever it might be, Lord, but You gotta tell me something soon. We had a talk, me and the Lord. Know how I tell y’all bout getting down on humble knees and praying to the Most High for guidance, and mercy, and deliverance for the wicked? This time I got down to pray and asked Him for an answer, Church. Understanding’s what I was after. Do y’all hear me?”

“Amen, Reverend, ” the first balcony shouts, honey mamma Eva louder than all the rest, purple shame gone from her now. “We hear ya. Go head on. ”

“But Church, in His benevolent wisdom, I’m still waiting out an explanation from on High, Church. It’s one of them mysteries; Lord puts um down here for us sometimes, in this maze of concrete and glass. Lays rhyming riddles in the cracks of our lives. Like when He sent His son into the shadow of darkness to withstand the temptation of Beelzebub, Church—y’all remember that? Why’d He put His One Son through such tribulation? He don’t never give us no questions we can’t handle though, Church. Never an answer that’ll break us.”

“Glory, ah-ley-lu-ya,” the woman says down below before hobbling into her pew.