Neal Pollack

“He left me to think on it, amidst all this wicked darkness in the city Gomorrah. I sought for understanding, and I waited patient, Church. Is my brother the hustlers and the pimps and whores and crooks and killers scampering about like dark rats—is my brother Teddy Mann? Jesus the Son Himself kept even the most vile sinner close to Him as He spread the word of His coming. But that was back before Satan took over the living earth and the minds of the lost. Lord didn'’t have to think on pandemic pestilence and Tech-Nines and poison powders in the mail and flaming terror wielded by the lost. Them Romans overran Judah long before Satan swallowed the minds of the wicked, you see. Not like now—we gotta be cautious on the Mount today. It’s a good day for fellowshipping, yes it is, long as we stay cautious, Church. Y’all still with me?”

“Amen! ”

Reverend Jack snatches the microphone from its stand and slides his wiggling Stacey Adams from the podium to spin inside the microphone chord’s electric circle, and my camera follows him just below us, broadcasting Reverend’s jig to the four corners and up above, too. The crusty-faced boy jumps wood pew to not-so-plush balcony carpet, and sweet Eva’s face turns sun-kissed as she applauds, and the balcony folk praise him on high. I try to listen still. I’m patient as the flock, as the reverend beseeches us to be. No matter I may be one of those gypsy cab Jews with loss and confusion beating against my stolen holy book. Patient, because if Jesus came now I know he’d be a gold-medallion cabbie; taking folk where they asked to go because that’s the job script, just waiting for his chance to save them from their requested destination. Church, don’t you know that gypsy-cabbie Jesus would catch the lost way switching about those passengers’ eye holes long before the ride’s end?

“It’s time for a cleansing, Church—a rapture—time for us to start preparing the path. As He prepped the way for us into His Father’s Kingdom by shedding His own blood. We, brothers and sisters, must shed wickedness, so the city is purified for His coming. He’'s riding in on that pearl white horse of His, come again to destroy the most Wicked One and deliver His peace unto the chosen. Well. Y’all know I got mercy in me, Church, y’all know it—we gon go out there and give the wicked and the lost their fair chance with the two-step test. Those that pass, we gon keep them and wait for Him to ride on to the Mount and deliver us together. The rest of them, Church? Old preachers used to talk about forsaking immoral means on the way to righteousness. But when the ends we preparing for is His return, Church, I can’t think of no means that qualify as immoral. Slick-tongued serpent lives a long, lavish life, if y’all let him do it. But it’s time for us to go bout changing this city, getting it ready, Church. Time for lies and false righteousness and double-dealing and back-sliding and all such wickedness to be cast down from the Mount and out of the city, so we can start to make a way for salvation. Y’all hear me?”

“I hear you,” I say, as Reverend’s come to his main point in these tiny ears of mine. The answer rains with the heel stomping and the skin-pounding drum sergeant’s celebration. Honey mamma Eva sings alleluia and jumps on the red carpet like the child in Row A, and she claps those pretty hands together, more than going through motions now.

The Reverend steps further left of the podium in the big movie screens, spinning and sliding and whirling without ever touching the chord that connects him to sound. He chants into the mic as clean sweat pours free along his brow, and the black angels sing with him. “Celebrate the Good News. Celebrate the Good News.” Mount Calvary shakes with the power of His glory, and I know the path, Church.

Celebrate the Good News.

I walk toward the balcony ledge once, twice, until my waist bounces against drywall and the Good News’ steel does feel so very mighty. Reverend Jack tells the truth about this, so very mighty, this message gripped in the left hand. Put it between his gray-black eyes, and the Mount is silent once again. Miracles do abound. Flock’s quiet enough even for the reading of the Word hidden against my chest. Save for this bouncing boy screaming out because he ain’t ready for the News like he thought he was gonna be when it was delivered all funked up in charcoal and war fatigue drummer skins and rhythm guitar strum, and those sweet black angel hymns. When it comes in silence, the Good News tears righteousness from the child until his eyes fill with yellow rot like mine. He is as lost as I was lost.

Underneath this obnoxious fear, the sound of pearl hooves sound near. Klump. Ku-lump. Since the drum sergeant must’ve lost his sticks, let the Good Lord’s pony keep the rhythm for you. These boys is just scared is all, Church—don’t pay them mind. Just ain’t used to Good News without screaming in exaltation, alleluia; so feel their trepidation, amen.