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Authors: Titus Pollard

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BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
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For a fleeting moment, Job felt a slight awkwardness when she voiced her current marital status. “Good thing. Concentrating on your career, I mean.”
“Humph. The district expects me to be here any day of the week, so it doesn't count. I'm a twelve-month employee. And the principal.”
Bianca thumbed through a stack of student attendance records from which she pulled one. “So, what brings you by here?”
He checked his watch and began to get uneasy, remembering that Monica was out in the car. “We took a half day's break from unpacking to drive around and see what we could see.”
“We?”
“My wife and I.”
Silence.
Job took the initiative to clear up Bianca's perplexed look. “Monica—my wife—is outside. And I better be getting back to her before she kills me.”
“Well, Mr. Wright. I hope you were able to see some interesting sights, although there's nothing much around here to see.” Her dark eyes were shieded under the part in her hair.
He shifted his eyes to a different direction. “I really must go.”
“I won't be here much longer myself. I need to begin a weekend. What's left of it. Umm, Mr. Wright?”
Job, who had begun heading toward the door, spun around. “Yes?”
“Have a great day.” The inflection in Bianca's voice sounded more like she had just asked a question than given a suggestion. Job thought it was a slick reprimand for walking away without speaking. “You, too,” he said with a hint of nervousness.
When Job returned to the car, he found Monica asleep, curled up in the seat with the street map unfolded over her.
When he awakened her, she reeled right into him with a few loud, unrepeatable comments. After a moment or so, she calmed down and asked, “What were you thinking, leaving me like that? You're standing on thin ground with me anyway, and then you have me out here on a practically deserted parking lot.” She rolled her eyes away from him.
“I met the principal and a custodian,” Job said, trying to sound matter-of-factly.
“How was he?”
Job was reminded of Bianca Rizzo. The youthful look, the resonant voice. In the same exact moment, he felt both guilty and fortunate. He did his best to respond with as little excitement as possible. “Oh, the principal? She—”
“She?”
“Yeah.” Job breathed in a portion of nonchalance. “She was okay.”
Chapter 5
The wicked plotteth against the just, and gnasheth upon him with his teeth.
Psalms 37:12
 
 
Delvin pulled his hands out of the water, thankful that they were protected by industrial gauge rubber gloves. Kentucky Corrections required chlorine bleach in the dishwater, but he was pale enough without sticking his bare hands into the chemical of the servant class. He had heard of bleach being used before. He knew that outside of prison, it was how the Chinese laundered his shirts and the way his stylist lightened hair.
He was astounded at the perspective he could gain just by peering into and pounding through dishwater. It was the last day to bust suds on his thirty-day, ninety-meal punishment. He made a mental note not to wish for the assignment again.
Inmate after inmate filed past his area, depositing their plastic trays into what they called the Bean Chute, a twelve by twelve square that had been cut into the wall and trimmed out in welded metal. He took a rubber spatula and cleared each tray before plunging it into the hot, murky water. There was a nauseating odor of human skin and leftover scraps from that evening's meal: Salisbury steak, green beans, corn on the cob, and fruit cocktail.
Standing still, watching soap bubbles take shape then burst, gave him time to plot, plan, and analyze. He hadn't forgotten where he was and that Job Wright wasn't there with him.
Delvin wanted redemption and soon. He knew that, although he was incarcerated, he could make arrangements to put a free man in uncomfortable positions. What better way to feel better than to pawn his former partner off, have
him
to think he had been placed in a little prison?
All it took was a little ingenuity, cold hard cash, and a relentless person to damage their target. Delvin possessed all three. All he lacked was a contact on the inside. He had plucked out a name from among the ranks. But Stinson had not come through the line just yet.
Tall, dumpy, slim, and overweight—a barnyard of roosters clucking after a late feeding came through that little hole for a brief visit. He refused to look up and make any one face recognizable. For him, each man that evening was just a shadow, a talking head with legs. With one exception.
“Aw man, don't do that. Didn't anybody tell you?” Stinson asked as he scratched the chest hair sticking out from his shirt. “You're throwing away the goods.”
Delvin's heart pounded. “What goods?” He took quick glances at several trays. Nothing looked salvageable on any of them.
“I still gotta lot to teach you.” Stinson took his bare hands, reached into a few trays and yanked up the corn cobs, each devoid of a single kernel. He tossed them into a nearby plastic lined fifty gallon container. He brushed his forehead and a few corn silks stuck above his eyebrow. “You're trying to keep us from making this week's hooch, huh?”
Delvin was silent, yet confident that Stinson could see confusion written on his face.
“Never mind, Storm. I'll give you the low-down later. Just don't get rid of these.” He held up another cob.
Stinson continued to chatter on about one topic then another; he was either unaware or unconcerned that he was holding up the line. It occurred to Delvin that this man might be the very one he needed to befriend. Or better yet, use.
Delvin cleaned the last tray while the container of cobs was whisked away to an undisclosed destination. He peeled off the gloves and hung them on a nearby high pressure sprayer. He tipped his head to the guard then exited out of the galley area. He walked into the cafeteria and over where Stinson, Saks, and Murphy were standing around one of the tables, engaging in what seemed to be a lie-telling contest.
Delvin directed an intentional gaze at Stinson. “You have a minute?”
“Who? Me?” Stinson asked. His biceps popped repeatedly.
Saks and Murphy took the hint and gathered themselves into a remote area of the room, about thirty feet away.
Stinson hoisted himself onto a table and planted his feet on the bench. “What's on your mind?” he asked.
Delvin looked around, assured that no additional ears were joining the conversation. “Need something.”
He grunted. “Oh, this is grand. You come to me—for something. Must be a cold day in hell.” He turned his left hand until the palm was up and then scratched it with his right.
“You have a way in this place,” Delvin said.
“You're telling me stuff I already know.”
Delvin seethed underneath, but appeared composed. His daily discourse with the inmates had been far from cordial. The majority of his interactions had barely been above a hello. He was being tested by the very one who had attempted to befriend him in the past. It was a sickening feeling, having to depend on another for anything. “I want something. That's all.”
Delvin was growing impatient, a minute regret that he had even approached the man he believed was the most conceited inmate in Ashland. “So, are you the man or should I look for another?”
“Let me ask you something, Storm.” He shook his head. “Are you blazed? Something wrong with you ... like ... crazy?”
“No. Why?”
“You must be, because you don't get the picture. What's in it for me?” Stinson was loud enough to cause Murphy and Saks to look in their direction for a brief moment.
Delvin backed away, squeezing his fists so tight the blood left his hands, leaving the knuckles eggshell white. “See, I knew you were homosexual. Trying to pretend like you have my well-being at heart. Back off.”
Stinson's eyes opened up. He began a hard laugh, continuing until he began to choke. He straightened up, pounded his chest, and regained his composure. “Man, I told you I ain't into that. I meant it. You ain't seen nothing outta me that told you I'm a siss—get real.”
Delvin was confident that Stinson was resourceful. Above all, he knew the network inside the hole had laws that ascended above the warden, with a hierarchy of its own. “I'm going to put together a list. Things I want while I'm here.”
“Contraband?”
“No. Some papers, books, and stuff.”
“That shouldn't be hard.”
“But it won't be things you can find inside, necessarily.”
Stinson cocked his head. “I figured that.” “Might take me a few days to compile the list. I'll let you know when it's completed.”
“The person who actually secures the goods won't be me.”
Delvin leaned in, wondering if his time had just been wasted on the wrong person. “Why am I talking to you, then?”
“You have a thing against patience, don't you? Be cool.”
Stinson was in control and Delvin hated it. Having to wait for someone else to put a plan into motion was not his forté, but he had no choice. “You haven't told me what you wanted out of this.”
Stinson rubbed his face, twisting his cheeks as if in a whirlwind of thought. Moments passed. He sighed. “A toy.”
Delvin, had expected something more profound. Then he asked, “What? A set of Chinese tension balls? A stainless steel abacus? What?”
Stinson belted out a laugh to confirm Delvin's ignorance. “Naw, man. A regular toy. Hoola hoop, Slinky. In this place, a toy makes problems light; gives a ray of hope. It brings out the child inside no matter how old you are. Murphy taught us that.”
Delvin looked beyond their immediate conversation and thought back on that day he wanted to give Murphy a lesson in keeping his trap shut. He remembered, too, how it had backfired on him. “It's not something I need.”
“It will be. Good piece of advice. Go ahead, get one for yourself. It'll do you a world of good.”
“What do you want, specifically?”
“Think about it. Surprise me.”
With the round-about explanation he'd been given, Delvin thought about putting on his list the first junk toy that came to mind. Then he took a second for more intelligent thought. That thought told him not to make Stinson an enemy. That man was his free-flowing water line, and he wanted to keep the bill paid.
Stinson barged in on his thoughts and said, “Got a bit of advice for you, Storm.”
“What's that?”
“Bitterness clouds your thinking. All the more reason why you need to start paying attention to your surroundings. You don't need your thinking clouded.”
Delvin felt him trying to dig below his surface; he wasn't having it, so he felt a change of subjects was in order. “Hey, what was with the corn scraps?”
Stinson rose up from the table, causing a screeching noise that echoed through the room. It startled both Murphy and Saks, who seemed impatient from the wait. As he walked away from the little huddle, he told Delvin to, “Keep your eyes open. You'll see.”
Chapter 6
Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Exodus 20:8
 
 
Job stuck to the bed early Sunday morning, yearning to stay right there. He tried not to think about the day and what it represented.
“In all things, you gotta have faith,” Monica told him the day that the Louisville Real Estate Commission put the proverbial chains on his company door. “This came out exactly like it's supposed to. It's the way God planned.”
“Faith didn't help, Monica,” he told her. His countenance fell under the soil when God didn't do His job. Then what was the purpose for attending church?
He wanted Monica to understand that he believed there was a God, but that life's situations needed more than a prayer or a fasting. He wanted to hold fast to the belief that God helps those who help themselves.
Her words did little to convince Job that the Lord was always around, moving for the betterment of his life. Since college graduation, his credo had been one of self-reliance, but he would give anything to garner the faith that Monica spoke of. According to her, his lifelong existence could be one continuous, indefinable dilemma if he didn't go with her to church on that morning.
Monica had risen out of bed and taken over the master bath.
He grabbed his overnight toiletry bag and a towel and went to the full bath on the second floor.
Thirty minutes later, they retreated to the master closet, dressed, and convened in the foyer.
He studied her from the cobalt blue, wide-brimmed hat down to her stilettos. To Job, she made Macy's Couture look good.
He wasn't in the suit mood, but felt that he needed to make a positive impression since this was their first time going somewhere with a new neighbor to a new environment, a new church. He chose one of his favorites—a Jones New York, navy and white shirt, gold silk tie, black platypus Stacy Adam's.
Job heard a car horn.
Monica said, “It's Fontella and her husband in the drive.” She grabbed her purse and headed out the door while taking a glance at her watch. “Wow, like clockwork. Nine twenty-five. We haven't had time to get to the truck.”
“In this sun, who wants the time?” He locked the door, and they walked off the porch.
Fontella suggested that Job and Monica ride with them instead of following, especially on their first time attending the church. Her husband, Larry, welcomed the Wrights to Phoenix and the neighborhood. He apologized for not making their acquaintance earlier. “Pharmaceutical sales keep me busy, away from the house during the week. I'm glad my wife saw to it that you were welcomed properly.”
Although Larry was at the driver's seat, Job estimated him to be every bit of six-foot-seven. It was more than a coincidence that the Logan's family car was a Navigator. Larry appeared to be navigating from the back seat.
“Monica, Fontella tells me that you have a position at Nine Iron Golf,” Larry said.
“I begin in about three weeks,” Monica replied.
“I'm sure I'll see you there sometime. I have a membership.”
Job resented the fact Larry felt comfortable enough to bring up topics revolving around luxuries his present salary couldn't afford.
Can we talk about something else?
His petition was answered.
Fontella asked Monica, “What does the Lord Jesus Christ mean in your life?”
Monica looked over at her with a whitewashed stare. “Huh?”
Fontella's eyes sparkled as she let out a small giggle. “It's the question that our pastor has made a part of the witnessing ministry. It's the question of our church culture.”
“Oh. That's interesting and different,” Monica responded.
“So? What does He mean in your life?” She focused in on Monica, seeming to wait for an answer.
“I think God has me and Job on a journey. It's not an easy one. I just pray and trust in Him. I guess that it's all we can do,” Monica said.
Fontella shouted, “Aw girl, testify!” The women slapped a high five.
Fontella interrogated Job within moments of Monica's answer, and all eyes were on him. Larry's face filled the rear view with Fontella twisting in from the front passenger seat. Monica was at his side. There was nowhere to turn, run, walk, or drive away.
“W—well, you know. J-Jesus has showed me some things. God's all right with me. I love Him,” Job stammered out. He was thankful as the next ten minutes whisked away. That was the length of time he heard silence—before arriving at the church.
Chapel In The Desert emerged from a strip mall abandoned during a five-year urban renewal that took place in the mid '90s. The congregation was blessed to have expanded down three blocks on Sun Valley Parkway at Grand Avenue in a suburb of Phoenix called Surprise.
“I guess now you see why we have to be on time for service,” Fontella said.
Parking was a phenomenal task as cars congregated like a swarm onto the parking lot. People rushed from their vehicles to the entrances labeled
Faith
,
Hope
, and
Charity
.
In the vestibule, columns of pink Italian marble shaped in Corinthian style lined the hall and towered well above fifty feet overhead. Human-sized floral arrangements of Yucca, Matilija Poppy, and Beavertail Cacti were along the walls with Bird of Paradise trees in an intricate pattern on the floor. Glass encased posters offered picturesque details of the various church ministries. A scrolling message board announced activities and provided scriptures defining why people should worship. Men and women with brisk handshakes and broad smiles were greeting, making sincere attempts not to miss a single person.
Job looked around at the people and their manner of dress. The wardrobe styles—tees and jeans, pant suits and sandals, casual linen pastels—had him exchanging glances with Monica. He could feel her saying to him
You know? We could've worn what we had on yesterday and been more in keeping with the people here.
Monica whispered to Fontella, “You should have told me that the attire is more casual.”
Fontella responded, “Girl, we don't pay attention to what you have on.” She patted Monica on the hand. “You're fine.”
As they were ushered to seats, Job navigated his eyes forward to the pulpit. A small group of musicians had assembled themselves on an elevated part of the stage that held a physical set-up equaled to that of Frankie Beverly and Maze. They settled in and tuned and cranked up an assortment of songs as mega screens projected lyrics.
He heard shouting behind him and looked. Young people had filled the aisles waving banners and flags. The congregation joined in singing, “We have come into this house, gathered in His name to worship Him ...”
“This is just too much to take in at one time,” Job bellowed out in hopes that the Logans would believe he was well-versed in good-ole conservative Baptist tradition. He laughed to himself in embarrassment; back in Louisville, he rarely attended church, other than on Christmas, Easter, and Mother's Day. Any other Sunday while Monica was at church, he would be found at home, catching an old movie or a football game.
A quartet of singers, two men and two women, came to the stage in front of the pulpit. They each grabbed a mic and led the congregation in singing one tune after another. Job sang along as best he could, even though most of the songs were unfamiliar. He made out pretty well on one by Donnie McClurkin and another by Dallas Holm.
Forty minutes had gone by. Job leaned in and whispered to Larry, “When is the offering?” He figured that if the preacher called for the money, then the sermon and benediction would soon follow.
Larry told him tithes and offerings were place in wooden boxes stationed in the vestibule as they exited. “We don't take up offerings during worship service.”
Job laughed, hoping not to draw attention. “You've got to be kidding,” he said, putting emphasis on each word.
“No. That's really how we do it. Pastor Harris says that Christians need to embrace a level of trust. If someone robs a church offering basket, they rob God, and the wrath will be more than they can bear.”
“Yeah, but you don't dangle the carrot. You're asking for trouble.”
“This body of believers is blessed,” Larry said. “We've never had a single incident of mishandling or theft.”
Job shook his head in disbelief. He had been used to deacons taking up the offering, whisking it to the back office where one counted and another two or three watched. After church, under heavy guard, the money would be taken to the night depository. Monday morning, it was double-checked to see that it had been handled properly and received by a bank officer, who issued a stamped receipt. A set of watchdogs. A back-up to the back-up.
A middle-aged man, about five-foot-nine with graying hair, beard and mustache, came onto the stage. By Job's sight, either the man was void of a single blemish on his café noir skin, or the pixels on the mega screens perfected him into Ebony Fashion Fair status.
“Good morning, saints, worshippers, and friends,” the man proclaimed.
Job and Monica exchanged glances. He reached over, clasped her hand and whispered, “This is a trip, ain't it honey? No reading of the scripture. No singing of “Amazing Grace” before the preacher gets up. Makes you wonder, huh?”
“What?” Monica asked with a hint of aggravation in her voice.
“If it's a cult the Logan's are trying to get us into.”
Monica backed away from his lips, licked the poison on hers, and stared him down as though she cared less if anyone heard what she was about to say. “I never thought Louisville had a monopoly on how church services were supposed to be carried out. Now be quiet.”
He did just that.
Pastor Harris made a few announcements regarding ministries within the church that had gatherings scheduled for that week. He instructed those with birthdays and wedding anniversaries in the remainder of July to stand, and then had visitors to stand.
Job and Monica were of one mind at that moment. They refused to rise despite Fontella's coaxing. Job looked out over the part of the congregation he could see, amused that the church found praise in such simple gestures as welcoming what they labeled, “the potential membership.”
Pastor Harris clapped his hands and the sound system helped him send a deafening reverberation through the sanctuary. “Now,” he shouted, “let's get some Word into our systems.”
Those words had not left his mouth good before the entire room went up into an unprecedented cry, unlike any Job had ever heard. Not at a concert. Not at a ball game.
Pastor Harris cupped the thumbnail mic on his headset. “C'mon, saints. We can get excited over everything else.” He began a strut that, in steady rhythm, evolved into a high-stepping march. “We go crazy over things that can't help us, things that don't matter. Then let's get excited about the Lord and what He's done. C'mon, c'mon!”
The congregation's response didn't seem to get louder, but thickened, broadened. The musicians added to the fury with chords and cymbal crashes.
“Be seated, if you can,” Pastor Harris said. The congregation began to mellow and a scriptural text was given.
“I want to speak to each of you today about breaking new ground. All of us live in what we call the desert, barren ground. Phoenix and Scottsdale are physical places where we reside, our domicile,” he paused, ironing the side of his slacks, “but I'm now talking about where our spirits live.”
The congregation was prompted to turn their Bibles to Ezekiel, thirty-sixth chapter. Pastor Harris began reading from the ninth verse. “‘
For behold, I am for you, and I will turn unto you, and ye shall be tilled and sown.'
You see saints, the Lord used this prophet to talk directly to us. He's saying that God is with us. No matter what the trial. No matter the circumstance. He—I'm talking about the Lord,” he paused for the sporadic
Amens
to wane, “is allowing us to be turned or plowed under and for new ground to show. Amen?”
Job heard shouts and affirmations from different directions.
“Then,” he bobbed his hand up and down,
“God wants us to know that He'll plant us. This means we have the Master placing us in good ground, with good seed. C'mon, somebody.”
“Say it, Pastor,” was one of many expressions from the congregation.
“Then ... well, look at verse eleven near the last part of the verse,” he commanded. “‘
And I will settle you after your old estates, and will do better unto you than at your beginnings
.' Stop,” he shouted.
The reading ceased for a moment, but the praise started all over again.
“Hey now, let me finish,” he commanded.
BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
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