An Anthology of Madness Read online

  Preach

  “There’s one,” Lauren says. “See if he needs anything.”

  I slow to a stop at the intersection, pulling close to the curb. “Roll down your window and ask if he’s hungry.”

  Window down, cold air trailing traffic rushes in. It’s a cloudless blue sky, but the November sun in southern California is useless. “Hi there. Happy thanksgiving.” Lauren’s voice is filled with the kind of joy rarely found in adults, but rather in children on Christmas mornings and birthdays. It’s this voice that caused my heart to stumble then fall forever in love with her the first time we spoke over the phone. “Are you hungry?”

  “You know what,” the man replies with a half-toothed smile, “A woman just dropped off some turkey and biscuits for me only moments ago.” He wears a maroon windbreaker and sweatpants, Fila shoes, a gray beanie. A shopping cart filled with what appears to be trash, but upon closer inspection is actually filled with his most prized possessions sits parked to his right. To his left, a dirty, panting mop with a tongue and eyes.

  “We made cinnamon rolls.” Lauren holds a paper plate wrapped in tinfoil out of the window in a way one would do to entice the dog rather than the man.

  “Homemade, huh?” the man asks, standing now.

  “Homemade,” Lauren answers. “And we’ve got water. Do you want water?” She instructs me to grab a few bottles from the back seat. She exits the car to deliver the baked goods.

  From the front seat I can’t make out the conversation between my wife and this stranger, but he is all smiles and teeth, arms waving frantically as if he’s trying to land a plane. I lean my head out the window and look to the sky. Just to be safe.

  I drive around the corner, parking in a no parking zone. I jump out. I lock the car. This is not a nice neighborhood. I intend to hand this man his water bottles and continue on. We have dinner plans in less than an hour.

  What happens next I can’t quite put into words. I am here, but I am not. I hear every word exchanged, but I barely comprehend. I try to reconstruct the sentences, the vowels, and lowercases of our conversation, but only remnants remain. The afternoon is broken glass. I can look at that glass, point at it and tell you it used to be a window, but I’ll never be able to rebuild it exactly the way it was before it shattered.

  “They call me Preach.”

  Preach has been homeless for eight months. Before that, he lived in his car with the dog. Before that, he was married.

  “I used to have a car. Me and the dog here, we’d been living in that car since my wife left. She drives a bus now here in LA. God got between us. So I took to my car and I took to the streets. I used to preach in front of the drug dealers, the prostitutes, and pimps. That’s how I got the name Preach. Because that’s all I do. I can’t stand to not share the gospel. It’s Jesus, man. It’s all about Jesus. So the dealers, to get me out of there, they called the cops on my car. My car had expired plates. So I’m there on the street corner, Bible out, when the police roll up. Tow my car. I’ve been living out of this shopping cart ever since. But I’m going to get that car back one of these days.”

  I can’t stand not to share the gospel.

  Preach is one of eleven children. Both of his parents are dead. None of his siblings will speak to him.

  “My entire family disowned me. They may be my blood, but I am a new creation in Christ. They are no longer my brothers and sisters.”

  It’s Jesus man. It’s all about Jesus.

  “It’s all okay though, man. You see, God has me on the streets so I can preach. So I can share the gospel with the people living on the streets.”

  One could assume here not since Paul has there been a man so elated to preach the gospel without regard to his unfortunate circumstances. Only when we have nothing left but God will we realize God is enough.

  Preach asks if he can pray for us. I don’t know how we got here, arriving at a point where it’s presumed we need to be prayed over. He takes our hands in his, calluses and broken skin and all. He bows his head. “Lord, you say wherever two or more are gathered in your name you are present…”

  This is the second time in my life a homeless man has prayed for me. A man with nothing. I have a roof over my head. A car. A wife. A steady job. I can pay my bills and eat three meals a day. I have more possessions crammed into seven hundred square feet than I could ever hope to need. And this man, this man with nothing but a dog, some cinnamon rolls, and a shopping cart is going to pray for me.

  He prays like he already knows all of this. He doesn’t pray for healing. He doesn’t pray for us to be fixed or reconciled. Instead he prays for the protection of our hearts. He prays for discernment of false prophets. He prays that no matter how much we have, no matter how well we are doing, our hearts never lose sight of God.

  Tears in eyes. I could swear the earth is shaking, turning upside down.

  “The word of the Lord,” he says, “is so pure even babies can understand it.”

  Can you believe that? I can’t believe that. Not when I look at the state of the world. Not when I see the condition of the church.

  If it’s true, if it’s so easy to be in communion with our God, why do we continue to clutter and tear apart and investigate his Word like we are missing something? Like it cannot possibly be that easy. If you’re searching the Bible for knowledge rather than life, you will only find death.

  I open my eyes. I’m nervous. I am there, but I am not. What am I doing holding hands with a homeless man at twelve in the afternoon on Thanksgiving day? A police cruiser rolls to a slow and deliberate crawl. I am still illegally parked, hazards on, but stopping nothing. “Preach,” I say, “I need to move my car.” But he holds my hand tighter. “The Lord is here,” he says. “Can you feel it? He’s got us protected. You’re safe.”

  The cruiser changes lanes and drives away like my vehicle is exactly where it ought to be.

  Another car pulls up to us. Three young girls crammed into a VW Beetle. “Are you hungry?” they ask. He tells them he’s been fed, but will save their food for later. Then they offer him a blanket. He digs into his shopping cart and pulls out a brand new fresh from Target fleece blanket. “Not ten minutes before you arrived did a woman drop this off for me. Sometimes I gotta say no. There’s someone else out there in greater need than myself. But thank you.”

  Preach sings to us. He teaches us.

  If a machine gun could speak, it would sound like Preach. In twenty minutes the entire experience is over. And it is the best church experience of my life.

  The Greatest Liar You Are Ever Going To Know Is You

  I won’t find better.

  It’s the same everywhere I go.

  It’s too dangerous.

  There’s too much risk.

  I can make this work.

  I can’t make this work.

  I can fix him.

  Really, I can.

  Everything else about him is great.

  It’s just this one time.

  It won’t happen again.

  Other people have it worse.

  Much worse.

  I don’t deserve better than this.

  This is who I am.

  I am comfortable.

  No, really, I am.

  I’m just like everyone else.

  Because I’ve got bills to pay.

  It’s not like I have what it takes.

  It’s my father’s fault for not teaching me anything.

  It’s a nice place to raise a family.

  Mom needs me here.

  Nobody needs me here.

  God wants me to be happy.

  He’d want me to have this.

  She doesn’t remember anything.

  She was drunk.

  She is drunk.

 
It’s just a kiss.

  I’m not lonely.

  I’ll just take one look.

  A quick look.

  It’s no big deal.

  Everyone looks.

  Everyone’s doing it.

  I’m not going to do anything,

  I’m just going to look.

  Just for a second.

  A minute.

  An hour.

  Today.

  Never again.

  Nobody’s getting hurt if nobody knows about it.

  I can stop any time.

  I’m not addicted.

  I’m not usually like this.

  I’m always like this.

  As long as I use protection.

  It’ll never happen to me.

  It doesn’t have a heartbeat, not at eight weeks.

  It’s not human.

  I’m only human.

  I don’t deserve forgiveness.

  Not for this.

  There is no purpose.

  I didn’t do this on purpose.

  It’s God’s fault.

  I have no control.

  I am the only one in control.

  That’s just the way it is.

  He’d do something about this if He wanted change.

  I am going to do something about this.

  I am going to quit my job.

  I am going to change the world.

  I am going to end this.

  I am.

  Really, I am.

  Tonight.

  Tomorrow.

  I’ll do it tomorrow.

  I promise.

  I promise you I’ll never promise anything again.

  Defenseless In The Very Ocean Your God Created

  While studying digital media at an art school in Pittsburgh, I meet a woman whose son has died of cancer. Her name is Wendy. Her boy, Nick, is just fourteen when he finally loses. An aspiring filmmaker, Nick is rarely ever seen without a camera in his hands, documenting nearly half of his too short life. Whether he was selling hot oatmeal on street corners during hundred-degree Midwest days in August or Trick-or-Treating in July, he pulled off ridiculous stunts and comedy sketches and captured it all. I never meet Nick in person, but I have the opportunity to watch and edit the life he left behind. Wendy had heard through friends of friends I was studying film, and might I be able to help her? She was looking for someone to go through Nick’s footage and transfer it all to DVD. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t in the business of giving or doing favors, but when she told me his story the very axis of my planet tilted too far and I heard my own story on another timeline.

  At fourteen I went everywhere with a camera in my hands looking for a story, participating in stunts reserved for Hollywood professionals, asking strangers uncomfortable questions. At that age, I too, just as Nick, had a sense of who I was and who I wanted to be. Yet as I listened to Wendy, I knew less and less about myself at nineteen than I did five years earlier. I spent all my time watching pornography and seeing how drunk I could get while still functioning in the real world. I was in college and living alone in an apartment I could barely afford. Why did Nick’s life get cut short while I was chosen to survive? And if Nick had been chosen to live would he be wasting his talents like I was?

  I agreed to the project out of pure guilt. After the tapes arrived I spent days in front of the computer watching Nick’s instant reply. His passion for being alive could not be contained. Even at the ages eight, ten, and fourteen, it seemed Nick knew who he was. He had a confidence and a bravery I knew I lacked.

  And when his time was up, not only did it seem Nick was ready to die, but he also believed in God. He kept the faith in his Creator until the very end. He made this known with two simple words, a mantra to utter no matter what came his way in life. No matter how hard things got. When everyone else would have given up or blamed his or her misfortunes on God, for Nick it was simply time to “dive deep.”

  Fast-forward four years to the corner of Melrose and Highland—the night seemingly its blackest at only 6 p.m.—the gridlock-riddled city of Los Angeles pumping steel and gasoline, and I come to a stop.

  I am finished.

  I can go no further.

  If there is a God he’s forgotten me.

  I’ve done all I can to get his attention. I go to church every Sunday. I volunteer, pray, tithe. Yet it’s brought me here, standing on a street corner in Hollywood during rush hour with no car, no computer, no income, no job, and I’ve just been robbed.

  I clench my fists, fingernails biting into the palms of my hands until I break skin. “What the hell are you trying to prove here? I’ve given you everything! And what have you done for me?” I challenge the very God who breathed life into me. Reckless Hollywood traffic takes my words east and west before they’ll ever reach the stratosphere let alone the Heavens.

  “WHERE ARE YOU?” I try again. “ANSWER ME!”

  God is speaking to everyone in my life except me, and I am sick of being ignored, on foot because the $1,500 speed bike I’d borrowed from a friend to get around town has just been stolen. A couple of punk kids running a well-rehearsed operation—swinging bolt cutters like regular gun-slingers—attacked the very bike rack I’d hitched my pony to. After telling me I could view the security footage if it made me feel better, the guard who watched it all go down behind her comfortable parking garage desk was kind enough to tell me the likelihood of getting the bike back was, well, entirely unlikely.

  I called the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department and explained my situation. The highly irritated woman on the other line who understandably could not handle one more stupid, stolen bike report asked for my address.

  I gave it to her.

  Her: That’s the LAPD’s jurisdiction.

  Me: Isn’t this who I am talking to?

  Her: This is West Hollywood.

  Me: What’s the difference?

  Her: You’re located in LA, not West Hollywood.

  Me: Good. My bike was stolen in West Hollywood.

  Her: Okay, come on in and file a police report.

  Me: That’s what I am trying to do right now.

  Her: I get that. You need to come in.

  Me: I’d love to but you’re ten miles away and my

  bike was just stolen.

  Her: Don’t you have a car?

  Me: No. I have a bike. That was just stolen.

  Her: Well, sorry. You have to come in. Get a ride and you can file a report.

  My car is dead and gone in the parking lot behind my apartment complex, and the first bike leant to me collapsed mid-ride after trying to maneuver around a crack in the sidewalk I was certain was the San Andreas Fault. And it’s on this slow walk home, the victim of theft and relentless loss, that a man who looks only slightly more homeless than myself beings to circle around me on a bike (the son-of-a-bitch) sporting a ridiculous hunting hat complete with earflaps and fingerless gloves to match. He informs me—even though I’m not asking—he’s been learning how to preach and freestyle rap.

  “I’m not religious,” he makes sure to clarify, “but check it.”

  His jacket is made of wool and full of holes. His shorts have little palm trees on them. He proceeds to spit a rap about the angels in Heaven and the California surf. He rhymes about the struggle, the drugs, the life, and the ocean waves. When he stops, I think it’s because he’s figured I’ve stopped paying attention, but he speaks instead: “You’re in the water, defenseless in the very ocean your God created, and a six foot wave is coming at you. What are you gonna do?”

  “I’m not very good with riddles,” I say, and my friend with the earflaps provides the answer: “Deeper.”

  Deeper? Afraid I missed som
ething while coveting his bike, I ask what he means.

  “You’ve got to dive deeper, man, that’s what you’re going to do.”

  My knees shake, begging me to fall and worship. The hairs on the back of my neck stand tall and cold. “What did you say?” but this rapping prophet, he is already riding away. He calls back to me over his shoulder, says to check out his website where he sells t-shirts that support the legalizaton of marijuana. “Buy one and support a brother!” He throws up a peace sign. And he is gone.

  There’s

  a

  future

  out

  there

  somewhere

  with

  your

  name

  written

  all

  over

  it

  If We Reach The Cities We Will Reach The Nations

  “Did someone forget their apple?” Faith asks, emerging from the bathroom, holding a half-eaten, half-rotten apple discovered on the floor next to the toilet. Her house is made up of three stories, tight staircases, and a half-dozen rooms on every level. I’m sitting on a rug in the second floor den playing cards (feeling tired and longing for home), and leaving my lunch behind in strange places.

  Rain flows outside like a river. It’s too cold for the end of April. There’s a dead wolf on the first floor, alert at full attention. I kept waking up last night thinking somehow it would make its way up the stairs to say hello, its big teeth all the better to eat me with.

  “We’re praying in the morning,” Faith says, poking her head in on our card game, rotten apple in hand. “Eight a.m. Some people from the neighborhood stop by every Tuesday. We have coffee. We’ll see who shows up. You’re welcome to join.”

  They’d be in the room with the wolf.