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Talladega Prison
In the beginning, Ron would just sit quietly and watch, marveling how the silver-haired preacher would use a perfect turn of phrase or biblical passage to illuminate his message. As time progressed, he took even more and more notice of how Brother Daniel handled himself, watching intently, as the preacher plied his “trade.” Just like a doctor or an engineer, he was a true professional. And, judging by his clothes and the gaudy, gold jewelry he wore, he was making it pay—somehow. But, he certainly wasn’t getting rich preaching to a bunch of convicts. So where did he get his cash? Ron wanted—no, needed—to know. He decided to ask. Why not, he thought. He had nothing to lose.
* * * *
One Sunday, after the service had ended, Ron approached one of the guards and asked if he might speak with the preacher for a minute. The guard was understandably apprehensive and nudged Ron away, telling him to move on. But, Ron persisted, until, at last, the sentry relented. “Okay,” he replied. “But, don’t try anything smart. And, only for a minute.” He tapped his nightstick on the hard, concrete floor to emphasize his authority and then idly brushed the front of his starched tunic.
Cautiously, Ron moved toward the preacher. Jesus! He’s taller than I thought he was. “Excuse me, Brother Daniel,” he said. “Can I speak with you for a minute?”
“Why certainly,” replied the preacher. Ron caught a whiff of the heavily scented cologne the man wore, and couldn’t help noticing the extensive dental work adorning the inside of his thin-lipped mouth. What was it his mother had always said about not trusting anyone with thin lips? Well, never mind.
“I was wondering,” he began. “What do you—”
“Did you have a question about today’s message?” The preacher’s suit today was navy blue, it’s cloth iridescent and without a wrinkle in evidence. A white, baby rose popped against its deep, dark surface.
“Well, not exactly,” began Ron. He looked around to be sure no one else was listening. “It’s more about you, actually.”
“Me?”
In the next ten minutes, Ron poked and prodded the preacher about his profession—and his private life. He wanted to know everything: from how much the man made, to how many hours a week he worked. For his part, Brother Daniel was even more forthcoming than Ron had hoped he would be. It was obvious that the visiting preacher was proud of his accomplishments, and Ron used that pride to his own advantage. He flattered and cajoled him, until finally Brother Daniel offered to take him under his wing.
* * * *
Each succeeding month saw the preacher revealing more and more of his “trade”; and before long the two appeared to have forged a true friendship—at least that’s what Brother Daniel thought. In actuality, Ron was merely cultivating a resource, extracting from the preacher every bit of his knowledge and technique. By the end of his prison sentence, Ron had gleaned all he needed to prepare himself for life on the outside—and, more importantly, for his chosen vocation: “Man of God.” He’d even usurped the preacher’s name—not Brother Daniel, of course—but Brother—as in Brother Ron. However, once he was released, unlike his namesake, he hoped never to see the inside of a prison again.