My bus hiccups through the northbound SWAT checkpoint at Base Line, the traffic behind us nothing but dusty pickup trucks with gun racks. E Street’s bail bond offices, liquor stores, thrift shops, and palm trees are aglow in the vaselined daylight, pigeons slanting over the power lines. A wind blows from the desert, inciting clumps of dead palm fronds and empty crack vials to mutiny on the sidewalk.
Exiting the bus on Fourteenth Street, I set up camp by the old McDonald’s—the first one in the world. A cornerstone of our civic heritage. I place a white plastic donations bucket on the pavement. I pop a breath mint in my mouth. I spank the tambourine and dance like an organ grinder’s monkey to entertain passing Christmas shoppers.
“Help me, help me, help me if you can.”
After a slow start, the money is trickling in. A dollar here, a dollar there. Two white guys pause to watch my act. They’re tall and pulpy shouldered with long stringy hair. Styling flannel shirts, baggy non-designer jeans, and white sweatshop trainers. Total fashion assassins. You could mistake them for winos—it doesn’t take a college degree to see they’re plainclothes SWAT cops.
I panic: the .25 under my robe is a surefire felony bust. With my record, good for a dime in the joint. Before I can do anything, the plainclothes men start toward me.
“Hey, hey, Pastor. How’s the hustle this afternoon?”
“Hello, boys. You here to make a donation? Your generosity will sweeten a poor child’s holiday. A solitary dollar can do it.”
The stouter of the two cops, clearly the senior officer, smirks at me. He aims a nicotine-stained finger at the donations bucket. “It doesn’t look like you’re doing so great today.”
“The day is young. My resolve is strong. I have hope.”
My inane homilies wipe the smile from his bearded face. “Cut the bullshit. You got permission to be here?”
“Yes, I have god’s permission. I’m a priest with Blessed World. The church and charity.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You have a license?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Shut the fuck up. I ask the questions. You supply the answers. Got that, dickhead? For your information, you need a license to work this street. You have one?”
I’m ticked off, but given the circumstances, it’s best to practice the anger management techniques I learned from shrink sessions in the pen. My answer is restrained, priestly.
“Not on me.”
“How do I know you’re a vicar or whatever, and not a fucking con artist?”
“You don’t.”
“That’s right, shitbag. I don’t. What’s to stop me from hauling your ass in on fraud charges?”
“Nothing.”
“Right again. You’re learning fast. So let’s move on. I’ll let this slide. But I want something from you.” He lowers his voice a tad, just enough to let me know he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. “Listen closely, Pastor. Some fuckwad with a gun is robbing banks downtown. He’s been seen on E Street. A young dude. Maybe a Mexican. You’re out here every day, right?”
“That’s my job. It’s my volition. I’m trying to—”
“Save the sermon for church. He’s gonna contact you.”
“Why me?”
“You’re a priest. You attract trouble.”
“Then what?”
“You let me know, dumb fuck.”
“But who are you?”
His hebephrenic black eyes slice into my face. Unblinking, I gaze back at him. Kapow: we’re having a full-blown staring match. My strategy—I won’t let him punk me. We stay like that for several seconds until he says, “I’m Dalton.” He jerks a thumb at his partner. “That’s Cassidy.”
Dalton kneels in slow motion and fishes three bucks from the donations bucket. My entire take for the day. Pocketing the greasy bills, he stands up with a self-satisfied smile. He and Cassidy then stroll southward to Base Line, a handful of adoring, timid pigeons scattering in their wake.
I watch them disappear into the smog. Disgusted, I spit on the sidewalk. There is nothing in the donations bucket.
I end my shift at midnight. I haven’t made one red cent since this afternoon. I’m exhausted, almost delirious, my right hand cramped from shaking the tambourine for the last eight hours. To boot, it’s after curfew—I’ll probably get rousted at the southbound Base Line checkpoint.
A long time ago my uniform—my robes—meant something important. They were second only to Superman’s costume in the hearts and minds of the young and old. They represented a power for good. But the modern world has laid to waste the myths and symbols of yesteryear—I’m an object of ridicule and scorn. A lesser man would be daunted. Not me. Not yet.