I receive a phone call from Blessed World at seven in the morning. I have a new assignment. Good for one afternoon. I marvel at what I’m hearing.
I drawl: “You’re joking.”
The voice on the horn belongs to a man I’ve never met, a bishop high up in the church’s hierarchy. He tells me it’s not a joke. I’m to report to a children’s Christmas party on Valencia Avenue in the North End. The organization is short on manpower. No other donations solicitors are available.
I don’t like it. The North End is as far away from the California Hotel as one can get in this city and still be in the same town. Getting there will be a hassle. It will take an hour or more. I’ll have to ride the bus through the Marshall Boulevard checkpoint. Oh, well. Here I go.
At two o’clock I’m on the westbound bus. I’ve taken a shower and shaved. My robe is unlaundered. But the .25 is not on me. No need for a firearm at a children’s party.
The address I’ve been given is near the golf course. I’m nervous. Will I fit in? What will the kids think of me? More horrifying, what will their parents think? All I can do is pray everything turns out okay. What I need is the right attitude—I don’t think I have it.
I disembark from the bus a hundred yards before the Marshall Boulevard checkpoint. I don’t want to deal with SWAT or any of their bullshit, so I cut through an alley. I walk quickly because I can’t be late to the party. Sad to say, I don’t notice the SWAT security cruiser until it’s too late. A trio of cops catapults from the semi-armored vehicle. All in black uniforms, two in sunglasses, the third with an F-19 rifle.
I titter: “Hey, guys, what’s up?”
No sooner does the question leave my mouth than the cops grab me by the arms. I’m booted facedown onto the curb; my cleric’s collar flies into the gutter. Thank god I didn’t bring the .25.
I’m handcuffed, lifted off the pavement, then flung against the security car’s hood. Once again, my face collides with an unyielding surface. This time, blood gushes from my nose. But I don’t say a word. Nary a peep from me. I know the golden rule: don’t speak until spoken to. There I am, beached on the hood. One cop screeches: “Who are you?”
I give him the address of the party and the owner’s name, plus a phone number. He radios in the information; the others insult me, saying I’m nothing but a faggot. My contact info proves correct. The SWAT cops uncuff me. They let me go.
My destination is a glass-and-steel mansion. It’s new, brand new, more imposing than its neighbors—new money wants to outdo old money. Tech money versus real estate money. The driveway is enormous, the front garden an acre of roses. I press the doorbell by the security gate—I get a quote from Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue.”
After awhile, I scope out a youngish woman—regal in a purple Dior gown—careening in high heels across the never-ending lawn. She must be coming from the house. The place is so far off, I can scarcely see it.
She unlocks the gate and ushers me into a shaded courtyard. She’s all smiles, pretends not to notice the fresh blood on my cummerbund. “Thanks for coming, Pastor.”
She isn’t polite. That’s not her aura. Politeness is the most violent form of sarcasm possible. She’s just gracious. And her graciousness puts me at ease. Together, we’re old friends. Buddies from the country club, or wherever she hangs out when she’s not skiing in Europe.
We stroll toward the house, which gets bigger and bigger the closer we get. It’s not a piece of stationary architecture, but an ever-changing optical illusion.
Inside the house my host hands me off to the housekeeper. I’m instantly mobbed by an army of children. They climb all over me, cheering and yelling, pulling at my robe and cummerbund.
I shout: “Merry Christmas, you rug rats!”
The kids burst into war whoops of laughter. They march me into a living room larger than a cathedral. Five stories high with a vaulted ceiling studded by skylights. One corner is hogged by a gigantic Christmas tree festooned with gold baubles and silver lights. Beneath the tree is a hummock of presents wrapped in matte red gift paper.
The children escort me to a low cushioned seat. I sit down. They line up in front of the chair. Then the first kid climbs onto my lap, a tiny girl in a blue silk dress. Her soft brown eyes eat me alive with their innocence.
I ask: “What do you want for Christmas?”
She gets real subdued, stares down at her patent leather shoes, then gazes up at me. “I want everybody to be happy.”
I almost burst into tears.
One after another, the kids scrabble onto my lap. They peer into my face, searching for signs of falsity or impurity. When they don’t find any, they tell me their wishes. By the time everyone is finished, I’m a complete wreck.
My host reappears in the living room—god knows where she’s been. She murmurs: “You were splendid. The check is in the mail. Thank you.”
She takes my arm, and with a sly smile leads me out of the house and down a flagstone side path to the front gate. She stands on her tiptoes and pecks me on the cheek. “The children loved you. Blessed World must be proud of your talents. Goodbye, Pastor.”
I’m elated—my work is valued. And I did today’s job on short notice. There just might be a future for me in this business. I am feeling pretty good—how rare.
Near my bus stop I come across a free box. Curbside free boxes on Valencia Avenue often yield unforeseen treasures. To my delight, I discover a vintage paperback edition of Isaac Babel’s Red Cavalry. The cover has a full-color reproduction of a 1920s Red Army poster. The book is in mint condition. It’s a nifty find. I’m quite pleased with myself.
I wish I could say the crosstown bus ride was as positive as finding the Babel paperback. It’s not, and I’m not surprised. At the Highland checkpoint, an outpost bristling with sandbags and razor wire, SWAT personnel halt the bus. All passengers are asked to produce their travel permit cards. That’s just how it is. You make do with what you’ve got. You can’t overreach. If you try, you get badly fucked. On the bright side, I pass through the checkpoint.