I just caught a glimpse of Sugar Child in Pioneer Park—she’s the highlight of my day. It’s mid-afternoon. I’ve been hustling for three hours. And I have one paltry dollar in the donations bucket. The bucket is dismayed. It taunts me: you creep. I despise you. Fucking loser.
E Street is a chessboard. I make two moves to my right, I might run into Cassidy and Dalton. I move forward, I’ll have a collision with a tech employee. I step in any other direction, I will trample a pigeon.
When you’re nervous, everything goes wrong.
I’ve been nervous since I paroled out of Muscupiabe. Rhonda said it damaged our relationship. But she said that before I got shipped off to the penitentiary. Nowadays? I reckon with nervousness’s stepchildren—I wash my hands fifty times a day.
I do it so often, my fingers bleed.
I’ll tell you a secret. A terrible one. The letter from Blessed World hurt me. Fuck those unctuous assholes.
They can go to hell. On another level, I have to be honest. I can’t keep the uniform. It’s a rental. I even have a receipt to prove it. They can reclaim it from me whenever they want. Over my dead body.
In the middle of everything I get wind of a guy with a suitcase at the stoplight. Christ help me. It’s him again. The nut job with the .45. Will you look at his fucking eyes? They’re just like the eyes of the woman that got handcuffed at the halfway house. Eyes bright from journeying great distances in his mind, to places that don’t exist on any map known to humankind. I don’t need this shit. But that won’t save me from him. He totters to the donations bucket, glances at it. Now he’s fastening those nut job eyes on me. “Pastor?”
I swing into action. “What is it, little angel?”
“I’m frightened.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
“Do your travails weigh upon your immortal soul?”
“Yes.”
“Should we get on our knees and pray for your salvation?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
He grins, showcasing two rows of irregular sepia-tinted teeth. Just my luck. I have said what he wants to hear. He points at his grubby suitcase, the thing bound together with fraying rope.
“This is for you.”
What is he talking about? And who wants his fuckedup suitcase? It’s probably stuffed with body parts from a murder. Or maybe a hundred years of yellowed newspapers.
“I don’t want it.”
“Please. You’ve got to take it.”
Before I can run for the hills, he pulls a scrap of crumpled paper from his soiled pants. “Read this, Pastor. It’s important.”
No way. It has to be a message from another solar system where he is the only inhabitant. Why won’t he leave me alone? Why can’t I just play the tambourine and beg for money?
He sticks the paper in my hand. Then he sets the suitcase in front of me. Without uttering another word, he zips up the street toward the mall.
I pipe: “Wait a second, motherfucker!”
He doesn’t look back.
Left to my own devices, I read the note:
pastor. i’m in big trouble. i have done evil things. some make me proud. some don’t. because of this, god is not with me. but you are a christian. you are clergy. you make everybody happy for christmas. please take this suitcase and give it to jesus christ.
I snort in anger. What total shit. The damn fruitcake. He needs to be in Patton State. I ball up the paper and throw it in the gutter. I glance at the cruddy suitcase. What am I going to do with it? I can toss the thing in the trash, or take it home with me.
A half hour later I pack up my things and catch the bus. The suitcase is bulky, but I manage to get it on board. Fortunately, it’s not rush hour. I’m able to nab a seat.
Another donations solicitor sits across the aisle from me. He’s tricked out in a sensational uniform. A robe made from flocked black velvet, a cap trimmed with real fur. Boots of kid leather and a silk cleric’s collar. His donations bucket is an antique Tiffany bowl.
His belly swells over a gold-trimmed sacramental sash. His cheeks are plump. Plus, there’s a humorous twinkle in his green eyes. The bastard—he obviously works the fashionable department stores near the Valencia Avenue checkpoint. Places where people flaunt money. I’m not surprised when he starts needling me.
“Not having any success today, are you, Pastor?”
I flare up, my anger management techniques out the window. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re broke.”
“How’s that?”
“Your donations bucket is empty. That’s sad. Maybe you don’t know what you’re doing. You want a tip?”
He’s laid the bait and set the trap. I walk straight into it. “Yeah, pal, tell me what you think.”
“Your uniform is shit. You need a better one. Who do you work for?”
“Blessed World.”
“That explains everything. You work for poverty pimps. You paid well?”
“Minimum wage.”
“Any health benefits?”
“No.”
“You’re completely fucked. This is a tough business. If I were you, I’d change professions. Find something easier.”
“Easier?”
“Not everyone has the grit to do this job.”
He stands up and waddles to the exit, saying over his shoulder: “I’ve got a party at City Hall. The mayor personally requested me. I’ll see you around, Pastor. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”
The bus drops him off at the corner of Fourth Street. I stare at the suitcase. What am I doing with it?