X7 BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS
I. PUKE IS THE NEW MAUVE
House
I am living in a seriously dilapidated house with a paroled sex-offender. The house is owned by a local pastor. There are holes in the floor, ceiling, and walls. I have two windows in my room. One window has tape holding the glass together. The other window was used to hold an air conditioner unit. Now it is just a hole that I stuffed with some kind of aging foam. There are huge gaps between the walls and floors. There is a large slab of sheet rock that is waiting to fall. I threw some cut-up carpet pads and carpet strips on the floor. Some of the electrical outlets have burned out. If one wished to get into my room from the outside, all they need to do is to remove the windowsill with the taped window pane. Long ago, the room was painted this light orange. If one should desire to purchase this paint, then the name of the color would be ‘Puke.’ I can not believe that I am not making this up. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
The roommate is considered to be my boss. He is the only one that is allowed to have a key to this dump. I am not allowed to have a key. That should bother me. It does not. The parolee put the lock on the door. It was obviously his first time in such matters. He screwed everything on the outside of the front door while using only half the screws that were needed. If I really need in, then I just unscrew two screws. I could also go through the hole in my room. I could also go through the kitchen window that has an AC housing but no AC unit. I could also push moderately hard on the door. The door is made of some kind of foamy stuff. I could also just shake the doorknobs enough till screws from somewhere started falling out. I am guessing that Steptoe may have become an expert at home repair. It looks like his work; shoddy, incompetent, and barely literate. Skipping the instructions is just saving steps. Einstein sleeps peacefully..
The Grand Scheme
The person who owns this pit is the Reverend Mike Daniels of The True Vine Doxa Center in Fairfield, Texas. He is a pastor, a failed mayoral candidate, a failed city council candidate, and he works in the produce section at the local Brookshire’s. The pastor claimed that his grand scheme for the dilapidated building will become a halfway house for drug abusers. Steptoe is supposed to be in charge of this whole affair. Steptoe has zero training in getting people off of drugs.
Steptoe and I are the template for the Rev’s grand scheme. The Halfway House will send teams of two people to various cities in order to panhandle money for the ministry. They may or may not get a place to stay and most likely an eating allowance will come sporadically. Having teams of two people is a Biblical notion, legally shrewd, and a test of one’s nerves. There is a lackey that does the work and a boss that insures the work is done. Mike’s hands are always clean if someone else is in charge. The boss will discover that the true nature of his position is to be blind-sided should anything go wrong. He is the Rev’s fall guy. This also maintains friction between the two saps and the Rev’s Throne remains at the top of the food chain. In keeping your enemies, family, and congregation divided, there is no reason to fear usurpers. They will also be too distracted to notice any current indiscretion’s of your own. Mike is an old con’s resident mastermind.
If Mike’s long gaze into the mirror would have been broken up by an occasional glance to the news, then he would have noticed that human trafficking has received a lot of attention within the last few years. Senate Bill SB 24 is proof that every once in a while, our boys in Austin get it right. The first offense for trafficking gets you twenty-five to ninety-nine years. My situation fulfills enough of the criteria to go court side with Mike. With a mediocre attorney, you could ditch the minimum wage laws and go for trafficking. Since Mike and Steptoe are black and I am so much more pale, you could appease the peanut gallery and add a hate crime to the list of charges. Since I now have blue lips and blue is a color, the NAACP could also join my side. What truly irks me is that this is being done under the banner of the Church.
Control of Movement
it is true that the neighbors watch me for the Rev because I have tested the premise. I should be paranoid, but I could care less who is watching. Mike just gave me one less thing to live for. He has much to lose while I have very little. Brenda calls for me to come to Global Heart while Steptoe and I are clearing brush for the Rev. Steptoe parroted that the Rev must approve when and where I go. Steptoe is the hall monitor while the Rev. issues the hall passes. These two simply appointed themselves over me. It is easier for Mike to control everything about me if I work for free. The watching eyes of Steptoe and the neighbors are more insurance.
These two are in love with themselves and power: a mutual menage a trois of the senseless. They will take it anyway that they can get it. Picture this moment as a bar at two a.m. It is closing and I am the drunk, overweight, trollop that gets to go home with these two. It is all so cumbersome and daunting, but the scenario proceeds to the bedroom. This is supposed to be a menage a trois They would probably be so starry eyed with the mirror that they would not notice that they have been sword fighting. Meanwhile, I am fully clothed and in the kitchen reading large print romance novels.
Mike likes control. Your dependency increases that power. No one is allowed to work, nor are they to leave. You are also expected to have money and food. The Rev wants me to go to the Texas Workforce office in Teague, Texas. Allegedly, he has a friend that can fix a dead food stamp card. He did not expect me to state that I thought it sounded fishy and thus I said no. The matter reeked of government fraud and my fingerprints would be all over it. If things went south, the Rev would get away with it while I would be left holding the bag.
Food
The only food that I receive is what I get whenever I go to Global Heart. Naturally he does not like me going there. Steptoe will throw an occasional morsel my way. Mostly though, Steptoe eats in his room. A few Sundays ago, I asked him for deodorant, vitamin C, laundry detergent, and some money to do laundry. He agreed, but nothing has come. Needless to say, I wash the laundry by hand.
II. SANFORD AND SON
I am guessing that at one time Steptoe had big city dreams of becoming a cub reporter at ‘Better Homes and Gardens.’ Such grand delusions were prominently dashed when his wife filed charges of rape against him. I think they would have believed her even in a Muslim country. Steptoe still claims innocence to this matter. He is now the pastor’s assistant. In fact, Steptoe considers himself to be a minister. I have never seen ministers like these two. They could be the new Amos and Andy. It is just a shame that they are not funny. Did you know that ‘Sanford and Son’ was originally going to be called ‘Steptoe and Son?’
III. THE QUEEN RISES
This lovely abode could never pass a building code. The pastor is obviously too cheap to come up with a decent bribe for whatever city official is in charge of such matters. I met Johnny Steptoe at the Redemption House. He had been serving a twenty-something year stretch for rape when he made parole. He was incarcerated during the nineties and now he is making up for lost time. For him, everyday occurs in nineteen ninety-five. Cell phones have been spreading and people still remember Kenny G. Steptoe is always on the phone. One minute after he wakes up, he gets on the phone. He is on the phone in Church, in the Van, the bathroom, and so on. One might say that Steptoe was at the airport when his ship came in. If he had not been in the joint, then he would have encountered his destiny.
Steptoe is my inverse, yet the fate of our lives was decreed through the pivot of family. Steptoe was accused of raping his wife. I accused my cousin of molesting me. Steptoe had a judge and jury to hear both sides of the story. I can not get anyone to hear both sides of my story. Steptoe and his accuser met at a determined location. My family runs whenever I am near. Steptoe was prosecuted for raping his wife. I was persecuted for naming my molester. Steptoe was punished for his crime. I am punished for my predator’s crime. Steptoe served his time in the Texas prisons. My time in Texas is wasted by poverty and gossip. Steptoe served years for his crime. I was molested for years. Steptoe paid his debt. I am paying my molester’s debt. Steptoe is always on the telephone. I have no telephone. Steptoe has food. I do not. Someone gave Steptoe a van. My pick-up is broken. Steptoe was helped by a ministry. The same ministry helped themselves to me. Steptoe is tall and ebony. I am short and ivory. Steptoe and I are a mix of Abbot and Costello, Martin and Lewis, Batman and Robin, and they are all taken, shaken, and baked in a bag of glass and out comes the book of Sybil. Steptoe and I are the absurdities that mirror our world.
Steptoe is a bit of a queen and I believe that his life’s calling was to have been a cub reporter for ‘Better Homes and Gardens’ in the nineteen nineties. Having no esthetic taste would have been a problem if Steptoe held this job. Esthetics should come through a determined refinement and not convenience. Holiday sales ads and gossip magazines do not constitute a firm basis the development of symmetry and esthetics. Alas, Johnny is cursed with a streak of the garish and tacky. There have been attempts to pass such matters off as elegance and sophistication. Silence was the answer upon receiving these gifts. This is my act of mercy toward Steptoe, I allow him the one indulgence of keeping this delusion.
He and I were friends at our previous habitat. Steptoe has been led astray since those days. The Rev has brainwashed him with empty promises, a taste of power, conditional prestige, and a private commode that is hidden from view by the house that is falling down around it. Steptoe has changed, bribed like a minah bird, the shiny objects lured him to the dark side. I once gave him a pen because he would look at it in Bible Study and his eyes would gleam. Allure has blinded him to manipulation. The Rev requires Johnny to dirty his hands for the ministry. The Rev must maintain a cleanliness and yet I must be dealt with. Johnny is what keeps this riddle from becoming a paradox. Johnny will be conned into doing the dirty work on me and not even realize that he is wrong or what is going on. Steptoe is my watcher. He and I are the prototype for all of the copies that the Rev hopes to inspire and put on the streets.
When I first talked to the Rev on the telephone, the first words out of his mouth was about the laziness of Johnny Steptoe. Steptoe is famously lazy, yet I thought that it was odd that a reverend would gossip to a stranger. My spider senses went off and tried to get out of this scenario. I am here because there was no other option. I remain a slave. I knew all of this would happen. You do not have to be a prophet to recognize the stupid, the crooked, and the obvious in a countless replay of themes. I have glimpsed a serious inner darkness within Steptoe. We all possess such shadows. Darkness is rising because the Rev holds the bait to make such things so. If Steptoe understood, he would throw a fit.
I am not sure if Steptoe has been biding his time and bluffing people. It could very well be his own personal struggle. He and the Rev parade through this religious theater for the public. Privacy reveals that they are different creatures. Most fakers have the problem of the classically divided mind. Charades are difficult to maintain and that inherent laze prefers a shortcut. That is not stable and that makes them unpredictable. Steptoe is losing it among the array of cheap, plastic flowers.
IV. COMMUNIQUE
I once loathed cell phones. My feelings have changed about the matter since I have been without one since September, 2012. Now I recognize their necessity. It is difficult to get a job without one. Since I have no phone, people have to go through Steptoe to reach me. I am sure that I have missed a few calls. He has two phones. One is his regular telephone and the other is a Track-Phone, which means limited minutes. One minute after receiving a call, he starts complaining about me using his minutes. A lot of people have been calling since my venture into the hospital. This is priceless. Steptoe is finally getting a taste of power and I wonder if he can truly relish the moment or if he is too lost within its allure. The day finally came and that gift is being tainted by the Rev. The Rev desires a broader spectrum of power than Steptoe. He has been where Steptoe is now. Unfortunately, there is nothing epic about either spectrum. Mike is not bright, nor is he original. Plagiarizing the easy parts of every self-help manual that has been published since nineteen-eighty does not count as creativity. The plans of the grand scheme are second hand models of disaster. It is similar to a nose-picking, six year old nephew playing checkers with chess pieces. Adults just look retarded when they engage in a similar promenade of affairs. Human nature can always keep us laughing. I am counting my blessings that my abductors are these two yahoos. Competency and confidence could make matters so much worse. I could have someone that knows what they are doing.
V. THE REV’S CHURCH IS THE TRUE VINE DOXA CENTER
I have also been drafted me into doing sound for the Rev’s Church. I have been successful in extending my training. Last Sunday, the Rev was preaching about going through storms. Robert was playing with the computer when I noticed that someone had used the internet to use a ‘need-a-quick-sermon website.’ Lo and behold, that very site was about storms. I had also noticed that one of the storms had books of pre-written sermons. Most of these were thirty to forty five minute sermons. With audience participation and his wandering attention span, the Rev can stretch this affair to two hours.
Before the service, I had noticed that the Rev was chugging down energy drinks. He looked hung- over. Him and his wife had on matching shirts that were left over from the eighties. This is so utterly suburban. I could not help but think that the Rev had popped some Skittles, Vicodin. I state this without proof. It is merely an instinctive gesture based upon my own familiarity and history. I had developed an expertise about the possibilities of Skittles. They are good at fixing hangovers.
The Rev had his wife read the opening Bible verse. He is mumbling incoherently and stumbling about. He eventually gets up to preach. Somewhere during the sermon, I believe that the alleged Skittles had kicked in. Now he is that locomotive blare pulling a runaway train.
Church ends three hours later. We go out to eat. I am convinced that the Rev is definitely high. His pupils are large and his corneas are bright. He is happy and pretentious. There is about ten of us around the table. He told me that I could state my grievances to him there. He has to have people around. I make my statement. The Rev is obvious and the statements are handily dismissed. I knew that it would be fruitless. These people are cons.
VI. THE REV’S FORCES
The Rev forces you to go to his Church, do all of this free labor in the Church, and then you are forced to go to a revival at ‘The River of Life’ Church during the week. I am beginning to wonder if the visiting evangelist and the Rev have some kind of arrangement. There are glances between the two that are quite telling. Then the Rev is mentioned during the sermon. This happens every time.
The Rev is never on time. He strolls in with his posse, that being Steptoe and I. Then he makes a production about everything. I am the rose on his lapel. I am that black man’s slave. There is a reversal of fortune. I wonder if I could file hate crime charges on him? People know me because they know him. In fact, everyone knows me on that end of town. I would assume that half of them watch me. This is so bush league. I can tell that the Rev has propagated his language theory to some.
The Rev believes that if you name some wish, then God will enable you to claim it. I know that it does not quiet work like that. If it did, then at five years old, I would have been able to fly off the house because I had on the Superman suit. The Rev should test his theory against the principles of flight.
One night, the Evangelist walks through the crowd. Everyone is becoming Slain by the Spirit. I am one of those that prefer expository churches. I like it when Church has a bit of science class in it. I like knowing the Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek roots of words from the Bible. I am also a Barean when it comes to the Scriptures: you explain Scripture with Scripture. The Word, like God, is self-referential. I may not hold the tenants of my Pentecostal brothers, yet I do not deny them either. I have never spoken in tongues. It also looks as if I shall not be Slain by the Spirit tonight. The evangelist blows on me and nothing happens. I am wide-eyed and looking around. This is new to me. I am fascinated and taking it all in. I agree with Bubba Rutherford, he states that Christianity has many flavors. I hold to that tenant. God has a personal style with each individual. I believe that He also has a personal style with groups of individuals. In the Big Hereafter, I believe that we shall see that we all got something wrong in matters of doctrine. The Pentecostal brethren are fine people, we just have different flavors. I have a love and admiration for them. There is no right or wrong in this matter. There is only love and acceptance.
I also notice that I can not look at the Rev when the evangelist comes up to blow on him. The Rev falls over. I do not want to look because I do not want to know if he is faking it. This thought sickens me. I wish to maintain the bottom line of ‘not knowing.’ If he is faking it, then that shall be between him and God. I am staying far away from this matter.
If the expository crowd can plays things too tight, the Pentecostal crowd could be playing things too loose. I have noticed a con that some use on others. They claim that God told them so. Corruption has its own back door to enter. It does not matter what flavor of Christian that you claim. The expository crowd desires to analytically fit God into a box. The Pentecostal crowd could be guilty of seeking to use God to place others in boxes. Naturally, I am playing fast and loose with terms and I am referring to the lesser elements and weaker moments of both crowds. I hope that the gist of the drift is properly understood.
VII. THE HUMAN PROJECTILE MACHINE
I volunteered at Global Heart on Monday night. There was a label on the plums which said to wash before eating. I knew better than to skip a step. I woke up sick at four-thirty a.m. on Tuesday morning. I must have set a personal best for vomiting. The more that I threw up, the thirstier I became. The cycle of puke and drink became endless in its imitation of a frat party. It is like the back of a shampoo bottle; lather, rinse, repeat. I did this for a while. I returned to bed in the hope of getting sleep. Mostly I would lie there and moan one of those soulful moans that only righteous, southern, church-going, black women can emit. I was sort of impressed with that. The morning is a lethargic drudge of misery. Steptoe ignores my pleas for a doctor. He does not ignore the mess that I made. After endless complaining, he cleans up the mess. I am grateful but feeling bad.
I give up on getting better. I psyche myself up to walk. I began my quest to Global Heart because I did not know the location of the hospital. I rightfully assumed that I was sick from food poisoning and stress. Since I do not have a phone, I must always embark on searching and procuring one from a phone owner. I developed a rhythm, a sequence in my steps of puke, sway, drop, and writhe on the ground. Get up and get walking and then cycle the acts again: puke, sway, drop, and writhe...get up and go again. I remained in the neighborhood and all of the neighbors know who I am and where I stay. I am the obvious cracker on an invisible chain.
Within the smell of vomit and through blue lips; I would ask neighbors if I may use their phone. I am obviously not well and he still did not allow me to make a phone call. He referred me to the Rev. It never occurred to me that I would actually need or want Mike’s number. He held my full indifference and I was so proud. I do not want to call him because he will drag out the process. I do not trust Mike and getting out of the neighborhood took too long. The control factor would make sense if were a patient, parolee, drug addict, or a pet. I wonder how the Rev would spin this to his congregation. Since they are black and I am so much paler, how would the press report this. Would this count as racism? If it did, who would win the forty yard dash?
I finally make it to Global Heart. I should have paid closer attention to this moment. I looked horrible. It was difficult to determine if I was being ignored, if they did not know what to do, or maybe I am delirious from vomiting. Ronald is an older gentleman that I had previously worked with. He takes me to the hospital. I am dehydrated and I look like Hell. In fact, Hell pretty much sums up my state of existence at that point. In describing Hell to people, we get so caught up in the fire and brimstone that we forget one important thing; we feel bad. In Hell, there are no good days. In theory, today would be a good day if I were in Hell.
VIII. THE HOSPITAL
I recall my last visit to the hospital in April, 2009. It was for pneumonia and I had no visitors. Steptoe, Debbie Swift, and a friend of Debbie’s named Linda arrives. Debbie sends Steptoe off to talk on his phone. This surprises and relieves me as the three of us begin to chat. It is interesting and I debate if this is or is not legitimate. I state this because I have been trying to get a hold of Debbie for a while, Steptoe would never give me her number. I have always wondered if Steptoe tore out her daughter’s number from my notebooks.
A little while after they leave, Brenda comes by to see me. She has this look on her face that seems familiar. She is trying to access the situation. According to Brenda; around six a.m. I was placed on her spirit. She called Debbie and that is why they all came to visit. I am not sure what to make of her statement. I bought it at first because Brenda has witnessed Mike’s crap toward me. A year from now, others will make statements that cause me to doubt Brenda and them.
IX. STEPTOE IS LARGE AND IN CHARGE
It is Wednesday. I am still miserable. I pester Steptoe to take me for a large Strawberry shake from Jack-in-the-Box. Brenda gave me six bucks the other day. This is how it is spent. I have been craving this since I have been sick. I realize the whole thing about dairy products, but I also remember what Rom once told me. Rom was once the manager of the Stork Club in Dallas during the eighties. X was legal then and they were making money by the truckload. Rom got addicted to heroin. He told me that if your body is craving something, then you should listen to that craving. I met him when he was crawling his way back up, which was at my first waiting job. That statement is what makes me an expert on nutrition. So far, it has been good advice.
Steptoe always has to do things his way. If he can insert some minor adjustment, then it becomes his way. We have to stop at Brookshire’s to get my medicine. The sad thing is that I needed it last night. It has taken this long for Mike to have that committee meeting to approve my medicine. Here it is, too little too late. Now we can go get the shake. Naturally, I have to walk in to get it. Steptoe does not want to waste the gas. This is someone who drives a hundred yards to Church.
X. DARLA
It is the afternoon and I am trying to sleep. Darla is a volunteer at Global Heart. I can not place her acquaintance, but she phones me. I have never mentioned my situation to anyone at Global Heart. The reason being is that I do not know how things work here, I am still trying to understand the landscape with respect to small town idiosyncracies. Prudence has been my watchword.
Darla asks if I am being held hostage. I answer yes and distinguish that it is a soft abduction. There has been no hint of force or any such means. I am enslaved to economics, place, employment, and everything else. One must remember that in dealing with manipulators, it is all soft because they do not have the guts to be blatant. Darla tells me that Connie is worried about me and that is why she is calling. Darla claims that she has been tutoring Debbie on the ways of Steptoe during this time. I do not know what to make of that. Is this legitimate or vindictive? Darla wants to help me.
I am happy at first. Later on, I discover that Darla’s plan is to drop me off at the Salvation Army in Tyler, Texas. That is not a plan, that is disposal. In time, I ask her about my truck. She wants me to leave it. I knew this was too good to be true. It would have been good if she would have talked to me first instead of applying this generic scheme. What may be good for some, would not be good for others. Does it ever occur to anyone that placing everyone into a perceived cliche is another form of judgment? I am learning my lesson about the brethren on the fly.
XI. F.B.I.
A few days after the Hospital visit, Bubba and Kenny chat me up after a night at Global Heart. After four months of volunteer work there, I discover that Kenny is the Chief of Police. I tell them everything. There was one item that I debated about telling them, but I did anyway. I had told them that I recorded a lot of things. A glance passed between the two of them. That was not such a good move.
In time, a word of rumor came to my ears. I do not remember who first told me this, yet I do recall hearing similar things from other people. I had been told that Freestone County always has two F.B.I. agents in the county at all times. It was safe to assume that since I mentioned the recording session, maybe everyone believed that I was F.B.I. I did not see that coming.
Things changed after that. Everyone already knew who I was because I was one the Rev’s lackeys. Others have said that the local police are tough. No one is allowed to walk around town at night without getting stopped and questioned. I did not view this as police harassment, just the cops doing their jobs. However, no one ever stopped me. Cops would wave at me. I walked around all of the time at night in order to clear my head. It was as if I were untouchable. I could have set up a lemonade stand on the courthouse square and get away with selling crack instead of lemonade. The whole F.B.I. thing was absurd. In time, I would truly understand the power of rumor and gossip in a small town.
XII. JIGSAW LOGIC
I am a victim of circumstance and today I reside at the Library. The Rev comes in. He has been up to Global Heart and he is upset. He tells me that I need to leave. Then he mentions something about games and storms off. It is dramatic and contrived. I am puzzled about all of this, but I do not care enough to dig for answers. I go back to what I am doing. I eventually piece things together. Darla’s uncle is some kind of judge and she does not like Steptoe. She calls the Rev to give him a piece of her mind. The Rev likes most forms of attention, but this is not one of those forms. In turn, he goes up to the library and evicts me.
Darla wants to help me. I am happy at first until I discover the details of her plan. She wants to drop me off at the Salvation Army in Tyler, Texas. I am supposed to have my stuff ready by Monday. I ask her about my pick-up that is parked at the Rev’s. She says that I am to leave it. That is not a plan, that is disposal. I dealt with the Salvation Army in Conroe, I do not care to see if the one in Tyler is different. I have had enough of ‘good people’ doing me in. All of this seems to have little to do with me. I seem to be a check on the list of good deeds that are to be done today. Leaving me in Tyler is a horrible fate. That only makes it easier for my sister to get her claws into me. I prefer to take my chances in Fairfield. It seems odd that in matters regarding my life and well being, no one confers with me. It would have been good if she would have talked to me first instead of applying this generic scheme. What may be good for some, may not be good for others. Does it ever occur to anyone that placing everyone into a perceived cliche is another form of judgment? I am learning my lesson about the brethren on the fly. This is typical East Texas thinking and that is how Darla got me evicted.
X-RAY FAITH 7
LEAGUE OF DREAD
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