Or maybe Nate was such a hater until Teddy took him for a ride along 79th Street in the purple custom Jaguar. They kept riding the strip until they found Eva, then they rolled half a block behind, following her sweet strides. The Jag’s passenger seat and Teddy’s cousin’s Mississippi gabardines were all wet with shame, and Nate was babbling off at the mouth in baritone tongues as the light turned red at King Drive, praising the glory of His name and the wonder of His deeds. Then he begged the serpent for explanation.
“That’s what this life in the game is all about, brother... What’s your name?” Teddy’s black eyes reached over the cab’s sliding glass protector, burned into my dashboard ID card. “Moral? Hah. That’s a good black man’s name. That’s what I tried to tell my bumblefuckin cousin sitting there all stiff-nutted staring at my lady; a black man goes and gets into this game, right, and sets himself up proper, I told the fool. Get hold of as much knowledge here, as much cash as a nigga can on this earth. Not cause being a smart nigga means a goddamn thing, Moral, or cause calling your black ass rich is worth shit in the end. Black man follows the path to treasure so he can get himself something beautiful in this life. Get him something so fine he knows he’s alive cause his limbs is stirring with fresh blood. So fine, he believes there’s a god somewhere, one who is good cause he gives life this purpose. A true god, not this quarter-wit bullshit they got ill pimps like Reverend Jack preaching up high on the Mount about, that bastard. Him and his cockamamie god standing on high with the kings, getting paid off lost souls. Ain’t talking about no lie to make niggas feel good about the chitlins down deep in their guts and the stupidity sky high in their minds; a true and real god who creates sweet, beautiful things for human beings. That god leaves you humble with his mighty eye for making beauty, humble but proud at the same time to be alive. Can’t help humble pride walking down 79th Street next to a living creation that fine, brother. Hear me? You gotta get that god knowledge so you grasp how to appreciate it. Gotta get that man’s paper so you can afford her, cause the god rule say she costs. That’s all we’re in this cockamamie quarter-assed game for, Moral. Told my cousin this as he sat next to me — know what that buzzard went and did right afterwards? Country fuck went and got religion on the Mount with the pimp. Deacon’s nuts ain’t got stiff since. Punk-ass plantation retard. But you hear what I’m saying to you, don’t you, Moral?”
“I hear you.”
Sly Teddy reached his hairy black hand through the protection shield and dropped that Ben Franklin note into my lap, then he used the orange palm to slick down goatee waves on either side of his lips. He stared into the cab’s rearview mirror all the while, checking me for doubt, fear, or worship, burning into these rot holes in search of my soul. But there wasn’t no rhyme or revolution in me that good Sunday morning, Church. I wasn’t but a gypsy cabbie, sore eyes running off into the Good Lord’s purple sunrise.
Serpent squeezed my shoulder blade just a bit before pointing shaped nails at the fare meter: $48.50, the red bulbs blinked. I dug down in my pockets for change to return to him, without glancing in the rearview.
“Ain’t got nothing smaller?” I asked. But before I could look up, he’d patted me on the left shoulder and propped open his back door as a United jet roared over my “For Hire” sign — couldn’t even shake the serpent’s hand cause I was busy unraveling the torn dollar bills from my pockets.
“What a friend we have in Jesus, hey Moral?” Teddy crooned in funky gospel rhythm as his steppers tapped against O’Hare’s tar street. “You take it slow and easy and keep your eyes peeled ahead on that path riding home, will you?”
Sly serpent left the rest of his message in my backseat. Not another c-note, no, that there lump sitting snug up under the Saturday edition of the Chicago Tribune Metro section (y’all know sly Teddy’s bout the only soul you’ll still see round here reading the Trib, Church). I brushed the thin paper sheets to the floor, and there was his black steel, same one he wears underneath the flaps of his snakeskin leather as he slithers about the city, a cold killer .357 piece, chromed to shine in its camel pouch. Tried to call out the window to let him know he left it, I did, but that driver’s-side glass wouldn’t roll down. Swear, Church.
Been riding round the Mount three weeks now with this message and its thick holster right next to the spare cash in my glove compartment. The Metro section, I threw that away long before making it back to 79th Street for Reverend Jack’s early service.
For as I passed by and beheld your devotions, I found an altar with this inscription: TO THE UNKNOWN GOD. Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you. God that made the world all things therein, seeing that He is Lord of Heaven and Earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands.
This is what their Bible book says proper. I snatch the soft cover from the Row A pew before this crusty-lipped child hops about and screams with the Good News at the end of our days. Heist this scripture from the cross-eyed and the stupid to read the words of Acts as written by old dark fellow Hebrews. I’ve freed the bound holy book and tucked it into the chest pocket of my driving shirt. Because I need the word kept close to life, as I ain’t one of these just-up-from-the-Down-Deep flock, bouncing mad about the Mount’s pews and aisles as the reverend preaches his sermon.
“Am I my brother’s keeper, Church? Y’all come on, come on and tell me now—”
“Yes, siree, Reverend,” Deacon Nate replies, “that’s what it say.”
“Well. Somebody been coming to Bible study like they suppose to.” Reverend Jack’s gray-blacks cut to the choir bandstand. “Yes, Church, Good Book tell us we’re our brother’s keeper, indeed. Repeat it with me: indeed. It’s on us to certify he ain’t strayed from Paradise or off the Mount. Book don’t tell us something though, Church — cause back there in Paradise, the answer was obvious. But today we’ve got to ask the question. Need to get some kind of resolution before we go out and proselytize in His holy name. Uh-oh, Reverend... y’all like the sound of that fancy word now, don’t you? I’ll break it down for you next week — y’all remind me, Church. What I got to know now before I send y’all out to do the good works, is who is ‘my brother,’ Church? Hah. Who is my brother?”
The drum sergeant lets cymbals quake as his foot pounds the bass drum pedal to cover the church’s silence — yes, finally, silence from the flock — raining down from both balconies. Reverend Jack’s eyes switch about holes in the movie screen pictures as he wipes the ballpoint end of his nose.
“We gotta know who our brother is if He expects us to be keeping him, don’t we, Church? You gotta answer soon if You expect me to look out for him on our way to Your bosom. I’m gon listen to what You tell me, whatever it might be, Lord, but You gotta tell me something soon. We had a talk, me and the Lord. Know how I tell y’all bout getting down on humble knees and praying to the Most High for guidance, and mercy, and deliverance for the wicked? This time I got down to pray and asked Him for an answer, Church. Understanding’s what I was after. Do y’all hear me?”