at the bus stop in front of a ghetto fabulous jewelry store along grand concourse, an itinerant preacher sporting a rapper's north face parka screamed, the apostle paul said we are troubled on every side but not distracted.
his heavy gold crucifix pendant, like a lacquered driftwood at sea, rose and fell in his heaving chest as he bellowed and yawped. we are perplexed but not in despair.
I plugged in my ipod earpieces and shuffled the songs. and mary j. blige came caterwauling no more pain, no more pain. no drama. no more drama in my life. no one's gonna make me hurt again.
in between mary's clipped breaths, I can still hear the preacher. persecuted but not forsaken; cast down but not destroyed.
our local catholic parish church, mount carmel, according to my friend who just lost a forgettable boyfriend, is a favorite among mexican and honduran single immigrants. they believe that if a devout lonely soltero would have the humility to light nine red candles there on 9 consecutive fridays, a lover will magically puff into his life.
a quarter into the hour has passed and no sign yet for the BX12 bus. only unregistered cabbies came zipping by like frenzied gnats at twilight.
the preacher started distributing tracts and as he handed me one that had a crude drawing of a crown of bloodied thorns, his gold and silver bracelets on both his thick wrists jingled reminding me of childhood stories of restless ghosts yanking their chains along as they revisit their cherished earthly haunts.
reluctantly, I promised my friend to help him craft a letter to his ex. I asked him what for? closure, he said, and he didn't look insincere.
how in the world can I help him write a closure letter? I came not of this culture that privileges terminality. what an alien concept this is back in the island where I grew up. back in the island where time and tide are germinated from the same unceasing whirlpool.
I remember my mommy 2. she was a close friend of my mom and beside being dumbfounded at her puny feet, the size of my palms, I always remember her for being wont to saying non sequitur stuff like we never close doors. it's bad feng shui to close doors.
the preacher was now trying to make us in the bus stop think that he was already inebriated with the spirit. first, he jiggied into a sort of indian rain dance and then launched into what he approximated was a decent speaking-in-tongues act.
as he spouted gibberish, the neon light from the gaudy jewelry store flickered in his face, painting him to be some kind of a creature more at peace by the lake of ever burning sulphur.
when finally the bus came, the driver just shooed everybody inside. the farebox got jammed and it was a free ride for all.
as our bus crawled away from the waiting shed, the preacher scooped up all his stuff and dumped it all in his beat up attache case. I can read distinctly the decal on his bag proclaiming only jesus can save. then reverently, the preacher went inside the jewelry store.