Robert Gets Me Interested
As it turned out, the little Pentecostal church that Robert and his grandparents took me to on that sunny Sunday morning was not at all what I had imagined it would be. The night before I had chased away waves of drowsiness for at least two hours by continually conjuring up images of what I thought Pentecostal churches should look like. Tossing and turning in my aluminum tubed rollaway bed, beads of sticky sweat rolling off my face and neck and pooling in the deep hollows my collarbones formed below my shoulders, all I seemed to be able to come up with was memories of the Catholic Church my mom and I had previously attended.
I assumed it had to be different from that in a lot of ways; for one, they didn’t have a priest, or nuns, or altar boys. At least I didn’t think so. When I had asked Robert to tell me about it, all he could talk about was how many girls went there and how some of them were actually pretty. So, even though my hormones had started coming to life that year, at this point I was still pretty immune to the sexual pull of the opposite sex. For sure I had already started to look at girls from a slightly different perspective, but I had not yet reached the “drooling when a pretty one walked by” stage. Robert had.
He mentioned that they had a band (a band?), and most of the girls that attended the church played tambourines in accompaniment to the hymns that everyone sang.
“What kind of band?” I asked, truly curious.
“You know, the regular kind.” Robert said mysteriously.
“Guitars?”
“Sí.”
“Drums?”
“Sure, and trumpets, too.” He added.
“Trumpets? Regular bands don’t have trumpets, Robert!” I said slightly annoyed.
“This one does…two. And, you know what one of the trumpet vato’s name is?” He teased.
“No, dime.” (Tell me).
“DeLeón!” He said, mimicking blowing a trumpet by wiggling his fingers in front of his face.
“¿De veras?” (Really?) I asked, plainly surprised.
“Sí vato”, he quipped. “Pero he’s not your relation, ese.”
“¡Que relaje!” (How cool). I sighed.
“¡No, ese! El relaje son las niñas guapas que tocan las panderetas.” (The cute chicks that play the tambourines are what are cool). He whispered dreamily.
He really did seem to have a one-track mind nowadays.
Showdown At Rancho DeLeón
The sun was pouring its bright steamy Sunday morning rays of light on my face through the heavily patched screen window, causing my eyelids to squeeze a bit tighter and slowly dredging me up from the deep slumber I had finally fallen into earlier that night. Turning my head away from the piercing glare my face sought that nice cool place on the surface of my thin pillow case and my mind raced to try to carry me back to that sweet dark place where I’d been for the last few hours.
“¡Oye, Pancho!” The was voice coming from so far away. “¡Pancho, levántate!” (Get up!) My mother’s voice was insistent, but still soft enough for me to ignore. “They’ll be here soon to pick you up to go to the church today.”
“Hmmmm….un poquito más, mamá.” (Just a bit more.) I heard myself say.
“FRANK!”
Oh, oh! That was my Dad’s voice! Twisting quickly off the sagging bed and planting my bare feet on the linoleum floor, I said, “Sí, daddy! Ya me voy a levantar.” (I’m getting up already!) And what the hell is he doing home? On Sundays he was either not home from his Saturday night binge, or he was sleeping one off. He hadn’t been home the night before when I went to bed so I’d assumed he was out partying.
With that, all thoughts of more sleep were entirely out of the question. Usually, I could string my mother along and enjoy about another ten or fifteen minutes of that lovely morning snooze time until she finally got irritated and yelled. But my father, well, he was not in the habit of repeating himself, and he did not yell—at least not at me.
“Come on mijo,” my mom was saying as she handed me a clean towel, “go get your bath and hurry dressing because Robert’s grandparents should be here soon. You need to eat something too before you go. ¡Ándale pronto!” She chided.
Entering the small bathroom I saw that she’d laid out a pair of long dark trousers, a freshly pressed white dress shirt, and one of my father’s red silk ties. On the floor my old brown oxfords had somehow recaptured a respectable semi-glossy sheen to the thin leather, and most of the scuffs and scratches had been transformed from grayish white gashes to deep brown shadows—and were now hardly noticeable. My best pair of white boxers and thin white socks were folded over the pants and shirt. No belt though. Hmmm. I didn’t think my khaki colored military style canvas-like belt; with its scratched and pitted fake brass finish would look very good with dress clothes. Well, I thought, I’ll just see if I can borrow one of my dad’s belts and cinch it up good and tight.
The old tin washtub had been half filled with hot water and was sitting under the rusty faucet waiting to be cooled down to my preferred temperature. Mom must’ve gotten up really early to heat up this much water. I mused.
Climbing into the old yellowed lion’s claw tub I sat down gingerly, flinching as the cold porcelain met my bony butt. Scooping the now tepid water over my head I again began to wonder what this church would be like. Robert hadn’t provided much detail, except to prep me on where the best looking girls would be sitting. He also said that when the congregation filed into the back area behind the altar and stage to attend the Sunday school class, the men, women, boys and girls would all go into different rooms. Little kids usually went outside to a small playground to be minded by a couple of very old sisters of the church. There they would recite Bible verses and sing children’s hymns while sitting in a large circle on the grass. During bad weather they’d stay inside the building and pretty much run amok until the classes were over and the service resumed.
Having dried off and dressed I stepped out of the bathroom holding my pants up with one hand.
“Dad?” I yelled. “Can I borrow a belt? Mine is too old and doesn’t really look good with these pants.”
Walking out of the bedroom (actually just an area in the two room house) he said, “I don’t think any of my belts will fit your skinny waist, but let me find one of my older ones and I’ll just cut it down and punch a hole for the buckle.”
Holding a steaming cup of coffee, he was wearing a pair of nicely pressed, but paint stained, khaki pants and a white wife beater undershirt, and with no shoes on his white-socked feet. “¡Oye, vieja!” (Hey old lady!) He yelled out to my mother. “Where’s that old brown leather belt of mine?”
From the kitchen area, “Look in the chester drawers, Bob! Third one down!” My mother, ever murdering the English language, always referred to the “chest of drawers” as “chester drawers”; along with “oh-ven” for “oven”, and “sang-wish” for “sandwich”. Sadly, until I knew better, so did I. (sigh)
After rooting around the third drawer and throwing everything out onto the floor, he finally found the belt and triumphantly raised it over his head, trophy-like. Striking a spread-legged pose and wiggling his eyebrows furiously he trumpeted a loud, “TA-DA!!” and strode off proudly in the direction of the kitchen.
“¡Oye, vieja!” He yelled to my mother. “¿Dónde está el cuchillo?” (Where’s the knife?)
“¡JesuCristo, Bob! She complained from the bathroom where she was cleaning up after my bath. “¡No sabes nada!” (You don’t know anything!) She said with a heavy load of exasperation in her voice. “Allí está en el drawer. Estás blind?”
Opening the drawer that my mom had designated as: the knife (1), serving spoon (1), (two pronged serving fork (1), and can openers (2) drawer—he drew the knife out with his right hand and suddenly flew into a classic fencing stance, yelling, “TOUCHÉ!” in the direction of my mother just as she was stepping out of the bathroom.
“Oh you viejo loco,” she said in a growling voice while pointing at him with her left index finger (she was a southpaw), “I’ll bet you wish you could ‘too-che’ me! Well, you just try it MISTER! GO AHEAD AND TRY IT!”
“Vieja, do you know what “touché means?” My dad said tilting his head while sheathing his make believe foil in his make believe scabbard.
“Of course I know, tonto,” she said smugly. “You want to touch me with that knife! Pero, you think I’m gonna let you? HA!!” And with that she put her left hand behind her and slowly drew it back out, index finger out and thumb up, with the rest of her fingers tucked in. “POW, estupido! I shoot you and your dumb ‘too-che’.”
With a withering look from my dad that said, ‘what the hell am I going to do with her?’ he mumbled, “Vieja loca,” and shaking his head walked back into the main room to do some leather belt trimming.
Seeing his retreat my mom uncocked her “gun” and transformed it into a pointer. Motioning towards the table she said, “Sit down Pancho and eat your cereal. You have to leave soon.”
***
This recollection of my parents actually having some fun with each other is probably my most vivid memory of all, mainly because of its extreme rarity. Although they both had a keen sense of humor, it seemed that they very seldom used it with one another around the house. Whenever they were apart from each other and in the company of others—my mother, usually with her sisters, and my dad always with his friends—they exhibited a completely different personality than what they did when with each other. For example, many times I can recall my mother and my Aunt Janie joking and eventually driving each other into a crazy laughing frenzy. Hugging, trying to hold each other up with tears rolling out of their eyes, they would laugh until they could hardly breathe. Finally drained of all strength they would collapse to the floor, trying to compose themselves back to a general state of seriousness.
My dad, on the other hand would very rarely joke around when I, or my mother, was present. Apparently he saved the comedy routines for those times when he was with friends and far away from us. I knew this because many times church people particularly would comment on how funny “Mr. Bob” (later it would be Reverend Bob) was. After many church services, as I would be putting my guitar back into its case, brothers and sisters of the church would tell me how lucky I was to have such a funny and clever father. All I could do was smile and agree quietly.
More often than not, in the car on the way home from church services I would sit silently in the back seat while my mother and father argued and insulted each other in the front seat. By the time the car was pulling into the driveway their disagreement over whatever would have escalated into full-fledged verbal warfare; usually dealing with money.
So, the lighthearted episode that occurred between my mother and my father on the morning before I left to go the Pentecostal Church for the first time was one that will forever remain forged in my memory.
The Water’s Fine, Just Ignore The Sharks
It was small and somewhat shabby. Peeling, a yellowing white ashy paint covered the exterior of the wooden building, while the lot it was sitting on was barren; rocky and dusty with scattered patches of grass resembling unruly cowlicks on a freckled farm boy’s face. A sign, hand painted in childlike letters—upper and lower case mixed—said simply, “Jerusalén, Iglesia Pentecostal”, (Jerusalem, Pentecostal Church).
Tinny sounds, barely recognizable as music, painfully clanged out from a slightly out of tune brown upright piano and spilled out through the church’s open wooden doors. It was around nine in the morning but already the steamy Texas dampness was causing the collar on my slightly over-sized shirt to chafe my neck. After parking the little Ford coupe next to a beat up Chevy pickup missing a rear bumper, we walked to the front of the church and climbed the knotty and slightly bowed wooden steps.
My first sensation as I entered the old church was that of smell. It was a dead and dusty atmosphere in there, air hanging shroud-like, and still. Millions of tiny specks of dust were slowly dancing, illuminated by the scattered rays of dim sunlight flowing through the rectangular glass windows. The ancient wooden floor, covered by an almost threadbare red carpet, adorned in an ornate gold weave Persian-like design, creaked painfully as I walked slowly down the center aisle following Robert and his grandparents. The dull aroma of old paper and cardboard, yellowed and brittle, was in hard competition with the musty odors of varnish—long dried out.
Picking out a pew on the right side of the church, our little group filed in and sat down. Robert’s grandparents sat nearest the aisle followed by Robert’s sister, Robert and then me. Glancing around I noticed that there were no statues. Instead, banners in once rich but now faded colors adorned sections of the walls between the tall rectangular windows. Gold and silver fringes bordered the sides and bottoms of the banners, and words spelled out by letters that were oddly misshapen, as if cut out by a class of third graders using round nosed stubby scissors and stiff poster paper, were displayed on each.
Everything was in Spanish, and even though I spoke the language I could barely read and was completely unable to write it. “Soldados De Jesucristo”, “Goza En Tu Salvación”, “El Hijo De Dios”, were just some of the phrases that adorned those banners.
At the front of the small church there was a stage with a pulpit in the center, covered in a tapestry that resembled a heavy white sheet with green embroidered edging—a caricature of Christ wearing a thorny crown, blood dripping down his forehead, embellished on the front facing the congregation.
Eight tall backed dark wooden chairs were arranged, four on each side and slightly behind the pulpit. Directly behind, and almost against the back wall was a large box-like structure covered by a heavy deep red velvet throw. I would later find out that the structure was a large tub, about three feet deep, where water baptisms were performed.
On the left side of the stage was the tortured brown upright piano, presently being played by a young girl—probably no more than twelve or thirteen years old. Sitting on a small bench, head cocked one way then another; she was viciously working the yellowed keys with a fevered intensity. By the look on her face, and certainly from the tortured sounds escaping the exhausted instrument, she hadn’t studied her music homework very well.
Afraid to look behind me I remained stock still, staring straight ahead straining my lateral eye muscles pulling my vision from far left to far right. Finally Robert asked me if there was something wrong with my neck. I knowingly, but quietly, advised him that any slight glance backward would surely elicit disapproving comments from the old folks sitting behind us. I whispered that in Catholic Church I’d learned that one had to sit quietly and stare straight ahead. He smiled, and told me not to worry. “Look all you want,” he explained. These people are cool.” Cool?
The people—well if I hadn’t known better I would’ve believed that it was the same audience mysteriously transplanted from that little Catholic Church that I had previously attended with my mom. Again, with grand similarity to the Catholics, most of these folks seemed to me to be moderately to desperately poor; and compared to what most of them were wearing I was dressed like a king. There were a few more young to middle-aged couples, most with with kids, than had been in attendance at Our Lady of Sorrows, but that really wasn’t what I felt set this group apart. It was their general demeanor.
While most sat silently, toes tapping to the piano’s ragged rhythm; a few of them even nodding their heads to the beat, they all seemed to have a perpetual smile on their face. That was the difference! These people seemed genuinely happy to be where they were. Not a sad or serious look anywhere. Weird.
The women all wore dresses, modest in their length, but most had probably never seen the inside of a department store for quite a while. Mixed in with the older ones, the groups of younger families almost seemed out of place; youthful, fair complexions, fairly good quality clothing and shoes, and an almost aloof demeanor. Our little group fit right about in the middle.
At last the piano mercifully stopped playing and the girl got up, head bowed, and walked off the stage, taking her place with a group of homely teen and pre-teen girls in the first pew. From a door located to the left back of the stage several men emerged, all wearing white shirts topped off with red bolo ties and dark slacks. They filed out and climbed the two or three steps up to the stage. The first two were carrying trumpets, one gold and the other silver; the other two men empty handed. The trumpeters took their positions sitting on chairs located near the wall at the back and left of the stage, all the while fingering the valves on their shiny instruments. One of the other two men stopped, bent over and picked up a guitar that had been leaning on a small amplifier, and sat heavily down. The last man noisily pulled up a metal stool and dragged it behind a lumpy sheet on the stage. Once situated, he reached out and removed the sheet exposing a large set of drums. For a few seconds all four men just sat there looking listlessly out onto the nearly full church.
A door on the right side of the stage opened slowly and from it walked a beautiful tall ivory skinned red haired girl, dressed in a fabulous blazingly white high collared dress. Her pale freckled face framed an almost Mona Lisa-like smile on her lips as she walked, (no, floated) up the stairs to the stage and glided across and behind the pulpit towards the now empty piano. Gracefully pulling the bench out with her left hand she carefully wiped the seat with a small white cloth she’d been carrying in her other hand. Flexing her fingers she sat down on the bench as daintily as I had ever seen anyone do in my entire life. I stole a quick look at Robert as he turned his head towards me. Grinning broadly he sent me a, ‘I told you so’, wink before his grandmother tapped his arm and whispered something in his ear.
After staring straight ahead for a few seconds, the piano girl began to stretch, then arched her back so severely that I thought she might actually tumble backwards. Regaining her balance she turned her head to the right and quietly addressed the four other musicians. Her left hand left her lap and glided up to the keyboard deftly striking a key. Whereas before, the tones belching out from that very same piano had sounded harsh and tinny, now that one key, softly caressed by that pale and delicate hand, rang sweetly—the sound wafting melodiously through the church’s dead air.
In unison the trumpet boys raised their instruments and strained to match the piano’s long note in long slow draws; the guitarist crossed his legs, lowered his head close to his Spanish guitar and strummed—first one string, then all, in a full chord—in the same key. The drummer did a couple of light drum rolls and thudded his bass drum. Apparently satisfied, he twirled the sticks, laid them on his lap and smiled at the guitarist. Then quiet.
The red headed beauty folded her hands on her lap, the trumpeters blew spit out of their horns and the guitarist sat back gently stroking his instrument’s long neck. The drummer yawned.
Not a sound came from the congregation save for the rustle of folded paper fans, bearing that same suffering Jesus face, exciting the still air and bringing temporary relief to their hot sweaty faces.
Bending her head slightly toward the keyboard the piano girl brought both hands up to the keys and with a hard nod all the musicians began to play.
The music, led by the pianist, was tantalizingly familiar, yet new to my ears. After a few bars I realized that the hymn they were playing had been sort of musically reconstructed to sound like a northern Mexico polka (norteñas). It was catchy, had a hell of a rhythm, and made you want to tap your toes, and more. The red head began singing to the accompaniment in a sweet yet husky voice, and the drummer along with the guitarist provided background vocal harmony. The trumpets were literally blazing away. The congregation, although not singing, one by one began to stand up; and like a wave—the younger ones first followed by the slower and creakier elders—rose and began clapping their hands in time with the infectious rhythm; suddenly and joltingly joined by dozens of tambourines that had appeared out of nowhere and began driving the beat.
The sound was deafening yet pleasing to the ear. The red haired pianist’s honeyed alto voice rose above the din and carried the hymn’s melody and cadence up and over the rattling cacophony created by clapping hands and slapping tambourines. It was riveting, and before I knew it I found myself swaying, and like everyone else, clapping enthusiastically to the driving beat.
As the hymn drew to an end the church was flooded with the sounds of “amen” and “hallelujah”. The pianist, having terminated with a Liberace-like flourish, brought her hands back down to her lap and folded them primly, one over the other. Her back still painfully arched and her head held high with ankles crossed and tucked under the bench she resumed her statue-like pose, staring straight ahead. The people, still voicing heavenly praises, all slowly began to sit back down and for a few moments, save for the resumption of the waving paper fans, nothing happened.
Then, as if on cue, the two doors either side of the stage opened slowly and four dark skinned men, of varying height, filed out of each door. All dressed in dark suits and ties, they climbed the steps of the stage and took their positions standing quietly in front of the chairs. Each one carried a bible, and once situated in front of his respective chair clasped the book tightly, both hands crossed demurely in front of his body. Staring somberly, each man focused on the two still open large front doors of the church.
A deep loud and booming baritone voice echoed from behind and to my left, startling me and forcing me to turn my head.
“¡Que Dios los bendiga!” Boomed the voice. (May God bless you!) And the piano sounded an introductory chord. Everyone stood and every head rotated towards the doors. Just then the piano playing began a solemn set of minor chords and the red haired girl’s head turned left. The chords flowed together and began to form a song whose composition was grounded in mostly bass keys. The music rose in volume and as the pianist focused her view on the entrance doors. I turned and looked towards the door.
Standing grandly just inside the vestibule was the man I would come to know as El Reverendo Tomás Villa, resident pastor of the church. He was magnificent!
A large man, well over six feet tall with wavy black hair cut just right and shining radiantly in the sun, he stood there sucking up every bit of the adoring congregation’s love and admiration. Dressed in a flawlessly tailored dark blue pin striped double-breasted suit, radiant white shirt and a flashy gold tie, his attire was perfect—right down to the gleaming pair of highly polished black leather shoes.
“¡Y a usted también, hermano Villa!” The congregation answered back in perfect unison.
After a quick glance to the right, then to the left, he fixed his gaze on the pulpit and with a large smile that underscored his well-trimmed jet black moustache, and began a slow deliberate stroll up the center aisle in perfect cadence with the music’s beat.
In his right hand he carried a large white leather bound bible embossed with a golden cross, and to his left for the first time I noticed a woman; her right hand perched on his left forearm she was walking solemnly alongside. She was wearing a beautiful black dress, and although at that young age I had yet to develop an eye for any type of sartorial fashion, I just knew it had to be expensive.
She was beautiful, in a mature but not matronly way. She was about my mother’s age but her jet-black hair, glistening with a few fine threads of silver was pulled back and tightly rolled into a perfect bun. A very stylish black hat decorated with a short veil was just barely resting on her forehead. Passing by our pew they both shot a brief glance in our direction. A hint of a smile from both as they passed, then onward towards the pulpit.
As they cleared the front two pews they turned to face the congregation. Smiling broadly they enthusiastically waved at the younger kids sitting in the front while waiting for the hymn to end.
As the song drew to a close Reverend Villa looked to the heavens and in that deep hypnotic voice said, “Hermanos queridos, vamos a orar.” (Brothers, let us pray).
As one, the entire congregation bowed their heads. Reverend Villa raised both his arms, lifted his head heavenward and closed his eyes. In that commanding voice he began to pray—and I was instantly mesmerized.
His prayer was in Spanish, of course, but never in my life had I heard the language spoken so beautifully. Every syllable perfectly formed and intoned. When the “R’s” needed to be trilled he did so in such a manner that they rolled off his tongue in chilling vocal rapidity. He used words I had never heard before but the context was so beautifully framed I had no doubt as to their meaning. He was masterful.
Almost everyone in the congregation was also praying loudly, imploring the Lord to show them the path, to heal the sick, to please save their souls. But even through that loud wall of vocal clamor his was the dominant voice. If God was listening, He would certainly be listening to him.
“En Tu Nombre santificado te pido todo Señor, amen y amen.” (In Your Holy Name I ask this Lord, amen and amen). He ended his prayer with those words after slowly bowing his head. He then fished out a silky white handkerchief from one of his inside pockets and wiped his eyes.
Everyone else put their closing remarks on their prayers and the church began to quiet down. Here and there was a cough, a blowing nose, and finally a soft shuffling of feet as everyone sat back down.
During the prayer I had been busy looking around at the people—trying to see what they were doing. Some had their arms raised, others only one, and still others just holding on to the pew in front of them. But they all had their eyes closed—some dream-like, others squeezed tight—all imploring the Lord to listen to their plight.
Robert had his eyes glued to the red head. After having finished playing the hymn she had bowed her head and had remained that way until the end of the prayer. Even after sitting down Robert pinned her with his gaze. She, of course, never noticed.
Turning my attention back to the front of the church I saw that the reverend had climbed onto the stage and was now sitting on a large chair directly behind the pulpit and in front of the baptismal tub. Legs crossed, his white bible in his lap he gazed almost disinterestedly at the congregation. His wife had taken a seat on the first pew to the left of the aisle. Only later would I notice the small paper sign taped to that spot: “Reservado”. (Reserved).
One of the men that had been sitting on the stage in one of the eight chairs was now standing behind the pulpit. Leafing through what looked like notes he cleared his throat and addressed the congregation.
“Gracias a Dios por la vida, y bienvenidos todos a nuestra iglesia.” (Thanks to God for our life and a welcome to all to our church).
His greeting was met with a disjointed chorus of “amen”, “gracias a Dios”, and a bevy of “hallelujahs”.
For the next ten or fifteen minutes he went on to make general announcements concerning the church’s upcoming activities for the week and to direct where and with who the segregated groups would attend this morning’s Sunday School classes: adult men in this room with brother so and so, adult women in that room with sister so and so, teen boys…teen girls…etc.
Referring to his notes for the last time he cleared his throat again and introduced the next speaker. Another one of the men got up and took the pulpit. He proceeded to open the green covered ledger he carried and read attendance totals for last week’s Sunday school service. Boring stuff. I glanced at Robert again while stifling a yawn and was amused to see that his eyes were still boring holes in “Red’s” back. She, on the other hand, had crossed her legs casually and her arms, now resting on the two back corners of the bench, were supporting her as she leaned slightly back. I couldn’t see her face but I assumed she was bored too.
Soon we had filed into our respective classrooms to receive the bible lesson given that Sunday. Not being too impressed with the teacher, a twenty-something gawky looking man wearing thick glasses and sweating profusely, I let my mind drift and wondered where the beautiful pianist was now.
An hour later, and after having endured the driest and most mind-numbing bible lesson ever presented to any living human being, we filed out of the little classroom at the back of the church and back to our pews. Robert resumed his watch on the red haired pianist, who was now back at her piano, and I sank down on the hard pew.
I begun to drift a bit but was abruptly brought back by the sound of the band firing up again. Everyone stood up and began to sing. Well, maybe sing is too fine a word.
No one in the congregation seemed to be in tune and no one seemed to care. The people bellowed out variations of what they thought the melody might be, clapping their hands and stomping their feet. They looked up toward the ceiling and smiled…looked at each other and smiled…looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. Spooky.
No one seemed to care about the words too much either, so I joined in and started making music-like sounds. The beat was furious and addictive. The volume was deafening. Happy! Happy! Happy! Sing! Sing! Sing! Clap! Clap! Clap! The group of men on the pulpit was now leading the congregation in song. Waving their arms and mouthing the words as they merrily carried on. Gradually one of the men in the group stepped up to the pulpit to take the lead.
Dressed in a loosely fitting, slightly shiny, blue suit, he began exhorting the crowd with his waving arms and wildly bulging eyes. He had a large fine looking black moustache that seemed to bounce in rhythm with the pounding Latin beat, but through it all his wavy glossed black hair remained static—except for one lock that clung to his left eyebrow.
Just when you thought the hymn was going to be over the big guy would energetically launch, slightly off-key but with mucho gusto, into another refrain…his voice booming over the crowd and bouncing off the plainly painted wooden walls. The band, and the gorgeous piano girl, would pick up the beat and courageously carry on one more time.
The congregation, as one swirling flowing mass would pick up the cue and launch forcefully into the suggested verse. The band would hurriedly slam picks into strings, blow hot humid air into shiny brass and bang finely manicured fingers into ivory to catch up with the frenzied worshippers. Somewhere directly behind me a tambourine was slapping its hollow jingling beat into my soul, and boy did that make me want to dance!
Finally, after seemingly endless repetitions the hymn mercifully came to its frenzied end. The final boom of the bass drum and the trilling of the tambourine behind me signaled to the mass that there would be no more refrains. Instead of being disappointed they erupted in yet another thunderous wave of hallelujah, amen, praise God…and a couple of assorted words in a language I had never heard before. No one sat down.
Again the army of little paper Jesus hand fans stapled to flat sticks, began to rapidly flutter everywhere like a wave of dying albino moths. I was hot and sweaty and the breeze generated by the fanning women felt deliciously refreshing. The amen and praising of God name continued here and there until finally Brother Villa, who’d been standing hands on waist lovingly admiring the crowd, let loose with a deeply baritone, “Thank you Lord”! This got another wave of holy praise going around the church, the chorus of voices rising up trying to reach the very heavens and then slowly finally fading out.
One by one finally everyone sat down. I could feel the sweat rolling down my back and soaking into the elastic band of my boxers…vaguely tickling. The atmosphere in the church was well past hot and humid, and the air sank heavily onto my head. Reverend Villa began to speak softly and I found myself leaning forward, afraid to miss anything he said. He spoke words of salvation, of pain and suffering and of generosity. His deeply rich melodic tone was sing-song, now soft and serious, then sharp and staccato, finally pleadingly and painfully hoarse. With his words floating over the congregation in that stagnant air I pictured the Christ hanging, bleeding, dying, forgiving. The message was mesmerizing and magical.
The corners of my eyes began to sting sharply from the sweat slowly trickling down my forehead, and I reached for the handkerchief that my mother had thoughtfully jammed into my back pocket when I left home that morning. As I averted my attention from the preacher I felt, rather than saw, someone looking in my direction. On the pew ahead of me, and a little to the right, I saw a large round-faced woman staring intently–at me. She smiled and I cringed slightly. She winked and pointed a pudgy finger directly at my nose.
To my left Robert nudged me and whispered, “I like mine better.”
To be continued……