Jesus Boy

by Preston L. Allen

  Roscoe Parker. Hymns: “Silent Night”; “Twelve Days of Christmas”; “The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power.” Professional Performance: Andraé Crouch and the Disciples—“The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power.” Local Performance: Elwyn Parker—“I Must Tell Jesus”/“I Need Thee Every Hour,” piano and congregation.

  Isadore Parker. Hymns: “There Is a Fountain”; “Power in the Blood”; “The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power.” Professional Performance: Sister Rosetta Tharpe—“God’s Mighty Hand.” Local Performance: Elwyn Parker—“The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power,” piano and youth choir.

  Barry McGowan. Hymns: “The Holy City”; “Day Is Dying in the West”; “Twelve Gates unto the City, Hallelujah.” Professional Performance: Joe Feeney—“The Holy City,” from the Lawrence Welk Christmas Special; Statesmen Quartet, James “Big Chief” Wetherington bass solo—“Hide Me, Rock of Ages.” Local Performance: Himself—“His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” solo.

  E.C. Philip. Hymns: “Hallelujah Chorus”; “Power in the Blood”; “The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power.” Professional Performance: The Hawaiians—“Down From His Glory.” Local Performance: Peachie McGowan—“Yes, God Is Real,” solo, piano, and congregation.

  Benny Willett. Hymns: “Jesus Loves Me This I Know”; “Jesus Loves the Little Children”; “I Must Tell Jesus.” Professional Performance: George Beverly Shea—“How Great Thou Art,” Billy Graham TV Special. Local Performance: Elwyn Parker—“I Must Tell Jesus,” piano and congregation.

  Elwyn Parker. Hymns: “Lord Do It”; “My Surrender”; “Calling for Me”; “Someday the Silver Chord Will Break.” Professional Performance: James Cleveland—“Peace Be Still.” Local Performance: Peachie McGowan—“Yes, God Is Real,” solo, piano, and adult choir.

  Peachie McGowan. Hymns: “Amazing Grace”; “Lord Do It”; “My Surrender.” Professional Performance: Mahalia Jackson—“How I Got Over.” Local Performance: Elwyn Parker—“The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power,” piano and youth choir.

  The Years of Elwyn Parker and Sister Morrisohn

  1937: Elaine Franklin is born.

  1955: Elaine Franklin moves to Miami, Florida.

  1962: The affair of Elaine Franklin and Beverly Morrisohn ends.

  1963: Roscoe Parker marries Isadore Cooper.

  1963: Elwyn Parker is born.

  1963: Buford Morrisohn marries Elaine Franklin.

  1968: Buford Morrisohn loans Roscoe Parker the downpayment for his house.

  1971: Buford Morrisohn buys Elwyn a piano.

  1976: Buford Morrisohn funds the Buford Morrisohn Scholarship for the Outstanding College-Bound Christian; names Elwyn Parker as its first recipient.

  1979: Buford Morrisohn buys Elwyn a car.

  1979: Buford Morrisohn dies.

  1979: The affair of Elwyn Parker and Sister Morrisohn begins.

  1980: Elywn Parker founds the Jesus Club.

  1981: Elaine Morrisohn renames the upstairs guest bedroom the “tryst room” when skittish Elwyn finally agrees to try oral sex (in said room) and discovers that he likes it.

  1982: Elwyn enters college.

  1982: Sister Morrisohn aborts Elwyn’s child.

  1983: Elwyn and Sister Morrisohn break up.

  1983: Elwyn and Sister Morrisohn make back up.

  1983: Elwyn proposes to Sister Morrisohn.

  1983: Elwyn takes back his proposal.

  1986: Elwyn meets Benny.

  1986: Elwyn graduates college.

  1986: Elwyn marries Mary.

  1986: Elwyn and Sister Morrisohn break up.

  1986: Elwyn and Sister Morrisohn make back up.

  1986: Elwyn’s son Benjamin Parker is born.

  1986: Sister Morrisohn endows the Benjamin Parker college trust fund.

  1991: Elwyn moves in with Sister Morrisohn.

  1991: Sister Morrisohn dies.

  1991: The affair of Elwyn Parker and Elaine Morrisohn ends.

  The Lord of Travel

  The next customer is a real laydown.

  She rides in on a bike. It’s like she has Scholarship Money stamped on her forehead. I run in order to get to her before Curly or the Arab can.

  “My name is Ida,” she says, taking my hand.

  I love the way you speak, Ida. Where are you from?

  “I’m from New Jersey,” she says.

  New Jersey, I say.

  This New Jersey joke runs through my brain—something about the Garbage State Bridge—but I can’t remember the punch line. It’s just as well. If I offend her, I’ll have a harder time selling her the car. So I play up the tough Northerner thing.

  Oh yes, the South sucks. Too slow. Not like up North, I say (although the farthest north I’ve ever been is Gainesville). Not like New Jersey. Only one thing would make a sane person leave New Jersey for a one-horse town like Miami. You’re a student.

  “Yes. U.M. How did you guess?”

  Glasses, looking intelligent but stunning on your pretty face. You rode a bike. And I don’t see your father, husband, or boyfriend. All independent women in this town are students or lawyers.

  When Ida laughs, her teeth show even and white. Her laugh says she likes me, trusts me. I have sold myself well. If this keeps up, she’s going to drive home in a brand-new clunker and they’ll need a wheelbarrow to deliver my paycheck.

  I run a hand over the shiny parts of the car and begin my spiel.

  Beautiful finish, I say. One owner, I claim. Great gas mileage, I lie, for a car this size. Four-door convenience—just right for someone with a lot of friends. I myself took this baby to the beach last week (just don’t tell my manager, ha-ha-ha), and girl, let me tell you how they envied me. A true classic, only ten thousand were made.

  She notices a door handle is missing.

  That little thing can be fixed, I say. Oh yes, we were going to fix that anyway. Don’t you worry about that.

  She runs a hand along the scratched-up left side.

  And those scratches? We can paint those. Here, let me write it down. Scratches … Door handle … Anything else? Okay. Back tires, sideview mirror, dent in roof. Good, good. We’ll take care of everything, really.

  She turns to eye other cars on the lot. Resistance.

  Ida, I say, touching her hand, making Honest Abe eye contact. Ida, for the kind of money you’re looking to spend, this is the best buy in town. The absolutely best buy. True, I could show you something a bit nicer, a little cleaner, but you’d have to raise your sights. Over there, for instance—the red Mustang. Pretty, isn’t it? I’d love to sell it to you, but you’re talking at least four thousand dollars more. Can you do that?

  “No.”

  I didn’t think so. You see, Ida, I’m not the kind of guy who is going to rip off a young, attractive sister like yourself. Especially with you being in school. I was a student, and I know what it’s like to live on a budget. Plus, you might become a lawyer one day and sue the hell out of me.

  “That’s right,” she laughs.

  I laugh.

  Black people have to stick together, I say, opening the car door.

  I take her for a test ride, and she begins to act more and more like a buyer. She adjusts her seat and the rearview mirror to her comfort. She fiddles with the radio. She plays with the knobs on the dashboard until she figures out the air conditioner. Cool air rushes out of the vents, humming. For my part, I am pleased that the car doesn’t stall in neutral as it did the day before.

  All the while I’m saying, Nice car, isn’t it? Drives great, doesn’t it? Air feels good, doesn’t it?

  And I watch her head nod in approval. I am putting Ida in a “yes” mood. After saying yes twenty times, it’s hard to say no. Psychology.

  Ida turns down a lonely street and punches the accelerator. The car belches forward, its ancient V-8 roaring mightily, Out of my way! I am the Lord of Travel, master of the road! Blue-gray smoke trails out of the exhaust pipes, but Ida doesn’t notice. She is a woman in love with a car. She smiles all the
way back to the lot.

  We park.

  Ida sucks in a deep breath. When she turns to face me, her smile is replaced by a look of false concern. She is about to pretend she is little interested in the car so that she can get a better deal from me. She will claim she can’t afford it, say she needs to think about it, say she is considering other cars, say she wants her father, husband, boyfriend to look at it before she decides. She will try very hard to get the best possible deal, and she will fail utterly. However valiant be her fight, she is outmatched. You see, Ida is buying her first car; I sell them every day.

  You felt good in that car, didn’t you?

  I nod my head. She nods hers.

  It drove so sweetly, didn’t it?

  I nod my head. She nods hers.

  If you could get a good deal on this car, you’d buy it, wouldn’t you?

  I nod my head. She nods hers—and then she shakes it, saying, “But I don’t know how much it costs.”

  Ida, did I mention cost? Listen to me carefully. If I write a deal that you, IDA, feel is the best deal in the world on this wonderful car that you, IDA, are in love with, would you, IDA, buy the car and drive it home today?

  I nod my head. She nods hers. “Yes, if you did all those things. Yes,” Ida commits. Ida is a real laydown, the customer who buys it just the way you lay it out—no questions, no resistance, just an occasional burst of delighted giggling.

  We go inside and she signs her name to various documents that give her title to the overpriced gas guzzler. She writes the dealership a check. I hand her the keys. She drives off.

  Done deal.

  The others come over and pat me on the back to hide their envy. They ask how much money I made.

  Too much, I tell them.

  The manager shakes my hand. Biggest sale of the month on a car he thought no one would sell, the Lord of Travel—a wreck on wheels, a bone mobile, a junker, a heap. And to sell it as though it were the best car on the lot! He mentions a bonus. What wouldn’t he do for the guy who just bought him another month or two in his cushy job?

  Then Ida returns.

  I see her through the glass doors, walking briskly. She seems irritated. I suspect she is suffering from buyer’s remorse, the headache buyers get when they drive off the lot and begin to realize that they didn’t get such a sweet deal after all.

  The others move away from me, eyebrows raised. Oh-oh, they think. Another sale gone sideways. Customer wants her money back.

  I suspect they are right.

  Ida says, “You forgot to give me one of those temporary tags.”

  (Praise God.)

  No problem, I say. Wouldn’t want you to get a ticket.

  I make out the tag, the magic marker shaking in my grasp. I tape it to her rear windshield. I congratulate her again on her wise purchase, and she hugs me, of all things.

  “I feel so independent now,” she says.

  The car coughs, rattles, emits black smoke, and finally starts. Ida smiles stupidly and drives off. She even waves goodbye.

  Yes, a real laydown.

  I go inside. I am a nervous wreck. My palms are sweating. I make for the bathroom but can’t get past Curly and the Arab, who block my path.

  Curly says, “Close call.”

  Never doubted it for a second, I say.

  The Arab says, “I had a customer like that once. Easy sale. Full pop. A real laydown. He leaves the store, right? I’m celebrating when I get this phone call. It’s raining and I had forgotten to show the guy how to work his wipers. So I explain it to him over the phone and we hang up. Half hour later, this guy shows up and he’s pissed. The windshield wipers work fine, but the car stalls when he turns ’em on. Get it? So he can’t drive in the rain. He can’t have the wipers and the engine on at the same time.”

  Curly laughs. “I remember that car. Twenty-dollar paint job covered up all the rust. Came this close to selling it to a missionary when it conked out.”

  “That’s the car, that’s the car,” says the Arab, who hates being interrupted. “So I tell this guy to bring the car back tomorrow so’s the mechanic can look at it. The wires are crossed or something. No. He wants it done now or he wants his money back. We go back and forth like this. But you know me. I finally tell him to make like Michael Jackson and beat it! He starts to cuss and scare off the other customers, and he wants to sue …”

  The Arab drones on. I hardly listen, but I nod in the right places. I know this story. I’ve been involved in hundreds like it. As Curly winds up to tell his version of the same tale, I steal away to the bathroom where I dry my palms and forehead.

  What is wrong with me?

  Checking the mirror, I notice my tie hangs funny, and there is a grimy spot where my gold tie pin would be if I had not hocked it. I need a haircut. Once again I forgot to shave. Otherwise, I look great.

  So what is wrong with me?

  I am sweating. My stomach is jumping. Is it Ida? Is it guilt? No, I am a salesman; I’m hardcore.

  Awhile ago, I closed a phone deal with a local millionaire. Like many wealthy people, he was above coming to the dealership, so I had to go to his house to deliver the car and pick up the check. When he saw that I was black, he revealed himself as a bigot. At his request, I sat in the back during the test drive. When we returned to his home, he did not offer me a seat. I stood while he read through the papers. He even let fly a comment about the damned niggers and spics who are ruining this country. I was unmoved. I told him I was offering him a great car at a great price; he signed the papers and bought the car. I felt a burning hatred for the man, but no guilt for selling him a car. Money is green and silver and copper and gold, never black and white.

  When I leave the bathroom, I find Ida waiting in the showroom. Behind her, through the glass walls, I see her car, the Lord of Travel. Its hood is popped open. Thick black smoke is billowing out of the oil pan, and water is spraying up from the radiator.

  Well, Ida, I say, it’s your car. You chose it. You paid for it.

  “Yes, but you said …” she begins.

  It’s your car. You paid for it.

  She considers this silently.

  I wait for her to attack me, threaten to sue, or burst into tears. I’ve seen it all before. Instead she turns away from me and stares at her smoking car. Great Deal is still written on the front windshield in large red letters. The handlebar and front tire of her bike lean out of the halfclosed trunk. I deny my need to help her; I must be firm. It is important that she understand it is her car polluting the air with smoke and rusty water. No deposit. No return.

  When she does turn on me, she is well composed. “I’ll stop payment on the check,” she says.

  It has already been cashed, I tell her.

  At our dealership, we “hammer” checks. In other words, we send a runner to cash the check at the issuing bank as soon as we receive it. Ida’s check was cashed before she had driven off the lot the first time.

  “I’ll call a lawyer,” she says.

  So will we, I say. Now let’s see, you were eighteen when you read and then signed the buyer’s order, right?

  “I trusted you,” she says.

  You chose the car. You signed for it. Now, if you want our mechanic to look at it, just say so and I’ll get him to check it out for you tomorrow. If not, you’d better call a towing company to haul it off our lot, or the manager will charge you fifty dollars per day for storage.

  Ida wears a white coverall that hangs to midthigh, and a light breeze flaps the material around her chubby legs. Flap, flap, flap. Black and smooth is her skin, but at times the loose cloth around her shoulders shifts to reveal a frilly bra strap and the lighter flesh beneath it. Her hands balled into fists are useless on her hips. When her eyes fill up and turn red, I notice something else about Ida, something I didn’t notice before.

  I am surprised—disturbed by it.

  “How much will your mechanic charge?” she asks.

  If you’re nice about it, nothing. Just parts
and labor and taxes.

  As though there is anything left to charge.

  And I’ll have Miguel, the lot boy, drive you home in his pickup. I don’t want you riding that bike home. It’s getting dark. Give me your keys.

  Taking her keys, I touch her hand. I linger. I pull away.

  As a car salesman, I meet many women I could happily fall in love with, but I usually realize this after I have sold them cars, and then it is too late. The smart ones never want to see me again. And the dumb ones, well, I don’t call them back after sex. I just can’t respect anyone dumb enough to get screwed twice by the same guy.

  It isn’t really a bad car, I say. Once we fix it up, you’ll see you made a wise purchase.

  “Okay,” she says, “but promise me.” Now she is on the verge of tears. I let her take my hand.

  Trust me, I say.

  “Promise me,” she says.

  Trust me.

  I nod my head.

  She nods hers.

  “I do trust you,” she says, my cold hand warm in both of hers. “You’re not like the rest of them.”

  No, I’m not, I say.

  What I notice is the amazing resemblance. They are sisters in sadness, Ida and Elaine, the one lost to me forever.

  When Miguel returns and they pull off the lot, Ida waves at me. She actually waves at me and smiles, this woman.

  And it comes back to me: Love. God is love.

  It is late.

  Outside, the lot boys are locking the doors on all the cars. The security guard, having already blocked off two of the entrances, waits at the third. He checks his watch.

  Inside, I watch the Arab dramatize his defeat by throwing up his hands. His customer, a tall, thin man in a white shirt and dress slacks, rises from his chair. The man wears no watch.

  “I’m leaving,” the man says. “I would like my money and my driver’s license back.”