Badbadbad

by Jesus Angel Garcia

  His litany of crimes against Almighty God and humanity included loveless sex acts, race- and gender-based violence, cruelty and disrespect “so common y’all think it’s just the way it is. But where do your children get it in their heads that sexual intercourse is the right behavior at ten years old? Where do they get the idea that oral sex, sodomy, is a right-minded act for anyone, let alone a preteen?” He stepped away from the lectern and stared at the ceiling fan, shoring up his strength. “How do your kids rationalize disrespecting their elders, mercilessly tormenting peers, potty-mouthing with no sense of shame?” He wiped his brow. “How can your children justify shoplifting and cheating on exams to get what they believe they deserve? Who teaches them to only care about themselves in the most crass, superficial ways? The same as not caring at all.”

  The Reverend took the microphone off the stand, sat down on the steps in front of the altar. “Matthew tells us Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me.’” I flashed on images of Remedios and ticktockclock as troubled teens. “Would Christ speak such words today?” The Reverend looked up at the ceiling. Most of the congregation gazed at the floor. I saw Christ’s crusaders shaming the girls. “And if He did, how would the children find their way to Him? Whose example would they follow?

  “Peter tells us to be ‘like newborn babies . . . so that you may know salvation.’ You call yourselves Born Again, but who among you feels newborn? Who among your children does?” The Reverend crouched down low.

  “Mark tells us Christ said, ‘Whoever does not accept the Kingdom of God as a little child will not enter into it.’” He paused, slumped to the floor in a fetal pose. “Does this mean you’re all bound for Satan’s furnace?” Gasps among the worshippers. Silence. I yawned.

  From his shrimp-like curl on the floor, the Reverend asked, “What is the first step to happiness?” He pushed himself up to his seat on the stairs, groaning a little as he did so. “True happiness comes from seeing ourselves as we truly are, big nasty bumps and all. Once y’all see yourselves as y’all are—as Christ sees you from the heavens above—well, that’s the first step away from moral bankruptcy back to the path of constancy.”

  Smoothing his white blazer, the Reverend stood at full height, outstretched his arms to beckon the parishioners to rise with him. The pews creaked as we got on our feet. “Everyone’s so concerned these days with issues of government surveillance, personal monitoring, the right to privacy and so on. I say bring on the eyes. Little children aren’t afraid of being seen. They say, Watch me, daddy! Look at me! The less so-called privacy, the more mutual surveillance, i.e., the more y’all will be honest with yourselves. Isn’t that the value of community? To redirect you when you veer from the path? To pick you up when you’ve fallen down? Bandaid your booboos?

  “God is always watching, don’t forget it. But if you’re living in Christ—as a child of Christ—then you have nothing to fear. Be careful, my friends. But fear not!”

  Later that day the FEAR NOT blog was overrun with posts on a thread called WHO ARE YOU? There were dozens of entries on identity, privacy, surveillance, community and morality. I left most of the comments as is.

  For the first time to my recollection, there were more critical attacks than pats on the back. One woman wrote in an angry caps-lock: “REVEREND PUCK HAS GONE TOO FAR! HE’S SAYING WE’RE ALL BAD PARENTS OF BAD CHILDREN AND IT’S OUR FAULT THE COUNTRY’S FALLING APART. BUT WHEN’S THE LAST TIME YOU SAW HIS SON CYRUS AT SERVICES????!!!!!”

  “You’re so right,” began the first response to her post. “But who are we to throw stones? Parenting is risky business. I believe the Reverend may be overreacting, but he may also be onto something. ‘Selective ignorance,’ Garrison Keillor has said, ‘is a cornerstone of child rearing.’ If that’s what we’re doing as parents, then perhaps we need to take a long hard look at what it is exactly we’re ignoring. I’m sure we do the best we can. But wouldn’t we be remiss if we didn’t ask ourselves how we might do better?”

  “Re: the sins of our sons and daughters,” came a rebuttal, “didn’t the Son of God, no less, get in big-time trouble for breaking the laws of his day?”

  Here’s a parishioner challenge to the Reverend’s stance on surveillance: “Isn’t it our constitutional right as American citizens to not be under watch at all times? Are we supposed to trust the government and big business to use their ‘data mining’ of our personal lives wisely? Should all of our activities, public and private, be on file at the FBI and with the cable company, which also happens to be our phone and Internet service provider? What does any of this have to do with living in Christ?”

  “I believe,” one blogger wrote, “that our pastor’s recent meddling in politics has muddled his ability to distinguish between the tenets of faith and the rule of law.” I waffled on whether or not to let this statement stand. In the end, I cut it. I didn’t believe the Reverend would be open to such criticism of his behavior and I didn’t need to worry on his wrath.

  Besides, this follow-up, which I let stay, was a less personal attack and arguably a weightier challenge: “Supreme Court Justice William Henry Smuck, who served on the bench longer than any judge in U.S. history, knew what he was talking about when he said, ‘Christianity has sufficient inner strength to survive and flourish on its own. It does not need state surveillance, nor state subsidies, nor state prestige. The more it obtains state support, the greater it curtails human freedom.’ That’s the issue: freedom—and freedom from conflating faith with a rubber stamp for a surveilled society. Being a true Christian means using your own free will to live like Christ, if you choose to do so. Clearly, this is our choice or we wouldn’t be part of the First Church community. But show me where the Gospels say, ‘And Jesus gave each of his disciples a digital camera to document the moral weaknesses of the people to project them on a wide-screen HD-TV so they would know themselves as the bad bad parents and children they are and go forth renewed in spirit and character. Show me.”

  A dissenter fired back: “In Matthew 5:3, Christ says, ‘Happy are those conscious of their spiritual need.’ Where does this consciousness come from? Being honest with yourself, like the Reverend said. But how does this happen if you’ve lost your way? Your fellows in a community of faith, a community that lives in Christ, direct you back on the path, same as we’d save any child from playing in the street. How will we know if you need our help? As Christ puts it in John 14:3-6, ‘In my Father’s house I am going to make ready a place for you. And I will return and take you to be with me, that where I am you also may be. I am the Way and the Truth and the Life.’ It’s the responsibility of those of us living in Christ to hold up the mirror for our neighbors when they aren’t able to do so themselves, to let them see themselves honestly, then show them the Way back to our Father’s house.”

  There were plenty of suggestions on how to protect yourself from identity theft, spiritual or otherwise, and how to safeguard anonymity online. A curious post called “Privacy Insurance 101” alleged that tuning a vehicle’s radio to a specific revolving series of frequencies would foil the city’s surveillance cameras, which seemed to be bearing down on us from every traffic light and lamp post. I doubted the legitimacy of this blogger’s claim, but I left it on the thread for another user to verify. Other comments simply parroted the Reverend’s position: “You have nothing to be afraid of if you have nothing to hide,” “Trust in your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,” and the all-time favorite, “God will provide.”

  By nightfall, I had received responses to each of my recent messages except the ones to ticktockclock and happyhappy. My schedule in the weeks ahead would be tight. But it felt good to feel wanted, useful, like I was the one man in Gethsemane who could make a difference in the lives of so many in need.

  Though we hadn’t yet talked on the phone, my relationship with Remedios was blooming. Our connection seemed authentic, pure, sacred in its innocence. The sweetness between us reminded me of sharing cookies and chips at recess with girls I l
iked in elementary school. Remedios and I would make each other laugh out loud with silly, fun, loving messages. The tenderness came so easy it was, in her words, “almost scary.” She called me her “crush.” Who said such things in the twenty-first century? I told her she was “mi cerezo,” borrowing from the poet Neruda. I’d come across an online translation of “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair” and had begun to quote from it in Spanish. I lifted my pet name for her from the popular line “Quiero hacer contigo/ lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos” (I want to do with you/ what spring does with the cherry trees).

  I hadn’t gone cover-to-cover with a book since high school, but now I was reading at least a single Spanish poem on my AweMediaPlayer every night before sleep, memorizing lines in their original language. My sweetheart thrilled to the excerpts I’d randomly drop into our chats. I had also been practicing my accent and encountered few problems pronouncing most of the words, though without the translations I would never have guessed their meaning. Unlike in school, I now enjoyed the sound of the español as it slipped off my tongue, almost natural. I dreamed of the day when I’d recite las poemas a mi amor, live in person, and we’d share besos beneath los cerezos.

  Until then, I would give my best to the Vocabularist (being with her amped up my verbal expression), CondeeCandee (we’d set a coffee date and she was excited to meet) and watch_me_now (in her first note she gave me her cell number with details on her “windows of availability”). Given the demands of work, church, appointments with my attorney, twice-weekly runs to the rifle range and countless social commitments (online, on the phone, in the flesh) I set up a spreadsheet to keep my head straight.

  On Monday morning I heard from ticktockclock. She wrote that she was fielding any last pitches from her top two prospects, of which I was one. I asked her about the other contender so I could assess my relative merits and let her know truthfully if I thought I was the guy for the gig. She said she appreciated my candor and gave me the boy’s user name.

  I called Joy, told her the story about sultrysuccubus. She texted me the process for deleting phonies from the network, thanked me for helping her with this thankless task. I was happy to be of service.

  Checking out my competition for ticktockclock, I was not impressed. LittleBoyLost would wimp out and hurt the poor girl when she was most vulnerable. With all she’d been through, she didn’t deserve such treatment. I erased him from the database.

  Then I wrote to tell her I couldn’t find the user through any of the fallenangels search features. After double-checking herself, she messaged me: “Fate is fate. We can’t deny our path.”

  TWENTY

  Ticktockclock lived a couple counties away in Trinity. As I’d been meaning to get the pickup out on the open road, this was an unexpected convenience. Tearing down the interstate on cruise control, I played an old-timey folk and bluegrass mix I’d ripped a while back from Cyrus, selected tracks from the Dylan boots, plus Bill Monroe, Ralph Stanley, Carter Family, Gillian Welch and Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” for good ole boy goofs. Seventy-five minutes later, I was in high spirits, feeling mighty country, you could say.

  Once in town, I followed her directions through neighborhoods that looked rough in the shadows of dusk. Vacant lots, wasted homes, dead street lamps, a forgotten cemetery, few corner groceries (closed), twice as many liquor stores (open), a gas station ($1.53 regular), its bullet-proof cashier’s window pocked with bullets (9mm, I believe). I imagined the caretakers on holiday. No one was on the street.

  A sign outside her complex said SECTION 8 WEL. Caged with razor-wire, the three-story building sprawled like the Pentagon for more than half a block. The walls, cracked and peeling, the color of Augusta clay, had an Old World charm, Babylon or Pompeii. Garbage clotted the gutters and pavement.

  Inside the gates, the walkways were immaculate. A clutch of dirt-blond kids knocked around WWE action figures by the pool. On a staircase, some Mexicans about the same age clumped around a small turtle, cooing and calling it names like perrito and bebé mullido. They shushed each other as I neared, resumed their affections once I’d passed.

  “Over here!” ticktockclock called, leaning out her door, dishrag hair in her face. She huffed beer and cigarettes in mine as I squeezed by, declining her invite of the same piss the ex’s daddy drinks. I’d brought my own. “Hey you,” she said. “You the sharin kind?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Her studio reeked of cat, though I didn’t see any furry creatures. “Got drugs?” she asked, cuing hip-hop on her boombox, propped up on a stack of magazines on a game console on a small TV on milk crates. I told her, sadly, no. “Me neither.” She smiled, revealing gaps in her dull teeth. She offered me some chronic. Hoping to clear the air, I said I welcomed her hospitality. “You’re a real gent,” she said.

  Dropping onto a cream-colored sofa, its armrests chewed or clawed down to the frame, she dumped a vile of shake into a small bowl and rolled a seamless blunt. She believed in the Sacred Church of Cannabis Sativa. Posters of her sweet-leaf deity plastered the walls alongside glossy gangsta-scowly pics of Snoop Dogg, Dr. Dre, 2Pac, Kokane, monster spliffs between their lips. The music she played was also from this period, early to mid nineties. Soundtracks of her youth.

  “I’m all into old-school rap,” she said. “Rebel fo life, yo.” She held up four fingers and flashed an L sign across her chest, then she woofed. I didn’t point out how she’d have to go back another ten, fifteen years for the real old-school: Sugarhill Gang, Grandmaster Flash, Kurtis Blow. So she was no musicologist. Still, her blood was bound to the rhymes and street beats, the one constant in her life when all else came crashing down. For most folks favorite songs are like religion anyhow: when they find what works for them, they tend to shut out other voices as noise and false gods.

  The room clouded up as we grooved to the Jungle Brothers’ “I’m In Love With Indica,” fingering each other: “Yes, you are!” This served to chill the mood some, but bars on the windows, soot-stained blinds and regurge carpet made the room feel like a bunker. Dim light shone from an exposed bulb in the ceiling. Candles set in beer cans quivered on a folding tray table. The tiny kitchen was crowded with cereal boxes, chips, cans of tuna, baked beans, a few clean plastic plates and faded cups, commemorative movie propaganda from a ways back. A trash bag hung from the handle of a cabinet door just above the sink, where slugs of fried food floated like river rats. “Nice place,” I said. She nodded to the beat, and taking my hand, led me to an open space beneath the dim bulb.

  We bounced to the bass and drums. As she bumped her ass against my crotch, I hooked my fingers in the pockets of her ratty cut-offs, hung on for the ride. She knew how to shake her moneymaker, though I doubted she’d made more than pocket change for some time.

  Her skin was pasty, legs rippled with cellulite, purple veins, feet and fingers pink, calloused. Her breasts sagged, her face painfully blemished, eyes dark-ringed. (Please note, bro, I’m not judging her appearance, just trying to let you see what I saw.) In truth, I wasn’t physically attracted to this girl. But when I shut my eyes and moved my body with hers, I could feel oceans of emptiness. This drew me close.

  “C’mon, Mista Gentleman Caller,” she said, directing me to help her with the pullout couch. The sheets were clean, bleach-scented. “Kiss me,” she said. Her lips rigid, cold.

  “Sure you want this?” I asked.

  She lifted her Baby Phat T-shirt up over her head. Her breasts, furrowed with stretchmarks, pointed at the floor. I wondered how many times they’d plumped with milk. She unbuttoned my shirt, dragged her nails down my back, bit my nipples. I didn’t flinch. She grabbed at my fly and said, “Looks like you do.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts!” She slapped my ass.

  Down on her knees, she took all of me in one gulp, gagging on the inslide. The friction was fast, her tongue a propeller. I pulled out as she brought me to the edge. “Gimme that juice,” she said, tugging her shorts to t
he side. I licked my fingers and touched her. She was bone dry.

  “Doesn’t seem to me—”

  “Jesus Mary Joseph, plow me already!”

  Startled into submission, I spit on my hand to grease myself then pushed up into her sandpaper snatch. She grit her teeth and groaned. I knew it must have hurt like hell, but that’s what she wanted. “Hit it, nigga!” she said. Nigga? I started a sort of rock ‘n’ roll motion most of my partners in the past had liked. But she wasn’t having it. “Quit that pansyass shit and ream me,” she said. “If ya know how.”

  Fine. No love, no sweetening technique. If all she wanted was hard cock, I could give her that. I pierced her and she cried, “Fuck yeah, bitch!” I hit it again. “Fuckin fuck!!!” Afterwards, I felt beastly. She seemed pleased enough. “Good boy,” she said. “How bout a drink?”

  She made me go another round before sleep. This time she was lubed, so it was almost like pleasure. That’s what I told myself anyhow. Truth is, she played the whore, talking smack, faking she was into it when all she wanted was my come. I should’ve rubbed off in a shot glass, flipped her on her head and shoehorned her slit. When I suggested something like this the next morning, she said I was wrong. She loved being with me. But as she explained in her fallenangels ad, she couldn’t orgasm until after she’d conceived. Then, she promised, fireworks would first-degree burn me where I needed it most. I told her I’d settle for us coming together.

  I’d no sooner opened my eyes when she was all up on my morning glory, chugging away like an Old 97. She bent me every which way, I was afraid she’d break it off. But I survived with the typical soreness of an overwrought fuck.