A Good Man (5 page)

“Extremely average. He sent a black-and-white picture, so he’s probably hiding something. Maybe he’s covered with freckles or is actually one hundred percent pasty white. I’m just about to give him a call to seal the deal.”

“If you have to, promise him four episodes.”

“Four? He’ll be lucky to last two episodes.”

“I said to promise him four. That doesn’t mean he’ll get four. Right away, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“First show they schmooze, do the intros, lust with their eyes, drool all over her. Second show, they do a challenge, and whether the white boy wins or loses, she’ll boot him off. Later, we can have a call-in for the dumped guy the audience wants back on the show. And no matter how they vote …”

“The white boy comes back. I get it. But won’t she dump him again?”

“He’ll get immunity for one show. That ought to piss off the remaining Crew. Controversy is good. There may even be violence.”

“We can only hope.”

John’s cell phone rang as he was changing out New Hope’s furnace filter.

“Good morning.”

John checked the caller ID. A three ten number? Where’s that? I thought I was on the national “Do Not Call” list. At least someone is calling me. “Good morning.”

“My name is Larry Prince, and I am one of the producers of Hunk or Punk. To whom am I speaking?”

That was quick. “John Bond.” Way too quick.

“Say again?”

“John Bond.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Since birth. Why?”

“Um, no reason. John, I just wanted to call you to tell you congratulations. You made the final cut.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Congratulations. Are you willing to give up six months to a year of your life to be famous?”

“A year?”

“Well, it probably won’t be a full year …”

His honesty is kind of … disturbing. “So how long?”

“I mean, we film for up to a full year, but you probably won’t … I’ll cut to the chase here, John. You are white.”

“Also since birth.”

“And this show is about a Nubian princess finding her boo.”

John smiled. “Sounds scary.”

“Huh?”

“Boo. You know … boo!”

“Oh, um, yes. So you probably won’t be on the show the entire time.”

John carried the old, dusty filter up the basement stairs and out to a trash can. “Because I’m the white guy and not the right guy.” He tossed in the filter, a month’s worth of central Alabama dust floating into the air.

“Right. Hey, that’s good. The white guy and not the right guy. I’ll have to remember that one.”

He’s probably writing it down. “How many, um, Caucasian-slash-white guys applied to be on the show?”

“Well, um, we had a surfer, and then, well, just you.”

“Right. How many?”

“Just you, John. We’ve tried to figure out why, but we’re stumped.”

Yeah, right. “Are the rest of the, um, Crew black?”

“Well, we tried to get a Hispanic, an Asian, and an Italian, but that didn’t work out.”

The rest of the Crew is black. I am the token white man. How do I feel about that? Intimidated? No. Helpless? No. Lucky? Maybe.

“So, um, John … why did you apply?”

Apply? This isn’t a job, is it? Do they pay you to be on these shows? “I have my reasons.”

“You obviously think you have a chance.”

John returned to New Hope’s basement to check the water heater. “Well, I … I’ll do my best.” He turned the temperature dial back to the one hundred twenty mark. No wonder our electric bills are so high. Who keeps changing the heat setting? Normally I’d blame the mice, but this dial is hard to turn, and mice don’t have opposable thumbs.

“And you genuinely like black women?”

He rose and checked the breaker box for blown fuses. “I was married to a black woman once.”

“Divorce?”

“Car wreck.” County Road 30. Curvy. The police said she probably swerved to miss a deer. I wish she had hit the deer.

“Oh. Well, um, when was this?”

“Fifteen years ago.”

“Fifteen … Um, John, how old are you?”

“Forty.” He tapped one of the screw-in fuses, and the metal strip inside vibrated. Another twenty-amp fuse blown. It’s that stupid dinosaur of an organ. When Mrs. Graff pulls out all the stops, the fuses get scared and eventually pop. We really need to get this place up to code.

“You’re … forty.”

He unscrewed and replaced the offending fuse. “Right. I guess that makes me too old for the show, huh? Sorry to waste your time.”

“Um, no, um, John, it doesn’t matter.”

Of course it doesn’t. No one else applied, and they need someone to lose. “Because I’ll be gone quickly.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“You looked so young in your picture.”

John turned off the basement lights and walked up the narrow stairs to the sanctuary. “That was taken fifteen years ago, too.” When I was young and happy.

“Do you still look like that?”

“If the room is really dark.”

Larry laughed. “It’s good you have a sense of humor, John. You’ll need it when you get to the mansion. Do you, well, look old?”

“I mostly look like I did fifteen years ago. I have a few unruly gray hairs, wrinkles, and some serious worry lines.” John scanned the ceiling for more water spots. Eventually all the water spots will connect, and then no one will notice we have water spots. “You aren’t still interested, are you?”

“Aren’t you?”

No new spots. Good. I didn’t want to take tar up to the roof today. “Yes. I’m still interested.”

“How soon can you get to LA?”

John sat in the first pew. This can’t really be happening. “Um, well, I have to get someone to cover my Sunday school class. I’m an assistant deacon at New Hope AME, and I do all the maintenance. There’s a lot of upkeep in an old church. I’m doing my rounds now. I’ll be weeding and cutting grass later.”

“You’re a, what’d you say, an assistant deacon?”

“Yes. If I were married, I could be an assistant pastor or the youth pastor again. I suppose if I win the Nubian princess’s heart, I might gain a wife.”

And I just said that out loud to a perfect stranger. What is this guy’s name again? Man, the carpet near the altar is so thin! I wish Reverend Wilson didn’t do so many altar calls. I just put new carpet up there last year. Maybe if we give anyone who comes up kneepads …

“You think you might actually find your wife on this show?”

“I might.”

“Uh-huh. Um. Well. Um, don’t worry the people in your church too much, and you might want to downplay all that on the show. Not exactly primetime stuff, you know?”

“Downplay what?”

“The religious stuff.”

“Why?”

“It’s, um, it’s not primetime material.”

“Why not?”

“It, um, it just isn’t, John. When’s the last time you saw a religious person on a reality show?”

“I’ve never seen a religious person on a reality show.” I only seem to see real people on religious shows. Religious shows should be the real reality TV.

“So you see why you shouldn’t act religious on a show called Hunk or Punk.”

“Nope.” I wonder if anyone cleaned up the choir loft. Those folks always leave coffee cups and Starlight Mints wrappers everywhere.

“I mean, openly religious people don’t go on these kinds of shows, John. We occasionally have spiritual contestants on these shows.”

Spiritual. There’s a loaded word. Folks think they’re “spiritual” if they attend church at Christmas and Easter or say a prayer every now and then before eating. “I don’t watch a lot of reality shows, but how long do they usually run? One season? Maybe two?”

“Three if we’re lucky, and then there’s syndication.”

“Uh-huh. Maybe if you had some more religious folks, you know, real people on those shows, other real people might tune in more often.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“Just a thought.” John sighed. “I really have a lot of work to do around here, Mr., um …”

“Call me Larry.”

“Okay, Larry. If I’m not here daily, this old church might fall apart.” Have duct tape, a hammer, and a Phillips head screwdriver, will travel.

“I’m sure your church will stay in one piece for a few weeks.”

He keeps saying weeks instead of months. “You really don’t think I’ll last very long.”

“Who knows? She may show you some mercy and keep you on for a while, and as one of the producers, I can, you know, put a bug in her ear, tell her it’s to her advantage to keep, um, a rainbow of suitors, you know. I can tell her, ‘Don’t can the white guy right away.’ I have been authorized to guarantee you four weeks.”

John blinked. “Four weeks.”

“Right.”

At least it’s a month. That will give me about thirty days to either come back home to threadbare carpet at the altar or bring her here to marry me … on the threadbare carpet. I’ll probably have to replace the pad underneath, too. I bet the hardwood floor underneath is nice. It’d be a noisier service, though.

“John, tell me: What do you do for a living?”

“The religious stuff.”

“I meant, what else do you do?”

“I’m the church’s handyman. They give me a small salary and let me live rent-free in one of the church properties.”

“You’re a … handyman. A jack-of-all-trades.”

“I tinker until it’s fixed mostly.” And pray that the duct tape holds.

“Um, do you have any hobbies?”

Who has time for those? “Well, I write sermons in my spare time.” That I may never give. “I have about three hundred sermons in my laptop.”

“You write … sermons. So you’re a writer?”

“Not really. Writing a sermon isn’t exactly writing. It’s more like channeling God’s Word—”

“You’re a writer, no, a film editor now,” Larry interrupted.

“I’m a what?”

“A film editor, you know, one who edits films. Let’s see, you checked ‘none’ on body apparel.”

“Right. My body is really rather boring and nondescript.” I’d be a pain to identify on one of those CSI shows. Average white male, no distinguishing marks, national average in height, weight, and shoe size.

“Do you have any scars?”

Just the ones on my heart. That tree still has a scar, too. It’s moved a few feet higher. “Nope. Oh, I have a smallpox vaccination scar on my left arm.”

“You might want to get a few tattoos before you come to LA. The more the better. A pierced something wouldn’t hurt either, but only if it’s visible.”

John noticed an open window behind the choir loft. Where there’s an open window, there’s bound to be a pigeon or a bat sneaking in. Great. He stood and walked to the back of the choir loft and shut the window. “Is getting a tattoo or a piercing a requirement for the show?”

“It’s what viewers will expect to see on Hunk or Punk. You know, street, thug, gangster.”

And I’m just an OG—an old guy. “I’m none of those things, Larry, and I’ve never wanted a tattoo.” He searched the rafters for pigeons and bats. “Or a piercing.”

“Henna tattoos come off, and you could use some magnetic earrings.”

No. “You really want me to get a tattoo?”

“Henna tattoos only last a few weeks.”

This, according to Larry here, will be the length of my stay on the show. How convenient. “I suppose I could get a cross tattoo.”

“Nothing religious.”

“Don’t rappers often have crosses tattooed on their arms?”

“Oh, that’s right. Just make sure it’s, um, a street cross. Like RIP Ghostface Killah.”

Huh? “RIP what?”

“Just a suggestion. And we really have to do something about your age, too. You’re really forty?”

“I look more like … thirty-seven.” John smiled. “And a half. Except in the mornings. I’m more like fifty-three before I brush my teeth.”

“Do you have a lot of gray hair?”

“Some.”

“Could you dye it for us?”

No. “What color?”

“Auburn.”

“Auburn.” I shouldn’t ask, but … “Why auburn?”

“Auburn is hot right now, and trust me, you’ll be the only member of the Crew with auburn hair.”

Funny. “I’m already going to stick out, right?”

“True.”

“And when you reveal that I’m a forty-year-old assistant deacon and handyman, I’ll stick out even more, right?”

“Oh no! You’ll be a thirty … three, no, a thirty-year-old film editor from … where are you?”

“Burnt Corn, Alabama.”

Silence.

Gets them every time. “You still there, Larry?”

“There can’t possibly be a place named—”

“Sure is, Larry. Burnt Corn, Alabama, on the Old Wolf Trail just twelve miles southeast of Scotland and fifteen miles northeast of Frisco City, halfway between Montgomery and Mobile. We have a general store and even a big Coca-Cola sign that says ‘five cents.’”

“How … charming. But why don’t you have a more pronounced Southern accent?”

“I’m originally from Chicago.”

“Well, now you’re … Arthur, a thirty-year-old film editor from Chicago, okay?”

No. “Larry, if I go on your show, I have to go on as myself.”

“But that’s not what we’re going for, John.”

John looked up at the cross. “That’s what you’re gonna get, all right?” I can only be just as I am … without one plea.

Larry sighed. “So you want us to … tell the truth about you.”

“Of course.”

“That’s never been done before.”

Dishonesty must be the reality of reality TV.

“Hmm. A completely honest contestant. That would definitely be a first. It might work, it might not. For an episode or two.”

Doesn’t he know I can hear him when he’s thinking out loud? “And I may even last longer than four weeks by being completely honest.”

“Trust me, John. No one lasts on these shows if they tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

So help me God. “I’ll try to be the first.”

“Maybe if you read the Nubian princess’s bio, you’ll reconsider your appearance and thug it up a little. Can you afford to fly out, say, next week?”

Is he kidding? What about “assistant deacon,” “handyman,” and “living rent-free” didn’t he understand? “No.”

“No, as in ‘I can’t afford it,’ or, no, as in ‘I can’t fly out next week’?”

“No to both. It will take at least a week to get the church in order, and I’d have to get a ride to the airport.”