Out of the Madness (9 page)

That woman really wanted to give me something for being special. She propped her legs up on the couch and opened them up on
purpose. “Have you ever been with a woman, Jerrold?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Do you want to try it, then, Jerrold? It’s a wonderful experience.”

Up to this point in my life, no concept of sex ever had entered my mind. My experience with Gloria had been far from sexual.
So I just sat there, scared, saying nothing. After I didn’t respond, Scott’s wife changed her clothes and went on about her
chores. She never asked me not to tell or anything, as though she didn’t care if Scott knew or not.

When I told them later, all my friends who also worked for Scott laughed at me because I refused to go to bed with his wife.
Surprisingly, they all claimed to have known what she wanted when she asked me to stay. They all said they would have done
it.

By 1982 the candy man came less, then stopped coming altogether. I sat in my room one evening soon after. Right outside, an
eerie, empty project unit reflected sunlight from its broken windows. Glass and trash, more than usual, littered the barren
ground close by. Unusual sounds were coming from outside. I looked out my front door, trying to locate the amplified voice
I was hearing bouncing off the project buildings. The voice was full of energy and shouted strange words. Excitement, unlike
anything I previously had heard in the projects, was close. What was causing all the noise? I walked toward the voices onto
Fishtrap Street to find out.

On a small patch of dirt in a resident’s yard, a small group of people had gathered. Their faces were dry, stern, and serious.
The women were wearing dresses, the men suits and neckties. They all held tambourines, which they patted against their hands
while they stomped their feet to the rhythm. A lady held a microphone and sang: “Watcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when the
world’s on fire?”

We gathered around to observe the singing and clapping. I remembered visiting several churches when we had lived somewhere
with my father, but not since moving into Hades. And these people, they were not confined in a church but had brought their
passion right outdoors, smack in the middle of the projects. As I watched them, I was glad that the dope dealers were being
tolerant.

After the healthy woman finished singing, an elderly, set-faced man stepped forward to speak: “The Lord can bring ah change
in your life. If you’re hungry and worried, if you have bills to pay, if you’re on drugs, whatevah the problem, the Lord can
make a change.” This elderly man spellbound me when he went on and talked about the God Who loved me and could make my life
happy. He said that Jesus had died on the cross for my sins, and if I accepted Him into my life, I would be saved. I felt
hurt and wanted this God to help me and my family. When he asked if anyone wanted to try Jesus, through the laughter of spectators,
I nervously stepped forward. I was led off by a woman.

This woman, who acted like she had been through this ritual a thousand times, said, “Close your eyes, young man, and repeat
after me.” She prayed: “Lord, I believe that Jesus died for my sins, and I want to accept Him as my personal savior.” I repeated
every word. Others who had walked forward with me were being lectured in the background, as I was.

“Ask the Lord to save you.”

I said, “Lord, save me.”

She shouted in my ear, “Save me, Lord.”

“Save me, Lord,” I said.

“Ask the Lord to save you.”

“Save me, Lord.”

“Now thank Him.”

“Thank you, Lord.”

By then she was hyped and spitting in my ear. Some of the group members were making eerie ghost sounds. I opened my eyes and
saw the fat singer bent forward, arms outstretched, screaming.

The intensity slowly let up. I was asked my name and told that I was now cleaned and saved. I now needed to come to the church
to learn and grow. The arrangements were made. I walked back home, telling no one about my new secret.

The next Sunday I walked to church, without telling anyone where I was going. I had on my usual disgusting clothes. The church
was fifteen minutes away, behind the redneck store. When I got there, everyone else was just arriving. The lady who had performed
the ceremonial prayer introduced me on the church porch as Brother Ladd. The church had the same red bricks like the projects,
but it was trimmed in white and had a small steeple at the top. Since we all were early, we went inside to take our seats
among the wooden church benches.

I sat on the very first row and watched about fifty members file into the church. They looked like average project citizens:
old men, fat gossipy women, children, and young couples. I was really nervous, yet curious to see how things worked in the
church. Before long, the elders took their seats in the honorable-looking chairs at the front, and the service started. A
young lady in her twenties stood before a microphone, and several people walked to the three entrances of the church and stood,
like sentries. The young woman called on people to testify, and they told how God had blessed them with money for things like
rent, a car part, and food.

Next, the woman on the tallest chair stepped forward. She was the leader of the church.

I didn’t pay much attention to the pastor’s message. I was watching the church members. They wailed, jumped, screamed, kicked,
hollered, and threw their bodies around like they were possessed. They made eerie sounds that reminded me of Mrs. Burnese’s
spirits. Meanwhile, musicians were banging away on the organ, piano, and drums, enticing the people to jump higher and scream
louder. It seemed as though the whole church were bouncing: pulpit, benches, and members.

After they handed around the offering tray two or three times, the service was over. Everyone left full of energy.

I soon learned how to pray, all about sin, living holy, the end of the world, and the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. I was told
that God loved me and did not want to see me suffering, hungry, and deprived. Without hesitation, I trusted God. I went to
the church every time they had service, maybe five or six times a week. Meanwhile, my mother began respecting my religious
devotion, even though I was just twelve and still figuring out exactly what it was. She encouraged me to keep going to church.
Word soon spread around my project block that I was saved.

Around the neighborhood, people were just about equally divided on how they viewed church. The younger generation had little
interest in the strict, holy lifestyle; they often laughed at any young person claiming to be saved. The older generation,
on the other hand, had a deep fear of hell and eternal damnation, the only thing I saw that made them go to church. Most thought
it was their ticket to a better life someday, although many still did not attend a church. Regardless, I blocked out everything
except my awe and interest in God.

Some Sunday mornings, after the congregation had departed, I sat on the church porch. I would wait there until the evening
service began. I always sat on the first row, listening to every word that woman said about the wonderful God Who loved us
all. For several months I watched the pattern of the church.

I soon learned that half the congregation came to worship; the other half came because parents or others dragged them there.
There were a lot of cliques, too: “special-interest groups.” The housewives would band together to talk about foolishness,
such as how someone dressed, who was a hypocrite, or who didn’t have nice clothes. The “unsaved,” younger members came to
lust after each other. People got married all the time, to get around the sin of fornication. As soon as a new man or woman
joined, established church members who were interested in him or her would demonstrate this by claiming their “future spouse”
during testimony service. “I know the Lord sent her to me,” an interested man would say while looking at the attractive woman
he knew so little about.

The so-called saved members did nothing but read the Bible, jump, moan, scream, cry, and beg God to help them pay the rent
or put some crumbs on their dinner table. Nothing significant ever happened for them. Occasionally someone would land a minimum-wage
job or hustle up a few hundred dollars through hard work—like mowing lawns or painting. Then he would testify about this at
church, as if he had just been given a million dollars. In response, the church would rock and roll.

The pastor kept fear in all of us by preaching on eternity in hell. That was her most common sermon. She blatantly taught
contradictory information. For example, she said that we would inherit our reward in heaven but should be tolerant of being
poor now. At the same time, she taught that God would give more to his own saved children on earth than he would to the unsaved
and the wicked. In effect, if you were saved, you should expect to live above the standard of the unsaved, the sinner.

But dope dealers, alcoholics, my sweet friend who didn’t eat pork, and every white person I knew who didn’t respect the holy
religion lived better than these saved people. The whites had much more than anybody, more than the church members who were
doing all they could to adhere to the holy lifestyle, giving all their money to the church while living in their shacks, filth,
and trash—these good people, who were trying to live spotless to enter the Pearly Gates, the pie in the sky. They surely were
living according to the pastor’s gospel and surely were not reaping the benefits. On the other hand, those who had no regard
for the church were in paradise.

But I soon became swallowed up in the same process. I shouted and testified every time the pace increased, allowing the mood
of the atmosphere to take me. My feet stomped, my voice wailed. I became well trained in the biblical Scripture and the knowledge
the pastor taught about God. I started witnessing to other people the way the lady had witnessed to me. I was happy to know
I could have a good normal life, never hungry, always happy.

I only had to die before I received it.

After a few months of this, I prepared for my biggest challenge. I turned my faith toward my house. God was going to take
my mother off drugs. I knew He would do it, possessed no doubt. I discussed my plans with one of the men who sat on the honorable
chairs. He was quiet, didn’t holler like the others when he preached. I admired him more than I did the other ministers. Whenever
he was asked to give a sermon, I listened extra carefully. But the rest of the congregation would sit bored to death, since
there wasn’t any screaming, jumping, and shouting going on.

One day after Sunday service I told the quiet minister I was having problems at home; my mother was on drugs, we were poor,
didn’t eat half the time. I told him we wanted a better life. He told me to believe in God.

That evening, when I arrived home, I put my plan to action. The house was in its usual dirty, sticky, and scorch hot condition.
Sherrie was away, and Junior was playing in our room. I was nervous and knew I had to act fast. If she caught me, she would
surely bust me up. I ran water in the face bowl, acting as if I were busy in the bathroom. After looking down the stairway
several times, watching for her, I hurried into her room and looked through the several dresser drawers. There they lay, several
syringes and a couple of cigarettes wrapped neatly in a plastic bag.

I was pumped with faith, awe, and fear as I held the package in my hand. I took the stuff to the Dumpster on the corner, as
far away as possible.

Later that night, she shuffled home. She wasn’t in the room five minutes before she tore into the hallway, on fire!

“Jerrold, Junior, who done been in my room, gaddammit? I told you motherfuckers not to let nobody in here when I’m gone. Go
find Sherrie and tell her I said to bring her tail home right now. I’m sick of this.”

I walked up to her room door, knocked, and went inside. I boldly told her what I had done. I told her that God loved and wanted
to help us. Then I lowered my head and waited for her wrath and fire. But my words disturbed her. She just stood there looking
twisted, just seething with anger, but she didn’t let loose her flurry of hooks and uppercuts. As I have mentioned, the older
generation had a deep fear of God. I think she was afraid of the consequences of charging one of His humble believers.

Instead, she told me to get the hell out and shut the door. I did what she asked; but instead of leaving, I sat at the top
of the stairs by her room door. I stayed there several hours, waiting for her to come out again. She eventually came out and
took a seat beside me. I told her that we could do better, that God was making me happy, and that He wanted to do the same
thing for her. “Yeah, baby, I know,” she said. After our talk, we decided that our family would go to church together, the
next Sunday.

So my mother, sister, brother, and I went to church. When the pastor asked who wanted to be saved, they went to the altar.
They each went through the ritual, and my mother wailed like a seasoned pro. I felt ashamed as she yelped, screamed, and spoke
in the same garbled language the church people had forced me to use—the ministers had said unless I spoke in a strange tongue,
I didn’t have the Holy Ghost.

After we arrived home that evening, I noticed a worried look in my mother’s eyes. As strong as her desire was, she was still
helpless. We talked for a couple of hours. I finally made her tell me what was bothering her.

She would have to face Nick, Shortleg Lee’s brother, who had recently returned from out of town. She thought he would kill
her. Standing at the front door, not wanting to go, she wore her usual grimace of worry. I asked her if she wanted me to go
talk to him. But she thought it best if she explained the circumstances to him. “No, baby, let Mama go and do this. You just
stay here and watch the house. I’ll be all right.”

As I watched her walk out the door and over to Nick’s house, I wondered if I would ever see her again. I started after her
several times, wondering if I could help, if Nick would respect my religious zeal, my weapons of faith. But I didn’t go. Nick
had machine guns.