Pastor Needs a Boo (24 page)

“Lawd, he has more draws than a woman,” Marsha whispered. She sneaked and counted at least fifteen pairs of different-colored boxer briefs.

 

Chapter Sixteen

“So, tell me more about this makeover, Marsha.”

“It's just part one of my strategy. See, I want you to look more chilled and accessible to the regular folk, like me. I want folk to walk up to your booth at the conferences and want to talk to you. And I want them to get comfortable enough to really listen to your agenda and ask you some questions. I want them to take notes and take the message back to their friends. I want to build up, expand, and strengthen your base.”

“I see,” was all he said. She had a point. A lot of church folk were not always comfortable rolling up on a prominent preacher. And he had an excellent agenda. Denzelle and Obadiah Quincey had worked on it for close to six months before he formally announced his candidacy for bishop.

“Now, you are still going to be the sharply dressed, Reverend Flowers, but with a more casual twist to your style. I liked what you were wearing when we first met with you about the Pastor's Aide Club. I want you to do more dressing like that for the campaign. It will set you apart from the other candidates. Most of them are going to wear an assortment of preacher suits.”

“I see,” he said again, thinking about the suits some of his colleagues could find and wear. He knew there would be an abundance of suits with the pocket on the back, placed carefully between the shoulder blades. Denzelle didn't know who came up with that style and what the pocket was supposed to accomplish. He rarely saw that style of suit worn anywhere other than at a black church conference and by a member of the clergy. He said, “So, you liked what I was wearing, huh?”

“Yep.”

“And this evening? You like what I'm wearing now?”

“Yep. Show do.”

“Well, then, I guess I'm going to get a newer look for this campaign. What else?”

“What do you want your campaign colors to be?”

Denzelle just looked at Marsha. He said, “Do you really think you need to ask me that question?”

She laughed. “Okay. I was being kinda slow. Crimson and Cream it is.”

“I'm glad I didn't have to spell that one out for you—Ms. Royal Blue and White Extraordinaire.”

“Well, we could use royal blue and white,” Marsha said, cracking up at the horrified look on Denzelle's face.

“What? You worried that somebody will mistake you for a member of Phi Beta Sigma? I mean, what's wrong with that? I think the Sigmas are alright.”

“You would, Miss Zeta Phi Beta, Inc. They are your official fraternity brothers. But if you suggest that my campaign colors go blue and white again, I'm gonna…”

“Gonna what, Denzelle? At least I didn't suggest you go purple and gold!”

“Now, see, you're about to get put out of my house right after I beat you with my Kappa Kane.”

“Cane with a C or a K?” she asked with a soft chuckle.

“What do you think, Missy?”

“K cane it is, Mr. Kappa, Sir.”

“That's right. ‘Sir' it is, and you better not forget it, either,” he said.

“Whatevahhhhhhh!”

“Okay, now that we are straight on my campaign colors, as if we ever needed to ponder that, is there anything else?”

“Well … yeah,” Marsha began carefully. She'd been working on an idea for the campaign kickoff and hoped Denzelle wouldn't hightail it and run when she told him what it was.

“See, it's like this.”

“This sounds like something I better sit down for,” Denzelle said, and sat down in the chair facing Marsha's.

“We are going to do some fun and different promotional events that will also be big fundraisers.”

“Okay…,” Denzelle said carefully, knowing there was a whole lot to fun and different. He'd been a pastor for a long time and knew when someone was getting ready to spring something on him.

“See, most folk think of a bishop's campaign as being stodgy and not always exciting.”

“Well, that's because I'm running for an Episcopal office and not homecoming king, Marsha.”

“You are not making this easy, Denzelle.”

“I'm not doing anything but sitting here waiting on you to tell me about fun and different. Something tells me that I am not going to be jumping for joy after you share this with me.”

“Oh, it's not bad or anything like that.”

“I know,” he told her. “It's just something that I may not be game for. You are taking way too much time prepping me for this. I'd really appreciate you just spelling it out. I'm going to do one of two things—say yes, or hell no.”

“Our first event is a ballroom-dancing contest at the church,” Marsha said real fast. She hoped her words sped by fast enough to stop the “hell no.”

Denzelle lifted an eyebrow and said, “A what?” It was taking considerable restraint to refrain for saying a “hell no.”

“A ballroom-dancing program—kinda like
Dancing with the Stars
.”

“And I'm presuming I'm going to be some kind of blend between your Sigma brothers Emmett Smith and Jerry Rice, huh.”

“Denzelle, come on,” Marsha said. “It will be fun. It will raise a lot of money. And it will help folk connect with you.”

“How are they going to connect with me doing a bro-man version of the rumba? And how in the world did you come up with this? Veronica help you think of this? 'Cause the last thing on Keisha Jackson's mind is even the word ‘ballroom.'”

“Yeah, Veronica did help me think of this,” Marsha answered him. She was beginning to wonder if this was a dumb idea after all. It had seemed pretty cool when they first came up with it and worked out all of the details.

Denzelle laughed. Marsha Metcalf was hilarious, and he was being too hard on her. He wished another brother could have pulled Marsha and Veronica's skirt tails, and told them that despite Emmett's and Jerry's enthusiastic participation on the TV show, most brothers were not trying to get out there to dance the fox-trot. But he would go with the flow and see where this ended up.

He grabbed Marsha's hands in his and smiled.

“As crazy and ‘shee-shee, foo-foo' as this is sounding to me right now, I know you and Miss Veronica do know what you are doing. And you both have a good feel for what works. So break it down and school me, Baby.”

Denzelle wanted to laugh at Marsha for trying to act like his calling her baby didn't matter. This was fun, and it was refreshing for a woman to respond to him like that.

“Veronica and I wanted to do something that would get our whole church and the sister churches in the area—like Fayetteville Street in Durham—involved and enthusiastic about being a part of this campaign. We wanted them to come to the event, have fun, and learn all about you. We also wanted to do something that no other candidate had thought to do.

“You do know that Reverend Xavier Franklin is in this race. He might prove to be a formidable opponent, Denzelle. Reverend Franklin will play some nasty and dirty politics, and Franklin will cheat in any and every way he can.

“Second, Franklin is the choice pick of Bishop Sonny Washington and Reverend Marcel Brown. They have a lot of denominational PAC money from the Mother Benson Missionary Affiliates. And everybody in the Gospel United Church knows that old stuck organization run by Bishop Washington's wife, Glodean Benson, ain't about nothing but trying to get some more crooks in some high places.”

Marsha shook her head at just the thought of those people. “Denzelle, will they ever stop what they do every time we have a race for bishop? They've been acting like a bunch of unsaved bugaboos since I can remember.”

“No, I don't think they plan to stop this craziness anytime before Jesus cracks the sky,” Denzelle told her.

“They have a lot of money—some of it coming from underground sources with some very deep pockets,” Marsha said. “And they will try and do anything to win.”

“Yeah, they are going to try one more gain. And just like in the past, they are going to make this a hard race with their craziness. But think about it. Have they ever really won the fights they start, Sweet Thing?”

Once again, Marsha tried not to smile at hearing that endearing term being addressed to her. It had been a long time since a man talked to her like that, and honestly, it felt awfully good. She wondered if it felt as good to Denzelle to say it as it felt to hear it coming out of his mouth.

Denzelle held back a smile. It felt so good to say that, mean it, and to get such a warm and sincere response from a woman. Women just didn't understand. Talking what his uncle Russell would call “sweet talk” did wonders for a man when it was well received by the right woman.

“Well,” Marsha began carefully, “Reverend Sonny Washington did win that Episcopal seat in 1986.”

“Yes, he did. It was a fluke win, though. I still don't know how Sonny Washington was voted in. But win, he did.”

“So we can't take Xavier's run for bishop lightly, Denzelle. We are going to have to go for the jugular on him. He's ruthless, dishonest, and very mean. Plus, his wife, Camille, is just as bad as he is. She'll do anything to be at the top of the heap.”

“You'd be mean if you had all of that money and it still didn't do a thing for you. I've seen some sisters wearing outfits from Kmart who looked more fly and fabulous than Camille Franklin dressed in a suit she purchased in Paris, France.”

“I know,” Marsha said with a giggle. “I shouldn't be saying this, but her weave is jacked up. You can look at Camille Franklin and tell that she has never had hair like that.”

Denzelle snapped his fingers. Marsha looked confused. He snapped his fingers again and said, “That's how long her hair is.”

“WRONG!”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“Okay,” Marsha said, and held out her hand. “Here, tap my wrist. I repent.”

Denzelle tapped her wrist lightly, and then frowned.

“You okay? Did I…”

“No, nothing to do with you,” he told her. But I'm the one who needs to be repenting, he thought, because your wrist isn't the only thing I want to tap.

“You sure you're okay, Denzelle?” Marsha asked again. He was acting like he was having a private war with himself.

“Couldn't be better.”

Marsha would never understand men.

“How is this dance going to give me an edge over Xavier Franklin?” he asked, to get Marsha up off of what was bothering him.

“It's a dance contest, and not just a dance.”

“Okay, Marsha. How is doing a church folk
Dancing with the Stars
going to help me and the campaign?”

“It is going to bring a lot of folk out to the church, we are going to have a ball, we are going to raise a lot of money, and folk are going to see you in a more laid-back way. We want people to really believe our campaign slogan: “No More Business as Usual.”

“No More Business as Usual,' “Denzelle repeated softly. “I like that. And a dance, no, dance contest, as the kickoff event is different, and definitely not business as usual. I think I get where you are going with all of this.”

“Glad to know that. I had hoped that when you hired me to take on this task, you trusted I knew what I was doing.”

“So, do I have to dance?”

“Of course you do!”

“What about my official campaign manager? Does he have to dance, too?”

“He doesn't. But do you honestly think Obie and Lena Quincey are going to sit on the sidelines while everybody is out there dancing and competing and having a ball?”

Denzelle thought about that for a minute, and then said, “Naahhhh.”

“Denzelle, the contest will be held in the gymnasium at New Jerusalem. Keisha Jackson is putting the decorating committee together. Veronica is busy handling advertising and getting contestants all signed up. We've already earned enough money to clear all expenses and have some left over in the kitty. We are also working on getting donations—cash and gift cards—for the winning prizes. Veronica said that we are going to start turning a hefty profit in the next two weeks.”

“I'm impressed.”

“Me, too,” Marsha said. “Veronica is so good. And she had a lot of help from Charles Robinson, who makes money when he goes to the bathroom.”

“Good point,” Denzelle said, and then frowned again.

Marsha stared at him, wondering what in the world was wrong with Denzelle now. He sighed out loud and said, “Why are you making me dance?”

“Why wouldn't I make you dance, Denzelle? This is a dance contest for your campaign for bishop. Somebody is going to expect you to dance. And you are going to meet that expectation by doing the fox-trot.”

“You are kidding me,” he said and rolled his eyes. “It's my party, and I have to do a dance as lame as the fox-trot. Why not the rumba, or something real cool?”

“We want everybody to do different dances. Obie and Lena have the rumba.”

“How nice,” Denzelle returned. “They get the cool dance, and all that's left for me is some old man looking fox-trot. Really, Marsha. Have you seen that dance?”

“Of course I've seen the dance. It's a good dance,” she said, hoping Denzelle would quit whining and agree to the dance. When he didn't respond, Marsha said, “Look on the bright side. At least you will be able to pick your own dance partner.”

“Well, then, Baby,” Denzelle said, “I guess you better get some extra lessons 'cause you are doing the fox-trot.”

“I'm the…”

“I don't care if you are Jesus' second cousin on his mama's side. If I have to do the fox-trot, you have to do the fox-trot. I just hope we don't have to dance to some old man music.”

“No. We all have good music. You, I mean, we will dance to Charlie Wilson's ‘Life of the Party.'”