It’s been three weeks since the debate at Radio City Music Hall.
And tonight, Benjamin Dunwoodie hugs a beach pail with his thighs and dry heaves into it. Only a thimbleful of bile plops out into the bucket. There isn’t much left in him; he hasn’t been the same since Tanzania.
“I am certain you understand our… disappointment.” Continue reading “The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 12)”
XIV. …And Be Content with What You Have
Three years before the Tanzania affair, Gideon Dodd thanked the man at the hardware store as he dropped two copies of a key into the preacher’s hand.
He paid for the discounted wood scraps in his cart — they’d make nice whittling — and turned onto the road that led out of the city.
In his two-seater sports car, he wound up and down hills, listening to contemporary Christian music, humming along. About twenty minutes away from the nearest gas station, he turned onto a gravel drive and led up a steep incline into an unpaved parking lot. He parked, put on the emergency brake, and stepped out into the muggy summer air.
Breathing it in, he smelled lilac and fresh-mown grass.
Whistling, the wind ruffling his collar and short sleeves, Gideon walked past a weathered and cracked sign reading CHRIST SANCTUARY NON-DENOMINATIONAL CHURCH. While he tucked his aviators into his breast pocket, he didn’t even look at the rented yard banner that said WELCOME AND GOD BLESS OUR NEW PASTOR, G DEON D0DD. Continue reading “The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 11)”
VIII. A Vain Man through Pride Causeth Debate
It was small, this little playhouse stage. Big enough to put on Our Town but certainly not The King and I. Two podiums were on either side, flanked by the drawn and roped curtains.
Dodd looked around, heart pounding, forehead damp and chilly.
But no one else was out here yet.
A light smattering of applause greeted him. About a dozen people occupied some of the seats in the first few rows. One guy hung around in the back, sleeping or maybe dead.
Onstage cameras stood on tripods angled toward the podiums; a few more were scattered throughout the house.
In the middle of the front row was a small woman with curled white hair and a flowery dress divvied up by the thick belt around her waist. There was a foldout card table before her, a little cheapie microphone and stand wobbling on its warped surface. A stack of papers lay beneath her folded hands.
Concentrating on the microphone, apparently vexed by it, she tapped the mouthpiece and screwed up her pruny lips. Continue reading “The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 5)”