Chapter 10

Shaggy let her beg for awhile before breaking down. “All right, if you have to know.” He looked down at Lindsey, the tiny frame, the blue eyes, the blonde hair, and told her she had two names. “Half of them call you Fairy, half call you Angel, because you look like both.” Lindsey seemed pleased.

Jen looked at him and he smiled. “You, they call Madonna. Not for the singer, but for the religious one. You held a baby once for a mother, just as the sun was going down. You seemed to glow, and Preacher saw you. He declared you a modern Madonna, the symbol of hope and renewal. He even preaches sermons about you now and then, says you’re proof saints still walk on earth.”

Jen glowed with pleasure and embarrassment in equal measure. “And Dean?”

Shaggy seemed reticent, somehow. “Him, we call Warrior. The shelters have televisions, and a lot of us saw the VA series, and the public service announcements. Besides, one look from him when somebody gets too close to either of you makes them realize touching you might not be such a good idea.”

They turned and looked at me and I shrugged. They just grinned and took my arms, leaving Shaggy to struggle with the equipment.

We filmed an old black guy who was an amazing guitarist, a magician with a slide bar. He could make his guitar laugh, cry, cluck like a chicken and bay like a hound. He sang old blues, and introduced himself, tongue in cheek, as Blind Melon Chitlin. He had a younger man with him he called Harp, who was really good on harmonica, and they harmonized together pretty well. They refused to tell us about themselves. I filmed them through several songs, and their patter in between to the audience, before we gave them a hundred bucks and left.

We filmed Preacher as he stood on a wooden box, a Bible in one hand, and preached the gospels, surprised at the gentleness of his sermons. “Anyone can preach hellsfire and brimstone, scare the shit ... er crap out of people, but that’s not how I see God. So I preach how I think He wants me to, and pray that I reach at least one person a week.”

He was scruffy, his Bible falling apart. Apparently preaching the word of God on the streets doesn’t pay as well as juggling. He was very frank when he talked about his life. “I was a fool, living in the corporate world and chasing money and success, placing it above everything, family, health, integrity. I’d cut the throat of the best friend I ever had if I thought it would help me achieve my goals. It caught up to me when the economy collapsed, and I lost it all, the cars, the houses, my family. I ended up addicted, wandering the streets, until I met a street preacher. He took me under his wing, nursed me back to health and sanity, before he passed. I took up his mantle, and I’ve been here every since. It’s amazing how little you need, and I don’t miss my old life, except for my family. I have a daughter I haven’t seen since she was twelve. she would be twenty now. My wife remarried, a good man by all accounts, and he treats them well. I thought it best to leave them to their happy life.”

When the interview was over, Linds and Jen took him into a thrift store, and bought him the three best suits they had in his size, along with half a dozen shirts and ties and four pair of wingtips. They insisted he look the part of a serious man of God, and he didn’t argue. “Far be it from me to fight an Angel and a Madonna,” he said, grinning. There was a bookstore across the street, and on impulse I walked in, and bought the best Bible they had. He came out of the dressing room just as I got back, and I handed it to him. “Here,” I said, “this completes the outfit.”

He looked at me, at the Bible, and huge tears appeared, sliding down his cheeks. When he could talk he said, “The word of God, delivered by a Warrior. Perhaps there’s hope for this world after all. I would ask God to bless you, but He already has, when He led you to each other. Carry on in your good works.” He walked out of the store, holding his Bible high, preaching before he had gone a dozen feet.

We ran up on a short, bald guy with a wispy beard, and was mesmerized by the quality of his voice as he sang bits of different operas, in the correct language every time. He told his street name was Caruso, and that’s all he would share.