Picaresque

Two Sundays ago:

We had a meeting after church. We left about 1:30. As we were pulling onto Limestone Street, a truck turning off Lime almost ran into us, driving like a fool. Jessie noticed that the truck turned into the church lot and went behind the building. Well, we have had trouble back there. Especially people messing with my greenhouse.

So I head back there. The truck has pulled between the dumpster and the greenhouse. Just as I am getting out to tell the guy to head on, Jessie says, “Uh, I think there’s a woman in there with him and they are up to something…”

Sho nuff, when I tap on the window the guy jumps and looks at me in utter bewilderment. And then I recognize the woman. She lives not too far from the church and I see her around quite a bit. I saw more of her than I wanted to as she got her clothes back on. They peeled out of there, and I was glad one of the boys had not got out of the car, because that dude pretty well had no control of his car.

I called the cops. And of course, I was able to tell the cops exactly where he was; he stopped at White Castle. I guess you work up an appetite.

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Last Friday:

I went to pick up a guy who said he wanted to come to the Friday night dinner at my place. Well, he lives in pretty much the roughest part of Lexington, which isn’t saying a lot, except in a relative sort of way. He had told me how he suffers down there. He’s old and getting weaker. He struggles with alcohol (ok he doesn’t struggle—he stays lit) and is at least fighting his cravings for drugs. He had a birthday here a week or so ago, and that marked the tipping point: he had no longer spent half his life in prison. But I digress. He suffers down there because people just come into his house and stay there. He says they pretty well leave him alone, but they have robbed people who come to his house.

So I go to get him. Before I even get to the door, three thugs get off the neighbor’s porch somehow thinking they’re going to check me out or something. They start the whole We’re-going-to-talk-about-you-as-if-you-aren’t-here thing. But no big deal; my bs threshold is pretty low these days and I walk right thru them and head to my bud’s place. Then one of the thugs says, “don’t knock, just go on in; he’s home.”

Well, I go in and there’s some rough dudes in there and a girl they’re pimping. It hits me that there I am in my ragged out pants and a hoodie, long beard and all. They think I am there for drugs or the girl or maybe both. My bud comes out from the back and says, “Oh, hey, that’s my preacher.” Even this group of people snapped to. But my friend could not come; his toilet was backing up and he was cleaning up, and, he sadly noted, he had gotten drunk and was not going to come like that. I invited everyone to church. They didn’t come, so now I have an excuse to go back and tell them they hurt my feelings. They need a pastor.