Sunday Clothes

I vividly remember walking into a protestant church service in the height of my delusional state of mind.

Weeks before I wandered into a Mormon tabernacle in mid-town and asked for literature, but it was only because it was an extremely hot day in the desert of Manhattan and I wanted to soak up the free air conditioning.

I was hallucinating out on the streets of the great city and needed a respite. I knew that even Jesus went through it when he went out into the dry empty places.

Those Mormon dudes cruised me for weeks after I treaded into their sacred church. I made the mistake of giving them my number and address while pretending that I was fascinated by the life of the great prophet, Joseph Smith.

The Mormon missionaries were sexy. They always work in pairs. They came to my house a few times to counsel me on the path to Christ, but I scared them away when I kept asking them to show me their Moses staffs.

It was a warm Sunday morning in late June when I re-converted to my protestant roots and headed off to church in my bad boy clothing.

I had on my jeans and a wife-beater tank top and walked all the way from Brooklyn to the lower west side of Manhattan to worship the lord.

I wasn’t sure where I was going when I got dressed that day but a loud voice in my head was telling me to get- off my skinny ass and go– “Follow me and I will make you a fisher of men,” the voice promised.

I was walking to nowhere again.

As soon as the birds started chirping in my Brooklyn back yard, I threw on my clothes and head out searching.

I didn’t like sleeping. The dreams were far too intense, especially the reoccurring one involving a book which beamed of the brightest golden light. When I dreamed of that book, I felt my soul slip into its pages. In my dreams I was dying and in reality, my body was doing the same.

I decided to fast like Jesus– only Newport cigarettes and water were permissible in my manic diet.

There were still a few stars in the morning sky– the strong bright ones that even the golden rays of a summer morning cannot wash from a once stained sky of perfect white dots.

The traffic was calm when I left the house. It was 5:45 a.m. and I knew I had to hurry-up and get somewhere fast.

I walked more than three miles to the foot of the Brooklyn bridge. I was too paranoid to take the subway and I didn’t want to be underground when the weather outside was absolutely delicious.

Morning was the best part of the day for me after the demons took hostage of my soul. That was the time of day of peace– before the severe anger sunk in its teeth.

I hadn’t slept in weeks and the only thing to ease the deep thick sinister depression was to walk.

One idea spawned another as I headed off into the light again.

My feet moved on their own. They moved quite fast– I was practically jogging as I walked.

When I stumbled upon a church with its doors open on 8th Avenue I was dumbfounded.

For days I thought I had died and I was simply a lost spirit seeking out the light. What was a church doing there, directly in my path?

My feet stopped on their own and spun me around. My legs carried me into the church on their own will. I marched my ass inside, picked up a hymnal and sang as loud as I could towards the huge brass cross hanging overhead.

A fat queer preacher dipped a set of twins in a bird bath like Baptismal pool.

I laughed hysterically, but not in an inappropriate manner as a gay saint sprinkled drops of Holy Water on twin babies.

A lesbian couple took photographs of the Baptism of their adopted oriental kids-- that is why I laughed and couldn’t stop.

My laugh was so loud in that church that my tummy ached. I couldn’t breathe.

They had no right to throw me out of church like the world’s last sinner!

But I did enjoy the fellowship while it lasted.