Don Bruns - Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Cashdollar walked back out with two burly men by his side, both of them wearing coal black suits and looking very somber. In contrast to his slicked-back hair, these two men had shaved their heads and Cashdollar’s rather rotund figure was almost dwarfed by the six-foot-five muscular sidekicks.

“Some of you may know that we’ve been rallying against the forces of bigotry. We’ve been shouting down the voices of evil and those who would stand in the way of the Lord’s work. Some of you may know that.”

There were scattered “amens.”

“Some of you may know that I pointed a finger,” he held up his index finger. James raised his middle finger, but kept his hand down low. “I pointed a finger at a local radio host. Barry Romans. A voice that is filled with hatred, filled with evil venom, filled with intent to do harm.” His voice was hoarse, gravely, and filled with passion and emotion.

More “amens.”

“Barry Romans speaks about the gospel according to Barry. He is a racist, a bigot, and he spews his poison on the airwaves of our nation.”

Loud amens and booing.

Cashdollar held up his hand, and we could see the creases of his palm on the big screen TVs. “What many of you do not know is that Barry Romans was gunned down today, not ten miles from where we are at this very moment.”

A hush fell over the crowd. Then there was a low murmuring of voices that got louder by the second.

“My brethren, we preach change through peaceful actions. We preach change through peaceful means.”

There was a pleading tone in his voice. It amazed me how he could change the entire tone by just the modulation of his speech.

“It is not our intention to bring an end to a violent life with violence. So we pray for the recovery of Barry Romans. We pray that he may live another day to understand the sins he has perpetrated on the public’s airwaves. A moment of silence please, so that we all may pray that God’s will be done. Whatever God wills, we pray that it be done.”

A hush fell over the congregation. Daron, still wearing his porkpie hat, leaned over and whispered loudly, “As long as God’s will is the rev’s will.” A woman in the next row turned and stared daggers at him.

Cashdollar picked it up again, the two men standing very close to him.

“We wanted no physical harm to come to Mr. Romans. And we will not tolerate physical harm to anyone, even those who would possibly try to harm us. Jesus suffered the cross and never fought back. We are Christians. Therefore, we are peaceful people. Let me hear an amen.”

The crowd gave it to him with a resounding shout.

“But you know what God says. The Bible clearly states, brothers and sisters, that the Lord says ‘vengeance is mine.’ The Lord will take matters into his own hands and it is out of ours. Amen.”

“Where the hell is this going?” James shook his head.

“Mr. Romans is in the hospital, recovering from this dastardly, cowardly act. And now, we have received death threats. Yes, my people, I have received a threat on my life.”

There was a cry from two thousand plus people. A cry, followed by a gasping. James even made a guttural sound.

“It is necessary for the next few days for me to have these two — deacons — at my side. They will seek to protect me from anyone who would attempt to physically harm me.”

James whispered. “What about the Lord’s prerogative?”

“The Lord spoke to me.”

“Ah, there it is.”

“And after much prayer, after soulful, heartfelt prayer, I know that the Lord asked me to protect myself from the slings and arrows of others that would try to bring me down.”

Now there was a loud din of voices, screams, and shouts. There were even a couple of shrill whistles. Here was the man who was going to show us the road to riches, and now he was about to be assassinated. Another cry from the masses and a conversational murmur of voices as people turned to their neighbors and expressed disbelief.

“Jesus.”

“Funny how you would bring up his name. Cashdollar was just talking about him, James.” Daron tugged the brim of his porkpie hat.

I was in the presence of greatness. I was watching a true master of the arts. Here was a self-professed man of the cloth who had taken the attempted assassination, the near death of a media celebrity, and turned the entire focus on himself. All in a matter of seconds. The magician David Copperfield had nothing at all on Reverend Preston Cashdollar.

The crowd was stirred up. They’d all come in the hopes of becoming wealthy, and now there were shootings and death threats. This couldn’t be a good thing. The voices of two thousand plus people in an enclosed area can be just plain loud. And it was.

“My people, please.” Cashdollar held up his Bible, calming the crowd. “We will work through this.”

The noise diminished. Slowly, but surely, they turned their attention back to the man who’d brought them together.

“Let us remember the message we’ve all come to share. You will be made rich in every way. Say it with me.”

And the crowd chanted the message, reading from the banner the scripture that was burned into their minds. The two bodyguards melted into the curtains and the Reverend Cashdollar held the congregation spellbound in the palm of his hand. After all the crap, he had them right where he wanted them.

“Let me bring out two people, just like you, who heard this message three years ago. Brethren, welcome brother Steve Olean and brother William Riley.”

There was light, scattered applause. The names sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place them.

“Brother Steve Olean and brother William Riley both believed this message. They prayed on it, they came to our revival meetings, they met with brother Thomas LeRoy our director of finance, and they met with me.”

Two young white guys walked out on stage, dressed in casual slacks and knit polo shirts.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. I give to you the founders of Meet and Greet, one of the Internet’s biggest meeting places.”

James grabbed my shoulder. “Oh, my God. Do you know who these guys are?”

“He just told us, James.”

“Skip, amigo, these guys were just on the cover of Rolling Stone. They’re like rock gods of the tech world.”

I knew who they were. You’d have to be in the Stone Age not to know the business they started. Started, and sold to one of the big networks for something like a billion dollars. Maybe two billion. James even has a personal page on Meet and Greet, just like My Space, complete with his picture and a doctored history. Believe me, I knew who these two guys were.

“My friends, these two gentlemen would like to tell you their story. Do you want to hear it?”

There was a frenzy of screaming and applause. This was the meat and potatoes. This was what the Cashdollar experience was all about. Two very rich white dudes who owed their success to God — and to Preston Cashdollar. The two men spoke for the next fifteen minutes, telling their story very well. They spoke of their belief in a higher power, they referred to the banner in an almost choreographed manner. Olean and Riley owned the big yellow tent.

“Do you have a dream?” Riley, a thirty-year-old, short, Tom Cruise-looking guy took the lead. “Do you?”

There was confusion in the ranks. Shouts of “amen” and “yes, brother” followed.

Olean leaned into the microphone. “If you have a dream, you can make it happen. If we did it, you can do it.”

The crowd screamed. Shouted. They stood up, and as strange as it felt, as cynical as I was, I stood up with them. We had a dream. I wanted it to happen. And when they were done, they asked the congregation to repeat the phrase. It came back louder than ever.