Jay Fox - THE WALLS

The train has nearly filled to capacity by the time we reach the Marcy Street station. One young man with the skin tone of dishwater gets his guitar caught in the door, which arouses a lot of acerbic commentary that is more racially motivated than most would like to admit. He eventually makes his way in, which sends us on towards Manhattan, its skyline dissolving into a million different stories both concentric and concurrent.

I transfer to the F train at Delancey. Most of the other passengers coming from the M are going the other way — north, towards the white lights emitted from the shitty souvenir shops that plague Midtown and mutate your average pedestrian into a fevered apparition during the colder months of the year. The F train is filled with relatively supervised Chinese children jumping and screaming and howling for reasons that no one, not even the other children, seem to understand. They all get off the train at Grand Street, which grants me a seat for the first time of the day. No one exits or enters at East Broadway. The Gatsby-Warhols and Astor-Dworkins detrain at York. Most of the remaining passengers are black, between the ages of thirty-five and fifty, and in various states of indignation. The Jay Street-Borough Hall stop sees the majority of them leave. By the time the train hits President Street, there are only eight other people in the car. Out of the eight, there’s a couple that keeps looking to the Map directly above my shoulder. They cannot seem to decide whether they are still in Manhattan or not. When I finally inform them that they are indeed in Brooklyn, the man looks to me as though I hold a knife in one hand and his severed penis in the other. They stare out the window as the train ascends into the light. This is serendipitous. “Whadda' know? There's Lady Liberty.”

They get out of the train at Smith and Ninth, which leaves me alone with only two people — one of those large, contractor types from Bay Ridge with slick, brillowy, cement-colored hair, and a prune of a black woman dressed in what may or may not be funeral attire. The man keeps talking to himself, occasionally tossing a rhetorical in the direction of the woman, who denies direct eye-contact with either myself or the guy busy telling anyone within earshot that, “I just love Jesus,” in a tired monotone. “Ya' know, dare's worship, and den dare's how I worship — s'like supersonic worship, ya' know.” I snicker a bit. “People'll laugh when day hear dat, but when da' rapture happens, ya' know, we're gonna be da' ones laughing at 'dem.” She nods. “Yeah we are.” He looks to her. She stares straight ahead. I notice that she is holding a Watchtower pamphlet. “Ya' know what I'm getting' at dough, right?” The woman mumbles something inaudible. “Yeah, 'cause Jesus wantsta' come down and save us. He does. You'n me. 'Cause you'n me — you'n me — we're da' chosen ones. The kikes think day's God' people,” he begins slowly with a shake of his head. “Nah, nah; let me tell you something: you'n me, we're da' chosen ones. We've decided what path we wanna follow. We decided, and we’re gonna be rewarded.” He stops. “I ain’t always been like dis, dough. Believe it or not, I youseda get high on crack.” He nods awkwardly; it's as though he's reciting from a script with which he's not entirely familiar — perhaps a passage from Infinite Jest that got the ax. “Believe it or not, believe it or not: I youseda smoke crack cocaine. But then I hit rock bottom. I mean, slam, bam — rock-freaking bottom. I'd woken up under da boardwalk, on streets I ain't never seen, in hoods that I ain't never been to, in apartments where I didn't know nobody's name, in the bathroom of freaking Paulmil. And den I woke up in Central Booking one day, and had no clue how I got dare. I was lost. Lost! And den someone — and I'm sure he was an angel — he left a Bible in the cell. I picked it up. I read it. Right there in the cell! I read all four gospels. And I realized dat I'd been givin up my life for drugs, and that I should be givin up my life for Jesus. Dats what it took. Dats what made me change my ways. I suddenly knew why I was here. It all made sense. I once was lost, and now I'm found, ya know,” with a laugh. “I was put here to spread da Gospel: da good news: dat dis world's soon to end because Jesus is comin back. 'Cause dare ain't no justice now. And dare ain't gonna be no justice until Jesus returns to us. And den; and den.” He nods enthusiastically. “You'n me; we accept Jesus Christ as our personal Lord and Savior,” he begins slowly. “We accept dat we're only gonna get inda' heaven if we love'n worship Him. 'Cause dat's eternity. Says so in da' scriptures — and I read da' scriptures. I know'm better'n the priests. I know all 'bout eternity. It ain't five minutes; it ain't even a day. Eternity. All'a time. And it's either heaven or hell. For all'a time. And s'our choice, too. See, 'cause God's dat great. He gave us dat choice, ya' know. And it's either heaven or hell.” She turns to him, nods, and smiles. “Hell scares me. Sure it scares you, too. It really gets da' me, dough — keeps me from sleepin' sometimes. Hell: demons and da' Evil One torturing people for all'a time. All'a time!” ebulliently. “Fughetaboutit!” with the same ebullience. “But I know I love Jesus; I know he'll save me from all'a dat. From hell. Dat's how great He is. He'll save me from dat. And I know He's coming back soon. I just know it. Faith ain't got nutting to do with it. Look 'round. We're livin' in the end times. Wars. You know there ain't never been a time when there were more wars goin' on. Goes to show. Goes to show ya' He's comin' soon. And he wants to come back right now. If it were up to Jesus, we'd all be saved right now; all the sinners of da' world — da' atheists (look to me), and da' faggots (another look to me), and da' Allah worshipers (begins to look at me and perhaps realizes that Allah is just the Arabic word that denotes the monotheistic God featured in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) — day'd be sent straight to hell. But He's got da' Fadder, ya' know, and the Fadder's sayin', 'Jesus, now ain't da' time,' ya' know. 'Cause God, da' Fadder, He wants to save more people. And it's His mercy dat keeps us here. 'Cause God — bless His Holy name — could wipe us out. Ya' know,” as he blows on an imaginary dandelion, “and we're gone. Just like dat.” Again with the dandelion. “It's His Mercy dat keeps us here. And people laugh; day wanna tell me not to love Jesus so much, but I ain't botherin' no one. I'm just mindin' my own, lovin' my Jesus.” The F train pulls into the 15 thStreet station. I stand. The doors open. “Bless you, sir,” the man yells in my direction. I walk out of the train. The doors close. Like most Evangelicals, he probably assumes his denomination to be his own: an odd amalgam that seeks to synthesize the teachings of the Gospels and Revelations with the personality of Abraham. And I imagine the man in the shoes of Abraham. I imagine that catamite of the Lord climbing up Mount Moriah, constructing the altar where He had appeared to him a few days previously, and then employing some mysterious tactics to get the child onto the altar. Unlike Abraham, though, I see this myrmidon heedlessly raising his knife, struggling with putti, consummating the fillicide. The angels are stunned by his audacity. God seriously considers accepting some blame. The man, however, is sanguine, perhaps even a bit arrogant. With the warm blood of his son flowing from the knife onto his hand, he looks to the angels, quotes Luke 14:26, and then adds, “I hated dat fucking kid, and I hate da' fuckin' world. Dat’s what contempt means, right? It’s proof that I love you, Jesus.”

After picking up breakfast, I take a seat on one of the many open benches in Prospect Park. It's about half past nine. There's a surprising amount of joggers at such an early hour on a Monday morning. They race past the elderly and quiescent couples shuffling past as I eat my bagel and drink my coffee.