The Retreat. Dijorn Moss
was light foot traffic in the lobby, and Quincy was too furious to be embarrassed. If he got a second crack at Karen, he would cause more damage and the real police would be escorting him out. The guards released their hold from Quincy as soon as they passed through the front sliding doors. The sky was still beautiful, but Quincy’s soul was cloudy. He’d heard about out-of-body experiences. Up until this point, he viewed the notion as a load of crap. Quincy had to come to grips with the fact that he just might be having an out-of-body experience. Karen? Karen having an affair?
Quincy could not begin to fathom that his wife of twenty years was capable of such actions, capable of being unfaithful. Quincy had had his share of perspective rendezvous that he reneged on at the last moment for the sake of his marriage. He thanked God for the fact that he had not engaged in infidelity. Now that very same God had betrayed him. There was only one thing Quincy could do: call up a friend and borrow a G-5 jet. He needed to leave town.
Chapter Two
Chauncey pulled his champagne-colored Cadillac into the parking lot behind the baseball field. His New International Bible, just a touch lighter than his chestnut skin, seemed like an extension of himself. As he exited the car, Chauncey was greeted by a gust of wind that pushed the autumn leaves into his path. After locking the door, he turned and started his walk along the cemented path of the park.
Chauncey passed by an empty playground. He could remember a time when this playground was full of children at play. That was another time. In the distance Chauncey could make out a group of thugs, petty neighborhood gang-bangers, hanging out under a tree, blasting god-awful rap music.
They, he surmised, were the reason there were no longer children at this park. Drinking, smoking, cussing, and carrying on. Well, that stops now. Chauncey was mighty and strong in the Lord. He was going to take back the park by reclaiming some lost souls. As he continued down the path, he passed a derelict water fountain. It stood in the middle of the park between the soccer field and the basketball courts.
In the old days, kids would take a break from shooting hoops or kicking around the ball, and gather here. Now it just stood idle. The fountain had a two-step platform. Chauncey walked over and positioned himself on the second step. He opened his Bible. The wind blew the pages over, but the Bible was more for the look and less for the actual message. Chauncey knew the passage by heart, knew every line and the cadence it deserved.
“Oh yes, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus! Lord, you declare in your Word that you’re the way, the truth and the light. Those who believe in you shall not perish, but have everlasting life. I pray that everyone under the sound of my voice will choose life today,” Chauncey prayed.
Chauncey’s voice must have carried over the sound of their music; the thugs underneath the tree were now eyeing him.
“Those who practice sin shall not inherit the kingdom of heaven. You have to be born again.” As he said this, Chauncey felt his voice crack. It was their attention that he wanted as he tried to project his message over the din of their music. “I’m that voice that cries in the wilderness, ‘Make it straight!’”
“Make it straight with the Lord,” a homeless man shouted from behind him.
Chauncey turned around. The man had salt-and-pepper dreads that caked his shoulders and reached down his dirty army jacket. He was pushing a shopping cart filled with bags of cans and plastic bottles. As he approached the fountain he continued to speak, but it was low and slow and sounded like gibberish. The smell of caked-on liquor was oppressive, sweet and sour at the same time. It stung Chauncey’s nose.
Chauncey did not have time for this deranged man. So he broke from the fountain, walking in the direction of the thugs under the tree. Halfway there, he spied a young black girl who lay on top of a blanket. She wore sunglasses and a tie-dyed bikini top with white shorts. Chauncey maneuvered around her to step in her shade, and the girl immediately used her hand as a visor.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello, God bless you. I saw you from over at the fountain,” he replied. “Enjoying this beautiful weather?”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to be studying.” She pointed to a casually opened philosophy textbook tattooed with garish highlighter and random notes.
“I would like to talk with you about making Jesus your Lord and Savior.”
“No, thank you,” she said, curtly picking up the textbook.
Fair enough. Chauncey did not feel any desire to press the issue. He wasn’t here to witness to some college student. The group of thugs who hung out under the tree needed his attention more than some blasé undergraduate.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil,” Chauncey muttered under his breath as he arrived at the group and broke the circle the gang had formed.
The group started to reposition themselves to size up Chauncey. One guy was as big as the tree. Shirtless, he showed off his coil skin and stretch marks. With a pot belly, his physique was not desirable. Chauncey set his sights on the young man who appeared to be the leader, since he was the only one who did not move.
“Could you turn it down?” Chauncey asked.
“What?” the leader said.
“I said could you turn it—”
“Speak up! I don’t like all that mumbling,” the leader said.
The leader who commanded this motley pile of thugs looked to be no more than eighteen. His body was like a memorial: tattoos of “rest in peace” followed by the names of what Chauncey assumed were his fallen comrades covered most of his golden skin.
“I just want you to know that you should be ashamed of yourselves for doing the devil’s work,” Chauncey said.
His comment caused a nod from the leader, at which point one of the other thugs reached over and turned the music off.
“Say that again, old man?” the leader urged, spitting out the last two words.
“I said you’re doing the devil’s work and you need to repent. I have the Lord on my side and I refuse to be intimidated by you thugs.”
Chauncey felt an object press against his temple. He held on to a fool’s hope that it was not a gun until he turned ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of the muzzle.
At that moment, Chauncey’s raven-like eyes burst out of his skull.
“Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” Chauncey’s facade crumbled as he cried out the words.
“You better get up out of here with that church crap before I have the homie bust a cap in you,” the leader warned.
Chauncey backed away from the group and started to walk as fast as his heart beat. Even the wind terrified him, as if at any moment he would be shot in the back. These gang members are ruthless cowards, Chauncey thought, not noting the irony.
As he got back into his car, Chauncey peered out of his front window. In the distance he could see the gangsters laughing at him.
He was jolted back to attention by his cell phone vibrating in his coat pocket. The caller ID showed that it was his sister, Nicole. She lived in Sunnyvale, a small city in Northern California. It was about an hour away from Monterey, where the Men’s Retreat would be held this weekend. Chauncey planned to get to the Retreat on Thursday evening, a day before the official start.
He wanted to help set up and spend some quality time with his pastor and some of the brethren. Of course, there was also a professional matter that Chauncey needed to secure. Pastor Dawkins had been reviewing applications for the minister’s class. Chauncey’s application was among them. When Chauncey was twelve, a prophet had spoken about him becoming a preacher, and how yokes would be broken by his testimony. Chauncey believed that his time had come to become a minster, and being at the Retreat would show Pastor Dawkins his commitment.
“Sis, thank God you called. I just wanted