Whitfield’s Boots

A working draft

Working Title 1: The Book of the Preacher's Boots?

Working Title 2: Whitfield’s Boots?
Prologue

Draft 3

By: Chase L. Currie

 

Sometimes dreams die.

                It was a truth of life. I didn't think I was ready to face it, but fate or God's hand was making me do so the last week of my life.

                The northern fall was upon us, the chill still with me like a black cat looking for a meal. It was grumbling at my leather boots, which needed a bath. There was a hole in the right one, like the hole in my faded years. The shoelaces were on the edge of shrugging off my feet, thumping down the road, and jumping into the city dump themselves.

                 I didn't blame them.

                Jumping in the Hudson River to clean this bloody mess of a soul sounded fine by me, drowning in the icy waters instead of drowning in my life.

                 Couldn't tell you the last thing I ate, which wasn't s****y fast food. 

                I sat back on the bench, waiting for the bus of shame and defeat to shuffle me on down to the south, heading home, back to the meek, dead-end of my past.  My three-day-old hangover chilled with me on the bench for bad company. The beer, the pills, and whatever else I pushed into this head to numb the agony of failure made sure I didn't forget it. I tossed my head back, trying to calm the worry ebbing in my mind.

                Lost my job.

                Lost my lady.

                Lost my apartment.

                Couldn't afford a plane ride south, so instead, I was catching the piss-soaked bus home. I think I had twenty-five dollars to my name. I didn't dare check my bank account because if I did, then the Hudson might sound like the best bet to take my rent.

                The gas station earbuds blasting rock into my throbbing skull had cost me ten bucks. The left one was blown out, didn't work at all, but I didn't care.

                Going back home was all I cared about right now.

                Going back to the nothing of my life. God, what did I do? Did I kick Your puppy or something? Hm?

                I closed my eyes to the drums of sin, crashing behind them with flashing dreamful hues of Hell. I opened them to stop the pain only to see a tall, smiling man standing in front of me. He was dressed from head to toe in black, with new dress shoes, a gentleman's hat resting on his head, his dazzling face in need of a good shave. The gold and silver cross hung in the center of his chest. A Bible and a smaller book in his left hand, while in the right, a road bag looking worse for wear, much like me.

                "Howdy?" He said, a southern drawl and a pep in his tone.

                His smile, oh, boy, it stayed glued on his face the whole time he was standing there. It was as if he had stolen the smile from Jay Gatsby himself, rare, full of pure sincerity.

                "Uh, hey," I said, lost in his dark blue and green eyes. The same color as a lake after a summer thunderstorm.

                "May I sit?" he asked, nodding beside me.

                "Sure," I said, and he almost jumped to the place next to me. He set his Bible and small journal, I think, between us. He stuck out his hand to me.

                "Whitfield Inkk," he said as I took his rough hand of a framer, "with two K's."

                "Nice to meet you."

                "You as well," he said with a zeal matching Ray Charles’ shakes. "You're a southern boy, aren' you?"

                "Why, yes, sir, I am."

                "Hot dang, I knew it," Whitfield said, clapping his hands. "I could tell, sure could, by the way you spoke. Born in the south, not just of it, hm."

                "Yeah, sir, I am." It had been easy for anyone born in the city to know I wasn't from it. I could say hello, and it was enough for them to know where I was from, not the state, but the area.

                "Me too," Whitfield said. "Where ya from?"

                "North Caroline, sir."

                "Good Ol' Cackalacky," he said, almost shouting it. "Well, how about that me too."

                "Yeah?"

                "Yes, sir, sure am," Whitfield said with a hard nod. "Born and raised in Cackalacky."

                "What are you doing here in New York?" I asked.

                "I’m somewhat of a travelin' preacher. Been here and there with the Good News.” He tapped the worn leather of the Holy Book.

                “You see,” he said, nodding across the street, but keeping me in a sideways glance,” I was over there in that café drinkin' what these Yankees call coffee. “I met this French gal down in New Orleans,” he quickly said with a wink in his eye, “she could make a cup of joe from the angels. I thought about bringin' her coffee here to these northern heathens, but they don’ listen to a southern lad like myself.”

                All I could do was nod. Normally, I would be making like a bat out of Hell away from a guy like Whitfield, but it had been too long since I heard a story told with a southern flair. It was a need I hadn’t noticed until then, a moment of home. The smell of sweet cornbread, livermush on the iron, and that long drawl on words.

I stayed and listened, and he could tell I wanted to hear more.

Whitfield had a way of pulling you into his words, blanking them around you in a heatless room on a snowy night.

“There I was, lookin' at you, sitting in my place.” He glanced at me. “You see, my sister is goin' to be pickin' me up here at this bus stop, on this bench, good sir. And here you’re sittin' as a fellow traveler like myself. Lord Almighty said to me. Whitfield, that man is a southerner. I said,” nodding his head hard, “he sure looks like it, Lord. He looks like he has troubles on his mind, the Lord said. He sure does, O’ Lord,” Whitfield said, almost swaying back and forth as if sitting in a rocking chair.

For some odd reason, this made me smile, and I looked away. It had been a long time since a random person cared about me. It had been even longer since someone wanted to free me of my troubles for the mere enjoyment of it.

“So, I thought I would come over here to tell you about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, but you looked like an educated man and have already heard the news.”

 I nodded, thinking about how my dad would make me go to church when I was younger. I also lamented that since I’d been in the North, the church hadn’t been on the list of places to see.

                “A few times,” I told him.

                “Hey, a few times is better than none,” he said. “So, I thought I would tell you a funny story instead. You want to hear a funny story?” He asked as if I could say no and leaned in close to me.

                “Sure.”

                “Back in Cackalacky, I was at this mighty big church doing some baptisms, and this eight-year-old boy was there. He stepped up to the tank, pale as a ghost. I guess he forgot the whole congregation was goin’ be watchin’ him. Anyways, I reach out, touchin’ his shoulder all nice like.” He made a move as if the ghost boy was standing there.

                “And I said, son, this is just between you, me, and the Almighty. Now, you come on.” He pushed the ghost boy into the tank. “He stepped into the water,” this wandering preacher man said, “I spoke the words, ducked him and - “

                He paused, letting his eyes smile like the first rays of dawn. “The boy came up ballin’ his eyes out, and the whole congregation started to shout, howlin', and buildin' into a big uproar thinkin’ he was cryin' because he gave his soul to the Good Lord.”

                Whitfield leaned in, nodding hard as if I had asked the boy otherwise. “Which he did, he did, yes sir, sure did, but the little guy whispered to me, ‘pastor, pastor, I peed. I’m sure, God will forgive me.’”

                A smile had already bloomed on my lips. It hurt at first as if someone had stabbed me with a pen, but the ache faded, and the smile rested perfectly.

                Whitfield continued, the boy said, “’But I don’t know how He’ll feel that I’m first in line.’”

                The laughter rushed up from inside me. The pain from the last week of my life tried its best to push the laughter down hard, but the joy won out.

                “That’s great,” I said.

                “It always gets a smile,” Whitfield said, rocking back against the bench.

                I shook my head and asked, “Did you come all this way to tell me a joke?”

                “Might’ve, son, I don’t believe in random happenstance. I believe God puts all of us on our paths; it’s our duty to walk them, but one way or another, we’ll end up like John or Judas in the end.”

                “The path brought you to me?”

                “Might’ve. See, I went lookin' for God because I believe He left Cakclakacy. I wanted to duke it out with Him over some matters. The thing about lookin’ for God is you find Him because He’s already there. But the devil sends his hounds after you. O’ boy, did I meet those damn hounds.

                “They chased me all the way to Charleston, where I jumped over to Savannah for some time, and then I wanted to go see the Mississippi River, where I met a Steamboat captain, didn’ think there were around anymore.

                “He took me down to New Orleans, where I met that French gal. I also gamble my heart away a little. So, I headed back to Nashville, runnin’ into a bank robber and his gal. We flee the law into Virginia, going our separate ways near Richmond.

                “I went to Kentucky for a while, and then I guess it was time to go home.” He looked over at me. “Home isn’ a place, but family and my sister live up here. So, here I am, tellin’ you a funny story.”

                “I guess so,” I said, hanging on every word he spoke with childlike awe.

                “What about you?” He asked. “What are you doing here?”

                “I was a comic book artist,” I said with defeat.

                “Was?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, studying my hands.

                “Lost my gig,” I said.

                “Ah, why so?” Whitfield asked.

                I smirked, shaking my head a bit. “Seems silly now, but, uh, I didn’t want to play ball with the politics.”

                “They went against your beliefs?” He asked, crossing his legs so I could see his new shoes. They looked like they’d hardly been worn, the soles practically new.

                You can tell a lot by a man’s shoes, my old man was fond of saying.

                You sure can, Dad.

                “Yeah.”

                “Better you left then,” Whitfield said,” beanin’ the knee by force or by lyin’ to yourself is the worst Hell there is, son. It’s for the better, sure is. God got you.”

                “Sure, hope so.”

                “Oh, He does,” Whitfield said. “He has us all.”

                Before another word could be uttered, a GT Mustang came roaring to a stop in front of us. It rolled down the window to a young thing with jet black hair, not her real hue, and tattoos everywhere on her arms, neck, and face.

                “Whitfield,” she called.

                “That’s my sister,” he said, jumping to his feet, “and her Yankee boyfriend.” He stuck his hand out, and I took it, feeling the bitter weight of a farewell coming over me. All I got with this man was a few moments and a smile.

                “Nice meetin’ ya,” Whitfield said, dashing for the car.

                His left hand was empty, my eyes shot to his books, and I gathered them up in a rush. I jumped up as he climbed into the back of the car. The car roared, and I shouted, waving the books in the air.

                “Whitfield.”

                He smiled big and shouted, “Keep them; you need them more than I do! I’ll come to find you in Ol’ Cackalacky. Don’t worry, I’ll find you.” The car flew down the road, leaving me alone with an old Bible and the handwritten tale of Whitfield Inkk with two k’s.