a resounding boom; it was absolutely silent in the ballroom.
“As you all know, I have been out of the loop. However, like most of you, I have seen the writing on the wall,” I stopped talking to see if I was getting through to them. Nope, not a thing. “No, not the graffiti on the Village wall.” There was a polite chuckle in response, and a few of the faces started to relax.
“Mr. Rolette, I do not believe that a good and caring God would bring this on us,” I said, slamming head first into my point. There were a few gasps, all from the GW’s, but I didn’t care. This needed to be decided on, in one way or another.
“I do believe that we need to leave here. This has been my home for most of my life, and for me to say this is extremely hard. But I don’t want to die, and I don’t want any of you to die, either. That includes you, Mr. Rolette.”
And then I dropped a bombshell. “I also don’t believe that we should leave this to a vote. It isn’t a case of all of us needing to agree unanimously. We each need to make this decision for ourselves based on everything we have heard. Just to let you know, I am leaving.”
I went back to my seat and Rolette stood in the front of the crowd and burst into a rant that was “sent to him by God.” It went on for about ten minutes, and it was so ridiculous that I don’t feel the need to write it into this record.
Deciding that it was time to stop this madman, Mark stood and went directly in front of where the man exuding the ire stood. He rose above him on the stage, and stared down at him. I didn’t even know what he was going to do next.
“Muslim, you are not going to block the word of God. You can stand there as long as you like. The Holy Spirit needs for His flock to hear Him,” said the red-faced man.
“If anyone else feels this way, come and stand with your leader,” Mark said. It was simple and to the point. It worked.
No one came to stand beside Rolette. He waited, though. After several uncomfortable moments, he walked out of the building, slamming the door behind him.
∞
Completely drained, we headed home. I glared angrily at Jackson as everyone exited, but he just made his signature “heh” and headed toward the security at the wall.
I took the photos that Adam and his team had collected as proof. When I got home, I went into my bedroom alone and got under the covers. I spent the next hour staring at every detail in every one of the photos.
The pictures of Cannery Row, a popular tourist attraction thanks to the classic books of John Steinbeck, were the hardest to look at. So many of my memories took place on that street.
I remember when many of the historic buildings that had housed the sardine factories and even the Monterey Jack Cheese building on the strip were “mysteriously” burned to the ground. Developers swooped in and bought up the beach front properties to build restaurants, hotels and souvenir shops.
The Brothel that stood at the end of the street, a protected historic landmark, was home to many businesses over the years, but none more notorious than what Steinbeck wrote of. When I was in high school, it was a small restaurant that had almost no food on the menu. People would come in to listen to live music and watch belly dancers while they drank wine. It was where I met my first boyfriend and where I had my first kiss. I loved to shock people over the years by telling them I met my boyfriend in a brothel.
I closed my eyes, and I could see the image of the building as it appeared during Steinbeck’s time. A leg adorned with a fishnet stocking swung from the window. The face of the leg’s owner peered out over the ocean view, wistfully, as the woman with bright red rouge took a swig from a bottle of booze. She whistled at one of the sardine canners who passed by.
I fast forwarded to before the Last War, when the aquarium, built in the 1980’s, stood in all of its glory. The photograph of the famed attraction showed
“As you all know, I have been out of the loop. However, like most of you, I have seen the writing on the wall,” I stopped talking to see if I was getting through to them. Nope, not a thing. “No, not the graffiti on the Village wall.” There was a polite chuckle in response, and a few of the faces started to relax.
“Mr. Rolette, I do not believe that a good and caring God would bring this on us,” I said, slamming head first into my point. There were a few gasps, all from the GW’s, but I didn’t care. This needed to be decided on, in one way or another.
“I do believe that we need to leave here. This has been my home for most of my life, and for me to say this is extremely hard. But I don’t want to die, and I don’t want any of you to die, either. That includes you, Mr. Rolette.”
And then I dropped a bombshell. “I also don’t believe that we should leave this to a vote. It isn’t a case of all of us needing to agree unanimously. We each need to make this decision for ourselves based on everything we have heard. Just to let you know, I am leaving.”
I went back to my seat and Rolette stood in the front of the crowd and burst into a rant that was “sent to him by God.” It went on for about ten minutes, and it was so ridiculous that I don’t feel the need to write it into this record.
Deciding that it was time to stop this madman, Mark stood and went directly in front of where the man exuding the ire stood. He rose above him on the stage, and stared down at him. I didn’t even know what he was going to do next.
“Muslim, you are not going to block the word of God. You can stand there as long as you like. The Holy Spirit needs for His flock to hear Him,” said the red-faced man.
“If anyone else feels this way, come and stand with your leader,” Mark said. It was simple and to the point. It worked.
No one came to stand beside Rolette. He waited, though. After several uncomfortable moments, he walked out of the building, slamming the door behind him.
∞
Completely drained, we headed home. I glared angrily at Jackson as everyone exited, but he just made his signature “heh” and headed toward the security at the wall.
I took the photos that Adam and his team had collected as proof. When I got home, I went into my bedroom alone and got under the covers. I spent the next hour staring at every detail in every one of the photos.
The pictures of Cannery Row, a popular tourist attraction thanks to the classic books of John Steinbeck, were the hardest to look at. So many of my memories took place on that street.
I remember when many of the historic buildings that had housed the sardine factories and even the Monterey Jack Cheese building on the strip were “mysteriously” burned to the ground. Developers swooped in and bought up the beach front properties to build restaurants, hotels and souvenir shops.
The Brothel that stood at the end of the street, a protected historic landmark, was home to many businesses over the years, but none more notorious than what Steinbeck wrote of. When I was in high school, it was a small restaurant that had almost no food on the menu. People would come in to listen to live music and watch belly dancers while they drank wine. It was where I met my first boyfriend and where I had my first kiss. I loved to shock people over the years by telling them I met my boyfriend in a brothel.
I closed my eyes, and I could see the image of the building as it appeared during Steinbeck’s time. A leg adorned with a fishnet stocking swung from the window. The face of the leg’s owner peered out over the ocean view, wistfully, as the woman with bright red rouge took a swig from a bottle of booze. She whistled at one of the sardine canners who passed by.
I fast forwarded to before the Last War, when the aquarium, built in the 1980’s, stood in all of its glory. The photograph of the famed attraction showed
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