“but if you told her that you were gonna stay home this week to finish a paintin’ she’d say, ‘No, baby, you got to put the hours on the floor in my store.’ ”
The rhyme, unlikely language, and the truth of what Tempest said dispelled all of the twenty-something’s misgivings. She bought a bag of oranges and touched Tempest tenderly on the forearm before walking back to her job.
I applauded and Tempest turned to look at me.
“Did you know I was standing here?” I asked.
“Does the pope talk to God?” he responded.
“I don’t see what one question has to do with the other,” I said.
“Both of ’em mysteries that men will ponder down through the ages.”
I grinned and we shook hands. This was a rare gesture for us of late. After Tempest had been paroled from prison he was in a foul mood both from the memory of his experiences of being locked up and from the abuses that a man who has been convicted of a felony must endure. Our discussions about sin often ended up in dispute and anger. Tempest had even managed to make me lose my temper in the wee hours when his parole officer, Aldo Trieste, threatened me physically.
“How is your Mr. Trieste?” I asked.
“He took two weeks off after you shouted at him. Now he’s back he just comes out in the waiting room, signs my papers, and sends me on my way. Tuesday last he told me I only have to come in once every other month.”
No human in history, save Tempest Landry, has ever gone unaffected by my celestial tone.
“I can’t help but feel that you set him up to raise my ire,” I said.
“Angel, you give me too much credit, man. I knew he might’a come ovah, ’cause he was mad at my boss. I knew that he’d act all crazy and then you might see what it’s like when a man tries to be good in a world where they don’t want you. But you know I never expected him to try and attack you too.”
There was no use arguing this point. I had come to understand that Tempest’s dispute with heaven was being waged on an unconscious level as well as deliberately. Heaven’s war, my war, was with the accumulated instinctive knowledge of the entire history of the human race as it was contained in this unrepentant wild card.
“How’s the job going?” I asked.
“People buy apples and mangoes one at a time but they like oranges by the bag,” he said.
“Are you making enough money to move into a real apartment?”
“Maybe.”
A man walked up then and bought a package of dried figs. Tempest joked with the man about something that had to do with baseball. I didn’t understand the references.
When the man was gone Tempest took out a huge wad of one-dollar bills and began counting. I watched him and wondered about his calmness. Just the fact that his soul resided in the body of the deceased Ezzard Walcott meant that heaven was desperate to get him to forget his dispute with the Infinite and accept his sentence to hell.
“You know, Angel, I been workin’ here a few weeks now thinkin’ ’bout you and how wrong you are about man, temptation, and sin.”
“It’s a good sign,” I said, “you considering your sins.”
“That’s just it, Angel. I don’t see sin even where it’s obvious—even where I use your own rules to understand it.”
“What are you talking about, Tempest?”
“Man workin’ in a job like this experiences all kindsa temptation,” he said. “I got three different kinds of criminals comin’ here wantin’ me to run numbers, sell drugs, and deliver slips of paper in between who knows what kinda fiends. They offer me good money just to do my usual job and drop a few notes in a fruit bag now and then.”
“And what do you say to these criminals?”
“I always smile and say that sounds good but I got a PO up my butt twenty-four, seven.”
“This is a good step,” I said, “a good sign.”
“Maybe so. Maybe so. The way I see it heaven shouldn’t really care. I mean gamblin’ and gettin’ drunk ain’t no sin no
The rhyme, unlikely language, and the truth of what Tempest said dispelled all of the twenty-something’s misgivings. She bought a bag of oranges and touched Tempest tenderly on the forearm before walking back to her job.
I applauded and Tempest turned to look at me.
“Did you know I was standing here?” I asked.
“Does the pope talk to God?” he responded.
“I don’t see what one question has to do with the other,” I said.
“Both of ’em mysteries that men will ponder down through the ages.”
I grinned and we shook hands. This was a rare gesture for us of late. After Tempest had been paroled from prison he was in a foul mood both from the memory of his experiences of being locked up and from the abuses that a man who has been convicted of a felony must endure. Our discussions about sin often ended up in dispute and anger. Tempest had even managed to make me lose my temper in the wee hours when his parole officer, Aldo Trieste, threatened me physically.
“How is your Mr. Trieste?” I asked.
“He took two weeks off after you shouted at him. Now he’s back he just comes out in the waiting room, signs my papers, and sends me on my way. Tuesday last he told me I only have to come in once every other month.”
No human in history, save Tempest Landry, has ever gone unaffected by my celestial tone.
“I can’t help but feel that you set him up to raise my ire,” I said.
“Angel, you give me too much credit, man. I knew he might’a come ovah, ’cause he was mad at my boss. I knew that he’d act all crazy and then you might see what it’s like when a man tries to be good in a world where they don’t want you. But you know I never expected him to try and attack you too.”
There was no use arguing this point. I had come to understand that Tempest’s dispute with heaven was being waged on an unconscious level as well as deliberately. Heaven’s war, my war, was with the accumulated instinctive knowledge of the entire history of the human race as it was contained in this unrepentant wild card.
“How’s the job going?” I asked.
“People buy apples and mangoes one at a time but they like oranges by the bag,” he said.
“Are you making enough money to move into a real apartment?”
“Maybe.”
A man walked up then and bought a package of dried figs. Tempest joked with the man about something that had to do with baseball. I didn’t understand the references.
When the man was gone Tempest took out a huge wad of one-dollar bills and began counting. I watched him and wondered about his calmness. Just the fact that his soul resided in the body of the deceased Ezzard Walcott meant that heaven was desperate to get him to forget his dispute with the Infinite and accept his sentence to hell.
“You know, Angel, I been workin’ here a few weeks now thinkin’ ’bout you and how wrong you are about man, temptation, and sin.”
“It’s a good sign,” I said, “you considering your sins.”
“That’s just it, Angel. I don’t see sin even where it’s obvious—even where I use your own rules to understand it.”
“What are you talking about, Tempest?”
“Man workin’ in a job like this experiences all kindsa temptation,” he said. “I got three different kinds of criminals comin’ here wantin’ me to run numbers, sell drugs, and deliver slips of paper in between who knows what kinda fiends. They offer me good money just to do my usual job and drop a few notes in a fruit bag now and then.”
“And what do you say to these criminals?”
“I always smile and say that sounds good but I got a PO up my butt twenty-four, seven.”
“This is a good step,” I said, “a good sign.”
“Maybe so. Maybe so. The way I see it heaven shouldn’t really care. I mean gamblin’ and gettin’ drunk ain’t no sin no
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