Pastor Needs a Boo (38 page)

Keisha smiled when she saw Bay watching her legs. She blushed when Bay winked and licked his lips. When Bay grinned and winked again, Keisha took in a deep breath and said, “My name is Keisha Diane Jackson, and I am your ‘hostess with the mostess' tonight. I want to welcome you all to the first annual Ballroom Dance-off, or what many of you have been calling
Dancing with the Stars
, at New Jerusalem Gospel United Church. And before we get started, I want to ask our senior pastor, Reverend Denzelle Flowers, to say a prayer.”

Keisha moved away from the podium and stood next to Marsha. She said, “So, how did it go?”

“Perfect,” Veronica said.

“Yeah,” Marsha added. “It was short and sweet. I'm so glad you didn't go old-school church on us and start introducing folk in the audience and asking the bishop and his wife to stand.”

“I know,” Veronica said. “And Keisha, if you had added some ‘eerrrrerrrs' to your words, I would have slapped you.”

Marsha was laughing. There was nothing worse than being at a fun church event with everybody anxious for it to start and the Master/Mistress of Ceremony keeping on talking. Even worse was if they began to give a testimony. And the ultimate torture was when they started singing and then solicited the members of the congregation for testimonies and songs. That could only be topped by the MC shouting and doing the holy dance.

Denzelle, too, was relieved Keisha kept the welcome address short and sweet. He placed his hands on either side of the podium and said, “Let us pray. Father, in Heaven Above, we come before You with heads bowed in complete reverence and awe of You. We are thankful for all You do in our lives, all that You have done, and all of the blessings You have waiting in the wings for us. You are a good God, and we want to take a moment to say Thank You.”

“Thank You,” echoed around the room.

“So, Lord,” Denzelle continued, “bless this evening's event. We bless Your Holy Name. In Jesus' Name, I pray, Amen.”

“Amen,” everyone in the gymnasium said.

“Well, now that we are ready to rock and roll, I am going to turn this program over to our lovely MC, Ms. Keisha Jackson.”

Keisha stepped back up to the podium and said, “Thank you, Reverend Flowers. And now…”

Before she could continue, one of the older ushers walked up to Keisha with a piece of paper in his hand, like they were in the sanctuary during a church service. Keisha had practically begged the members of the Usher Board to refrain from wearing their regular uniforms. But those pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

Keisha didn't even want the regular Usher Board to help out with tonight's program. At Marsha's suggestion, Keisha asked the members of the youth organizations to help in this capacity. But when they arrived at the gymnasium, just an hour ago, the head of the old people's Usher Board had taken over and assigned the teens to helping to set up the chairs. Now she had to deal with annoying Usher Board stuff.

The ushers were in generic usher spots around the gymnasium. The men were wearing navy suits, white shirts, navy-and-white striped ties, and white cotton usher gloves. The women were wearing navy blue suits with navy-and-white striped scarves around their necks and white cotton usher gloves. They looked like they were doing duty for an annual conference.

She read the note and frowned.

“What's the problem?” Denzelle asked.

“This,” was all Keisha said, and put the note in Denzelle's hand.

He read it and sighed. Church folk were a trip. Whoever heard of folk participating in a dance contest marching in like they were in the processional at the opening of a church service? He almost vetoed this request but thought it best to let this play itself out. The only thing Denzelle was not going to do was grab Marsha and walk in the processional with them.

Denzelle glanced over at Marsha's son, Marcus, and then texted him, Put on some funky, bluesy instrumental church music so that these fools can march in like the choir is getting ready to do a concert.

Marcus started laughing. He said, “Would all contestants for the dance program gather at the back of the gym so the processional can begin.”

All of sudden there was a whirlwind of movement as folks hurried to the spot in the back of the gym. One of the women ushers rushed over to the contestants and gave instructions about how everybody was supposed to stand and line up. Denzelle stood at the podium thinking that this was the craziest thing he'd seen at church in a long time. And he had seen some wild stuff in his day.

When everybody was in place, Marcus put on Al Green's rendition of “Too Close.” He knew Al Green was one of Reverend Flowers's favorite singers, and that his pastor would appreciate hearing this if he had to watch a processional at a dance competition. As soon as the first cords of “Too Close” began, Denzelle looked up at Marcus and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

The head usher gave the contestants the signal, and they started marching in, church processional–style, dressed in dance contest costumes like they were in the offering promenade at a revival. Marsha didn't dare look at Veronica and Keisha, because she knew they would all burst out in hysterical laughter and be no more good for the rest of the evening. What possessed the head of the Usher Board to march those folk in like that?

Dayeesha and Metro were sitting in the back hollering with laughter. Metro leaned over and said, “Baby, the only thing wrong with this picture is that we are technically at church, and I can't go and grab myself a glass of Crown to sip on while I enjoy this moment in the annals of Gospel United Church history.”

“Whew, baby,” Dayeesha said, wiping at her eyes. “My stomach is hurting. This thing is so good.”

Charles Robinson and his boy Pierre Smith were about to bust wide open, they were laughing so hard. Leave it to Denzelle to have something happen at his church that a playah could truly appreciate.

“Dawg,” Pierre said, “am I really seeing this with my own eyes? Check it out.”

Charles whipped his head around just in time to see the old player in the Hoveround “marching” in the processional with his boo walking next to him in a matching outfit.

“Isn't that Mr. Arvelle?” Pierre asked. “You know, the old playah who had to use his oxygen mask when he used to watch Miss Hattie Lee Booth dance at Rumpshakers?”

Charles nodded and said, “Umm, hmm—one and the same. But who is that old hoochie he's marching with?”

Pierre took a long look at the old lady marching next to Mr. Arvelle in his Hoveround. He said, “That looks like Miss Roberta—the old lady who owns the Ethnic Peoples Dollar Store with her son.”

Bay Bowser, who was standing with them, kept wondering how black folk could turn a dance contest into a semichurch service. His mother always said black people could have church anywhere. She was right. Bay said, “Boss, I know you've heard the Ethnic Peoples Dollar Store commercials on
Grady Gray's Hour of Holy Ghost Power
. Those commercials are so hood, if you google ‘ghetto fabulous' a picture of Miss Roberta and her son will pop up.”

“You can buy stuff there you didn't even know was still being sold in a store,” Pierre said.”

“Like what?” Charles asked.

“For starters, every kind of Now and Later flavor you can imagine,” Bay answered. “And you can find Mary Janes, Boston Baked Beans, those pink, white, and chocolate coconut bars, Red Hots, and Lemonheads.”

“Do they sell more than candy?”

Bay nodded and continued, “They have those silver change things people used to put on their waists, coin purses, rain scarves, and rubber covers for men's dress shoes when it's raining and snowing.”

“They also have a special section in the store where you can buy Cold Duck, and Boone's Farm wines,” Pierre said, with a look of nostalgia.

“How does a dollar store qualify to sell liquor?” Charles asked.

Pierre and Bay just looked at each other and shrugged an “I don't know.” Charles thought about the business side of things way too much.

“You know something, boss,” Bay said, “you need a woman, and you work too much.”

“You still haven't told me how Miss Roberta and her son, Thaddeus, are able to sell wine at the dollar store.”

“I don't know how they do it,” Pierre said. “All I know is that if you go down to their store, off of the north part of Alston Avenue in Durham, you'll find all kinds of stuff you like.”

“I should have known the store was in Durham,” Charles said.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Pierre asked. He loved Durham—didn't know why folks were always hating on the Bull City.

“It means you can find all kinds of good stuff in Durham—like some Cold Duck and a pack of green apple, grape, or strawberry Now and Laters, or a lap dance that won't quit at Rumpshakers,” Charles told him. He was a Durham boy, born and bred, and proud of it.

“Shhh,” Bay said. “The processional just ended.”

Keisha was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Watching Mr. Arvelle on his Hoveround in the processional was more than she could take at the podium. She leaned over and whispered, “What made Mr. Arvelle and Miss Roberta think it was cool to get in this contest?” to Veronica.

She'd bet no one knew a Hoveround could do all of that—not even the other people who owned one of those motorized scooters. All it took was one resourceful black person to give their Hoveround the hook-up. Mr. Arvelle had that scooter looking good, too.

His Hoveround had a customized black leather seat with gold dots on it. The base of the scooter was gold with black trim, and the tires had custom-fitted, gold-spoke rims. The back had a black leather sack that held his oxygen tank and mask. The handles of the scooter were gold with black leather on the handles. Mr. Arvelle's Hoveround was so smooth and tight, he could have driven it around the gymnasium and picked up some women just like brothers worked it with a fancy car.

“I'll try and answer the question about Mr. Arvelle and Miss Roberta if you all can answer this question for me,” Veronica said. “What made Bishop Jefferson's wife, Episcopal Supervisor Violetta Jefferson, think it was okay for her to dance with that man in those shoes.”

“What man in what shoes?” Marsha asked.

“That man right over there, standing with Supervisor Violetta in a semimatching outfit and those shoes,” Keisha said, pointing directly at the man.

Marsha and Veronica found the man who was next to Supervisor Violetta. He kind of looked like her, only where she was long and slender, he was medium height and stocky in build. They were wearing violet-colored outfits.

Supervisor Violetta was dressed in a violet-Spandex dress, with just enough flair to the short skirt to enable her to dance without showing more than what was already being put out there for all the world to see. She had on violet satin pumps, and there were violet streaks throughout her long, swinging braid.

Her dance partner was wearing a shiny violet suit with black pinstripes running through it. He had on a black shirt and tie, as well as a black hat with violet trimming around the brim of the hat. But it was his shoes that capped off the outfit.

Marsha, Veronica, and Keisha could barely believe what they were witnessing with their own eyes, concerning those shoes and the man's feet. It had been a long time since they met and knew anyone who wore shoes like that. Talk about a throwback. The man had on violet patent-leather shoes, and the entire toe part had been cut off like he tried to make himself some sandals at the last minute.

“I thought those shoes went out with
The Mack
and
Shaft
,” Veronica whispered to Keisha, who said, “I thought there were no more easily accessible bottles of curl activator floating around.”

“OMG,” Veronica said, “It's Souulllllll Gllllow.”

“Stop. Just stop,” Charles Robinson whispered in Veronica's ear.

“But he has curl activator loaded up in his hair, Charles,” Veronica began, trying to act like she didn't feel his lips brush across the tip of her ear.

“And he is your brother in the Lord, Sister Washington,” Charles told her, with a smirk on his face. “So behave.”

“You can try and get all mighty and holy on us if you want to, Mr. Rumpshakers,” Keisha said. “But that is Soul Glow in a pair of homemade pimp sandals.”

At this point Denzelle, who was getting a bit nervous about having to dance in front of his parishioners, fellow preachers, presiding elders, and a bishop, just wanted to get this thing started, so it could end. He adjusted the red bow tie hanging out of his tuxedo jacket.

“You know you are sharp, Frat,” Charles said. “I wouldn't have thought to wear that combination. But it works.”

“Marsha put it together, after somebody messed with my original outfit,” Denzelle answered.

“All things work together for the good of them that love the Lord, Frat,” Charles answered him, a bit shaken at how fast that Bible verse had come to him. It seemed like each and every day he was moving further and further away from business as usual and taking more pleasure in “walking up the King's High Way.”

Denzelle nodded. Charles was right. Just about every other contestant had on some version of a tuxedo. He had come in looking for somebody in his tux. But it didn't matter now, because his outfit stood out. Denzelle knew he was looking good. He pulled out his cell and texted Marcus,
Dawg, can we please get this started?

Marcus texted back,
Who do you want to dance first? I have a lineup list. But Rev, a few of those folk need to go first so that we can concentrate on the real dances and not on what I fear will jump off on the dance floor with some of the “contestants.”

Denzelle glanced up at Marcus in the DJ's box and nodded in agreement. He texted,
Let Mr. Arvelle go first.