What A Friend We Have in Jesus...

My back was to the door when he entered. Woven betwixt a room full of inane chatter, the words, "Preacher Man's back," stood out like a white thread in an all black tapestry. Slammed with 8 tables and just sat with 3 more, I had no time to turn in his direction. Tables needed to be cleared, menus to be dropped, ice creams and sorbets, by law, needed to be verbalized - all natural, all house-made, and all delicious. Our first meeting would have to wait since most annoyingly, Annoying Guy at table 6 seemed to be having a Sophie's Choice moment deciding between the Hanger and Strip Steaks. Clearly, as evident by the popped collar of his pink Polo, this man lacked all basic decision making skills. This may take awhile, so stuck in great anticipation, my eyes slowly wandered to the mirror hanging behind table 6, and for a moment, I was lost. I saw my reflection awash in the youthful glow of the room. I like how I look in this room. Dimly lit, the small flickering candles centered on each table, the soft glowing globes of light hanging from above, and in this space, 10 years have been erased - smooth skin, no wrinkles, jet black un-peppered hair. In the mirror, 10 years of lost hope, found.

In the mirror, I also saw him. Standing in the back, quietly preaching the word of God, he stood stony while the managers and the waiters tried to gently walk him out. I saw his eyes, his crazy eyes, and in them, I saw something familiar. Too familiar. In the mirror, our crazy eyes met. Locked in, distantly separated by tables and chairs and a hundred people dressed in black, but in the mirror, we were only inches away...so close to each other. In the mirror, I saw his familiar confusion, his familiar fear and he saw me, recognized the same in me. And to every one's surprise, he stopped his testifying and screamed out the words, "Oh my God! Paul-David? Is that you?" (Gulp) I guess all crazy people do know each other.

Our paths have crossed several times in the last 10 years. When I first met Preacher Man, aka Edgar DuHaven, he had been working the register at the Sunset Boulevard Blockbuster Video Store. Edgar's dream was to be a film maker, and while his professors saw in him much potential during his one semester at USC Film School, the pressure got to great. His already fragile mind began to crack and the meds he took to help, only dulled all creativity. Sane enough to know film school, at least for now, was not an option, he dropped out and applied at Blockbuster, pouring all his remaining film knowledge into that little blue vest and within a very short period of time, he claimed the title, "Employee of the Month". For now, that would have to do.

He was fired for renting out his own privately filmed bootlegged versions rather than the highly edited, family-friendly fare Blockbuster is known for. He tried getting another job but was exiled from all other Blockbusters and blacklisted among the tightly knit video store community. Without this job, he was a man without an identity, without his job, he was no longer Movie Guy. Lost in LA, he eventually lost his apartment, lost his mind, and found himself on the street where we met for the first time. Edgar, a budding psychotic movie maker, and me, just a plain psycho joined at the hip, spending the next few months filming the greatest movie never made.

Now he's Preacher Man, self proclaimed prophet, truth seeker and occasional motivational speaker. Wow. Wait till I tell Heather Mary.

TD TESS

As I turned, the world gradually slowed. The 47 people standing between her and me, their heads, arms, shoulders, gift filled shopping bags, all positioned perfectly for her eyes to meet my eyes in an unobstructed everlasting flash of Oh Shit!

A voice in my head screamed, "Go! Run!" The look in her eyes hoped I would follow that advice, but as fast as my mind was racing, my legs were as slow moving and before I could step off the curb, we were face to face for the first time since my breakdown. "Hi, Sophia," I said. "Hi, Paul-David," said she. And the World came to a complete halt. It was just me. And it was just her. And...ahh...who's that big guy standing next to you and why is he looking at me that way?

New to the city, Sophia didn't have a lot of friends and I, for no and for many reasons, didn't have a lot of friends. For some reason, she liked me. When others called me weird, she called me interesting. The blocks of time skipped over in our conversations were not her business she felt - never asking, but quietly waiting for me to tell. I liked that. I liked her. And what I liked most was how normal she seemed. Laughing at the right moments, crying at the right moments, angry, pissed off and furious all at the right moments. Such appropriate behavior I have rarely seen, and in the time we spent together, she made me feel appropriate too. I enjoyed her world and she welcomed me to it having no idea what she was inviting in.

Standing in the shadow of Sophia's boyfriend's huge frame, I watched as he clarified the situation. "This is the guy? This little thing? Well, what do you know?" He laughs as I squeezed out a few stupid pieces of small talk. "How are you?" She answered, "Fine." "Beautiful day, huh?" She answered, "Yes, it is. "So, where are you working now?" Her tree of a boyfriend answered, "None of your fucking business, Slim."

Sorry...I'm really sorry.

"What the hell," he says. "We all go a little crazy sometimes, right? Look at me, I've been going to the same therapist for 8 years, and I'm still fucked up."

The Oak Tree laughs.

"One therapist in 8 years? Maybe it's time to find another Doctor. Just how fucked up are you?" I asked.

Sophia laughs.

And for a brief moment, her defences are down. Smiling, she asks, "How many doctors have you had?" "Hundreds," I say, "but I'm really fucked up." And up again go the walls.

She takes her boyfriend's hand, nods her head to me and off they go, lost in the crowd again. And I see the world slowly spinning back to normal.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little dog Gone...

Come on everybody, it's been over a week and no one has given any info about 'lil Bit. I'm only one man and can only cover so much of the city on my own. I've been talking to the owner, Kristina everyday, calling her throughout the day to see if there has been any changes, and so far, nothing. I truly don't understand how you all can just sit back while this poor little puppy is out there someplace, all alone. I'm getting worried, and so should everyone else. If anyone has seen the pup - Brown, white faced Beagle, please let me know.

So a Priest Walks into a Bar...

A new photo has been added to the managers office door. Displayed in an America's Most Wanted like fashion, Preacher Man takes his place among the other distinguished players...the Dine and Dash'ers, the Pick-Pocket'ers and the New York Times Critic of Food'ers. Accompanying each picture, a detailed description and resume of the offenders, and most helpful, step by step instructions of what to do if and when they enter the restaurant.
Refuse service to the Dine and Dash'ers.
Call the police for the Pick-Pocket'ers.
Show the Food Critic to the best table in the house.
Needless to say, memorizing each photo with its corresponding crime is critical as no one wants to see Frank Bruni led away in cuffs while Sticky Fingers Sally enjoys her delicious Satyr Farm Baby Beet Salad at table 5. Such a rich tapestry, TriBeCa.

More than the others, Preacher Man sounds the most interesting. As of yet, I haven't had the pleasure, but hope to soon. Slender, nicely dressed, clean cut, this "man of God" comes into the restaurant, stands in the middle of the room and quietly preaches while the managers and other waiters try to gently walk him out. Positively unmovable and in a trance like calm, he continues his sermon of love, oblivious to the anger surrounding him. He is spoken to loudly, then softly then loudly again. Fingers snapping inches from his face, trying to break the spell but to no avail, Preacher Man carries inside him much more powerful magic. Can I get an Amen?

Sure, there's a chance Preacher Man's conversations with God might be strictly one way. Perhaps he's got a loose nail in cross, his halo a little askew, the crown of thorns, a bit too tight, the sword in his side only goes through half way - Been there. But in my experience, Preacher Man's MO ain't all that bad. "He's crazy." They all say, and that may be, but, and I haven't actually seen the man, so this is just my opinion - he may be crazy, but just a little bit. He seems to know what he's doing, he keeps to a schedule, and even with fingers annoyingly being snapped in his face, he never lashes out, but most of all is the volume at which he preaches...QUIET. How many crazy people have you seen in the subway, on a street corner, in the park, quietly preaching the word of God? How do you get someone's attention...whisper.

While I'm very curious to see this man for myself, I'm not looking forward to more of the already asked questions - "No, I don't know him. Not all crazy people are friends." "I wouldn't know how to deal with him better than anybody else, there's no secret handshake." And all the looks I get when his name is mentioned, like it's my fault, a moth, attracted to a much healthier but still slightly dimmed flame.

So a Priest, a Pick-Pocket and a Food Critic walk into a bar (insert joke here).

Yahtzee Beach House Fun...

Thinking about summer vacations, this is the time of year I usually go to the beach with the family. Dr. Goode recommends less stress, so I figured 7 days spent with The Evil One might not be the best idea right now. Maybe next year. I hope Shaquifa found a new alliance, maybe with the young ones. I do want to say, if anyone is reading this, someone in the house has less than pure motives. You know who you are. There is one person who is about to turn the house upside-down. It may prove to be the most SHOCKING Big Brother House in Big Brother history.

Have fun.

The Wanna Be - Part 1...

Now that it's summer, half the waitstaff is away on vacation, so that means the other half must work their shifts. It's not a pretty sight. Each day, I see those left behind become more and more pale, their pasty skin, matte like yeast filled dough ready for the oven. Overtimed? Overworked? - "Over here, guys. I'll pick up that shift for you." Though Dr. Goode recommends a short work week, 2 or 3 days, I have been picking up shifts left and right. I need the money, but more than that, I need to believe the waiter's faux and the some almost sincere "thank yous" tossed my way as they head out to the great deep blue. Past sins aren't quite as sinful when the beach is involved. Ahh, love by default.

This morning at family meal, marking my 10th shift in a row, I could barely hear the other waiters at the other table talking. Apparently, the restaurant has seen its share of servers go on to become famous - an American Idol and an Emmy winning film and television actor just to not name a couple. As I cut into my 8th tiny sausage link, its casing snapping under the weight of my butter knife, I thought to myself, "I should have been famous." I always thought I would be one of those, "you know who used to be a waiter here," people. And then I remembered the five months a few years ago when I thought I was.

I never took an acting class and was never in a play at school. In 7th grade, to get out of gym, I took chours. My voice was so horrible, singing quietly, way in the back, still wasn't enough to cover my talentless ass. In order to make Mount Mumphry Middle School Happy Dancing Singers competition ready, I became, out of pure auditory necessity, my Junior High's first and only interpreter for the hearing impaired. Standing to the side of the stage, decked out in black pants, black shirt and jazzy white gloves, I attempted the signing of such classics as Amazing Grace, What Color is God's Skin, and my personal favorite, El Shaddai. I was terrible, but the only one who knew it was Gloria Klein, the one deaf girl in school...and she wasn't talking. Gloria appreciated the effort and vowed to never tell anyone 99% of my signings were made up. She tried to help by teaching me after school, but I ended up just learning dirty phrases and blush worthy cuss words. For a deaf girl, Gloria had the filthiest mouth in town.

It's getting late and I have to work tomorrow, so I will finish this story another time. Oh and by the way, I saw a poster for a missing dog named 'lil Bit. Brown, white eyes. It's on the corner of Howard and Lafayette. If anyone knows anything about the pup, call the number that's on the poster.

Lovely, Heather Mary...

I would like to welcome the lovely Heather-Mary back aboard this crazy train called blogging. Like taking a 45 minute stroll down bad memory lane, Lovely Heather Mary chronicles our friendship and one of my many breakdowns, revealing in graphic detail one of the worst things I have ever done to another person. The daunting shame I carry after reading her words are lightened only by the sweet gratitude I feel for allowing me back into her life. Begin at the beginning, folks, and don't stop till the tears are a'rollin. Enjoy.

Wanted: French Tutor...

My French class at the Learning Annex is a bit harder than expected. If there are any French speaking people out there, possibly living in France, with the initials MB, please contact me. I would love to hear from you.

Vampires Suck...

To this day, I have never lived up to my potential, and please God, I hope I never will. Yes, I agree, I do fear success. My success should be feared. Words on notes sent home to Mom and Dad, referring to my "talents", describing them as underdeveloped and unrealized may have worried my folks, but not me. I found those words to be a great comfort, and with commitment and true diligence, I will work tirelessly to remain an underachiever. You may all breathe a sigh of relief.

It's my own fault. Every Sunday after church, instead of playing outside with my friends, I would sit in my basement, lights off and watch every scary movie Channel 20 had to offer. Werewolves, Frankensteins, Mummys, I couldn't get enough. But the monsters I feared most were Vampires, or to be more specific, their victims. I was confused and never understood why some, who found themselves on the wrong side of Dracula's fangs, were found dead while others were found un-dead. How, with such little effort, a normal person could be transformed into pure evil...with just one little bite? Suspicious? Were they given a choice - die or become like me, or was it something deeper, darker, prophetic? Perhaps the "survivor" had always traveled a murkier road, the Count simply paved the way providing a literal blood lust, replacing the symbolic counterpart created at birth. We become what we are...the truth.

For years, these ideas terrified me, and as time passed, I became tortured by them. I spent my days searching in the eyes of others, discerning which path they followed, wondering if they were doing the same. My heightened paranoia made the first month of high school impossible. Kids made fun of my excessive mirror time or window time or anything with a reflective surface time. It wasn't vanity but a way to convince myself my soul was intact. I spent hours outside in the sun, soaking up its rays, become darker and darker, proving to myself I had not yet been turned. At night, the covers around my neck remained pulled tight, exposing not one inch of flesh. And I prayed, and if by God's grace a choice was given, I would choose death...the road be damned. These thoughts tore through my mind for weeks, and finally, unsurprisingly, they triggered my first break.

Through the years, at certain moments, I have caught glimpses of my true potential, most recently 6 months ago at the hospital. My potential cleared the room, my potential shocked the nurses, my potential landed me in restraints for three days...and just think what might have happened if I had just applied myself.

Love, Heather-Mary...

Each day as I walk through the door to our apartment, I love hearing Heather-Mary's squeals of excitement. It's not me she's happy to see but the pile of mail I hold in my hands. "Heather-Mary Herman? Is there a Heather-Mary Herman in the house?" Sticking her head out her bedroom door, her face flush with anticipation, she cries, "I'm Heather-Mary Herman!"

Fingering through the mail, I say in my best mailman voice, "I think I have something for you, young lady. You sure are popular with the boys." "Love letters," she sighs. Barely able to contain herself, Heather-Mary jumps onto her bed, letter opener in hand and eagerly waits. Yes, I know it's silly, this ritual we play each day, but she enjoys it. These letters, no matter who they're from are her connection, the one thing in this world that makes her feel a part, so gladly I play along. The cat, Mr. Jingle Maryweather, or as I call him, Cat, wants no part of it. As he leaves the room in disgust, he mutters under his breath words I haven't learned yet in class, but you don't have to be fluent in French to know he thinks we are both nuts.

As I toss each letter to Heather-Mary, she takes them and carefully arranges them on her bed. They surround her, a crowd of love starved fans. She looks at each hand-written note, smiling, touching one and then another, picking up one, change of mind, then picking up another. "Which one to choose, which one to choose?" Like watching a child on Christmas morning, not knowing which present to open first. Finally, she makes her pick and with her grandparents antique elephant tusk letter opener, she delicately opens the first letter.

"Sincerely, John Redman," the letter closes. As she smiles, lingering in the memory of his sweet words, I find Mr. Redman's formality sourly odd. His new found politeness, perhaps a recent trait picked up on the yard at Bolivar County Correctional Facility. I wonder to myself if the 10 year old girl he kidnapped got to see this mannered side. From all reports, I believe not, but before I can ask the question, Heather-Mary is on to the next.

Everett Stokes - High School teacher, former college football star currently serving life for armed robbery and attempted murder at Sussex 1 State Prison in Virginia. "Attempted murder," with the emphasis on attempted she offers up, eyes never leaving the page, "it's a completely different ballgame." Heather-Mary does have her standards.

On and on, letter after letter, prisoner after prisoner - Philip Dangy, Cole Mustgrove, Casey Collings - drug dealer, rapist, car thief. From Maine to California, Heather-Mary is on a first name basis with what seems to be half the population of men in the United States Penal System...and couldn't be more happy for the attention. I wonder if these men have any idea the woman writing them is every bit as much a prisoner as are they. How could they, for as many men in this deep pool of pen-pals, there are as many versions of Heather-Mary, and not one of them live on the Lower East Side of New York, trapped in a 8 by 10 ft bedroom, eating everything under the sun. Heather-Mary is blond and a red head, with longish straight curly hair. Her height ranges for 5ft 3 - Philip Dangy likes 'em little, to 6ft 1. She's been a cheerleader, a stay at home mom, an 18 year old girl, straight off the bus from Nebraska to a confused 13 year old boy. What ever these men want, what ever they are looking for or desire, Heather-Mary figures it out and gives it to them. "What's the big deal," she says. "I love getting letters and I make them feel good. It makes me feel good, besides, I'm never gonna see any of these guys."

I wonder how much it costs to rent a mailbox at the Post Office. I think tomorrow I'm going to find out.