by Lea Anna Cooper

Created on: March 25, 2009   Last Updated: April 08, 2009

As a retired New York cop, in unfamiliar territory, I'm dubious of the area surrounding me. I should know better. Some things rarely change.

It's twilight, when I observe a curious looking man standing on a wooden crate. He remains there quietly, surveying the crowd at a hectic, city intersection in Detroit.

The streetlights suddenly click on. I clearly notice his expanding waistline, and his messy, white hair; his haggard face and limp jaw revealing deep wrinkles, unveiling his age. His blood-shot eyes all but conquering the blue of the irises. He dons an outdated collar of a preacher, exposing a clear-cut purpose; his green, army coat and scarf, as worn and frayed as his white collar. Is he a self-declared minister? What is his intention? Does he have a church? Does he revitalize souls or extinguish them? I wonder.

I watch the heavy flow of traffic for a few minutes. The red lights are lasting forever. The old man startles me, by speaking loud enough for everyone on the corner to hear.

"You sons and daughters of vice, come hear a saving grace," he rants. "I'll share the greatest scripture of all time! It shall heal your sinner's," he wails, but is interrupted.

"Hey! Put a sock in it, old man!" bellows a street hooker. "We don't want to hear priestly gibberish! It's bad for business! We're here for money. Get lost," she demands, jerking her head sideways, her eyes suited to her angry tone.

Does this preacher stage himself here on a regular basis, to sway sinners into his flock or give reprimand for their way of life? I wouldn't know anything about that, though. I haven't been inside any church for decades.

"You, Saucy, woman of the night, need to hear this more than anyone," shouts the preacher, springing onto the pavement from his crate. He takes small, shuffling steps as he approaches her.

"Is this all you ever do?" he asks, bearing a frown.

"My street business isn't your concern, little man," she snarls, as she leans forward, meeting him face to face. "Besides, what could you do with women like me, besides drive us nuts with that book of yours?" she taunts, as the other three hookers begin to laugh.

"I save them! I save their souls from damnation! Do you want to burn in hell for all of eternity?" he asks, in a heightened whisper, while leaning in nearer to the woman's face. He raises his arthritic finger to his ear, bending it forward, waiting for her answer.

"It's my life, preacher. I've been at this too long to quit now. Besides, I'm not gonna give up makin' bucks, just to listen to a load' a tripe from that book of yours. Now, do us a favor, get lost," she snarls, turning her back.

Rejection! I know the feeling. I instantly recall failures in my life, and the way my ex-wife walked out. It reels an internal self-pity that cuts my insides to shreds.

Watching the old man saunter away, I observe his scowling face. I study his actions, as he quietly clutches that crate, raises his head proudly, and shuffling his feet against the pavement, moves west of the main drag toward the casino lights.

I have nothing to do tonight. Impulsively, I follow him. This old guy sparks an eerie curiosity that's welling up inside me.

I want to see if his pursuit harmonizes elsewhere; his purpose unscathed.

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