The Cerebral Catalyst

Davis had been walking miles, which didn't surprise him. He had been warned that there wasn't much between these small towns, and that the locals seldom picked up hitchhikers. Davis had tried to get a ride on the outskirts of the last town, which had one supermarket and a couple gas station/stores. He had sucked down a couple beers behind the supermarket and, feeling good (and not knowing when he would feel that way again), stuck his thumb out. He hoped the smile on his face would change one of these suspicious minds passing by.

It didn't, and here he was six miles down the road, at what was supposed to be a spot of civilization on his map, in between towns. There was a string of buildings and houses (not a mile in length) next to the railroad tracks, which ran parallel to the road he was on. He spotted one old, faded looking two-story building with a store sign in front of it, but the front door was boarded up. In fact, he saw a few buildings boarded up on what might have been the "main drag" of this little place at one time.

Davis saw some small, old, dirty white clapboard houses further along, with vehicles parked next to them. A couple of side streets led away from the main road, back to other small houses. On the other side of the tracks there were some more side roads that led to a different neighborhood that looked just as poor and shabby, going by the old houses and old vehicles parked in front of them. The only sign of human activity Davis saw was a couple of black kids walking across a worn field on the other side of the tracks. They were dressed in t-shirts and shorts, without shoes, for it was still warm out here in the early evening. Also in the field, a half-starved dog displayed its panting tongue along with prominent ribs, eyeing the newcomer with the small bag slung over shoulder.

"Hiya doin, pal," Davis said. Looking at the dog, he didn't feel so bad about his own situation. He still had a dollar and change, but from the looks of things he was out of luck as far as a cold drink went. It would be another five miles before he got that, it appeared.

Then he saw the church — a building as old as any other on the street — with a big plywood sign in front showing a painted white cross, and the word church under it in bold black letters. There was a small red pickup and two big motorcycles parked in front of it. Davis couldn't see through the front windows of the building, which were blocked with something. The old, rundown looking place looked like it might have been a store at one time before it became a "House of God." Davis, for lack of any other options, decided to knock on the door and ask just how far the next town was. He might get lucky and catch someone going that way.

"C'mon in!" a voice boomed.

Davis poked his head inside with a smile. Immediately, he saw a man with a long, bushy gray beard (reminding him of the ZZ Top guys), stocky and weighing a couple hundred pounds at least, balding on top, with a sleeveless black leather vest over a white T-shirt, blue jeans and black boots. The man nodded rosy red cheeks at him and smiled.

Davis nodded at him, and then at another man sitting in an aluminum chair at the end of a row of them. There were half a dozen rows of the folding chairs, which served in place of pews. The man sitting had long hair, too, was on the portly side, and appeared to be in his late forties, early fifties, too. His smile was just as welcoming.

The man standing in the middle aisle (there were other rows of chairs on the other side of the small room) with a thick book in one hand told Davis to come on in. Davis stepped inside, but not too far. He got right to the point: he didn't mean to disturb them, but he was passing through and wondered just how far he had to walk to get to the next town. He had noticed that the store was closed here.

"Yeah, that's been closed for a while," the man standing said. "The next place up here is three miles. If you're going that way."

Davis nodded that he was.

"Three miles," the man sitting said.

At this point, a third man appeared from a back room behind the pulpit. He was bigger than the other two, his grayish-black hair wasn't as long, and he, too, wore a sleeveless leather vest. He had a big belly that pushed out at a loose T-shirt, worn jeans and biker boots. He greeted Davis and walked up to him and shook hands. He let Davis repeat what he had said about traveling through.

"That's all you got, huh?" he said, smiling, and nodding at Davis's bag.

"I've been going light," Davis said.

The man nodded his head and looked at the other men, who continued to smile.

"Want something to drink?" he asked. "Some water? Soda?"

"Soda would be great."

"Come on in and sit down. Rest a bit." The tall man went into the back room again.

Davis noticed the "pulpit" then, which was the front half of a motorcycle combined with a lectern for the Good Book. Of course, Davis had never seen anything like it, and the two men in the room with him knew it. They had seen this surprised reaction before and smiled at it now.

"You like that?" the man standing asked.

"It surprised me," Davis said, smiling now. He didn't mind seeing something unique like this, something unexpected. He also felt a little easier now in this church for some reason.

"You're not the first," the man sitting said.

"Have a seat," the other said. "Rest your dogs for a bit. We're just waiting to see if some people are gonna show up for a service tonight."

Davis didn't mind taking a seat, for he could let his bag off his shoulder, which ached. The bag wasn't real heavy, but it didn't have to be after walking six miles with it. And it had been another eight, at least, before his beer break in the last town. Davis appreciated the seat — on the outside of the same row where the one man sat — but he hoped this offer didn't entail his being a part of the audience for a sermon. He knew it wouldn't be long before darkness came and he wanted to get back to walking soon. As in other churches, would he have to hear a Message in exchange for what he was given?

These guys seemed different, however. They weren't that much older than him for one thing, and they didn't wear suits and ties, or collars, or any kind of official looking garb. They wore what he assumed they wore every day, everywhere. Nothing fancy or out of the ordinary. Davis did notice a small gold cross hanging from the neck of the man standing, but it wasn't showy, and if he wasn't sitting in a church, he wouldn't have guessed that the book he held was a Bible.

The man sitting asked where he had come from, and when Davis told them — from New England — he had their interest. There were a few states between Massachusetts and this little community in South Carolina.

The biggest man returned from the rear of the building with a couple cans of soda and a large can of beef stew.

"I don't know if you have an opener, but you're welcome to this, too," he said. "It's the only food we have back there."

Davis thanked him and accepted the food and drink. He never turned down the offer of food when on the road, no matter the extra weight in his bag. He opened one of the sodas, and then answered their questions about his trip and how he had fared on the road. They had all done some traveling on their bikes, but had never done it the way he did now. Like most people who had never hitchhiked like this, they wanted to know if Davis had had any scary experiences along the way. When he smiled and said that things could seem a little strange and frightening at times, they nodded in understanding.

"Those are the right words for some experiences on the road, my friend," the big guy said, smiling. "We all know something about that." He looked at his friends and they both nodded, knowingly. The man with the Bible had found a seat. "We all did a lot of things in the past that we don't do now," continued the big man. He had stepped over in front of the bike pulpit, and, for a moment, Davis wondered if he were going to stand behind it and speak. Was this man the leader of this biker congregation? Not the real leader, of course, but perhaps the spokesman for the group.

"Let's just say we had other interests, but that's all in the past now. We have another, more important interest, and that's why we're here tonight. We thought some others were going to show, but it doesn't look that way.

The man sitting in Davis's row looked at his watch and shook his head.

"They should have been here about twenty minutes ago if they were coming."

"Yeah, I know," the one standing said. "I called Harry's number and there was no answer."

"And Bill's supposed to be with Harry," the one with the Bible added. "So if they're not here by now, they probably have something else going."

"It seems that way," the man standing said. "You know, I'm not trying to be nosy or anything, but did you go to church back home? Do you come from a churchgoing family?"

Davis had a feeling something like this was coming, but he appreciated the cold drink and the rest.

"No, I can't say I've been a regular churchgoer," he answered. "And my family wasn't. But I've been in plenty of churches and missions in my travels." He smiled. "I have read some parts of the Bible."

"Have you?" the big man said. "Well, we read that all the time around here."

"That's why we decided to open our own church, to share the Word with our brothers and sisters who are open to it. This is the Lord's House and we're glad He pointed your way to it. It isn't often we have new visitors." He and his friends smiled at that. "As you saw, this is a pretty small place. None of us even live here, actually, but we had a chance to use the building."

"Well, I'm glad you were here," Davis said. "It's always nice to meet friendly people along the way. It helps keep you going."

"We're glad that we could be here for you," the big man said. "I know it can get lonely sometimes out on the road. A friendly word or a helping hand always helps. We like to keep Jesus Christ with us at all times because we've found that He can be a friend like no other."

Davis nodded and drank more soda.

"I bet there have been times you've prayed to something," the big man said, grinning.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"I know how it goes, my man. I used to pray only in emergencies, or when I was scared enough. When I really needed something bad enough. I didn't pray every day like I do now. I had to learn something about faith. How you couldn't just turn it on and off."

"I think you have to have some faith to keep you going," Davis said. Even if it is only in yourself, he thought.

"You got it, brother. Let me ask you something. Would you mind if we said a prayer for you right now?"

"No, not at all," Davis said.

The other two men stood up and, with Davis, they joined hands in a small circle. It wasn't the first time Davis had prayed in a group circle like this; the last time had been at the end of an AA meeting, if he remembered right.

The biggest of the three large men said the words and asked Jesus to watch over this man here as he made his way down the road that night. Amen, they all said.

"Now we know words are all fine and good," the speaker said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. "But we also know you need a little something else to keep you going, too. Will you accept this from me?" He held out a folded bill to Davis.

"Thank you," Davis said, with a shrug, surprised and yet grateful. These days, as with food, he never turned down the offer of money.

Davis quickly pocketed the bill and, as he did, the shortest of the three, the portly one with the warm smile, stuffed another one in Davis's other pocket. He winked and clapped Davis on the shoulder. These men were kind, indeed, and Davis's night was made. He had made the right move in stopping here at the church (where else would he have stopped?). Everything else was closed up for the day except this place of worship, where he was welcomed, listened to, given some inspirational words and a blessing — spiritual and otherwise. He was offered a blanket, but politely refused, saying that he wanted to keep things light.

"Let me give you this, then, for it doesn't weigh much at all," the big man said, handing Davis a pocket-sized Bible. "But it carries weight in other ways." He patted Davis on the shoulder.

The man with the big Bible in his hand gave Davis a little wooden cross to carry in his pack, too, and with it a business card with Bikers For Jesus on it, along with an e-mail address. Davis had mentioned that he communicated with friends and family back home via the Internet, and he promised to send them an e-mail from Florida, his eventual destination. He'd let them know where he had settled for the winter. They said they would like that.

It was dark by the time Davis walked a mile or so, but that didn't bother him; he didn't have his thumb out anyway. His steps had new life in them now that he had gotten a "boost" back at the church. He would knock off the last two miles within an hour, and there would be a store or two, at least, from which to purchase his night's provisions. He would eat and drink well this night, thanks to the forty bucks he now had in his wallet. Who would have thought he'd be that fortunate in passing through that small, poor, dirty looking place next to the tracks? But that is how things went when you were on the road; you never knew where the next windfall was coming from. Davis was delighted now, though the blisters on his feet had gotten worse. It wouldn't be long until he could find some place in the shadows and relax with his shoes off and a cold tallboy in his hand. He'd buy himself a big sandwich to go with the beer, or maybe he'd eat the beef stew in his bag. Whatever, at least he'd sleep well that night with his stomach full and his nerves at ease.

A little later that night, Davis sat in a Laundromat next to a small supermarket he had just shopped in. He had bought a can opener for the beef stew, some snack crackers, and two big cans of malt liquor. He sat down in the empty Laundromat to enjoy his repast, and as this wasn't one of those new places with a TV in it, he decided he would read something from the little Bible he was given. He figured he could spend a little time with it because of the generosity shown to him earlier. Perhaps a dose of the Good Word would do him some good, wandering drunk that he was.

He tried reading portions in different sections. When the first couple of passages didn't touch him, he tried a third. He wasn't in any hurry to finish his meal. Yet, as usual, Davis soon got tired of the Good Book; he never had been able to maintain an interest in it. He never could make a connection to the language, and never could convince himself that these were the words of God. His food and malt liquor did more to sooth him on this night than the holy words. Yet, he thought that someone who came in to do their laundry might take an interest, so he left the book on the counter, with the wooden cross on top of it. He found the bikers' business card in his pocket and he put that in his wallet. He would definitely send those kind people a message further down the road.

______________________________________
posted 04.24.06.

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