I hummed to myself
as I walked from my Sunday School classroom. Teaching the Word always
gave me a high. I smiled and greeted the parishioners. Their return choruses of “Hello, First Lady” “Good Morning, Mother Thompson”
made me smile. A man I hadn’t seen before looked me up and down—on the
sly—before saying, “Hello, Sister.” My nose wrinkled. Sister. Such a
lowly title. It’s obvious he doesn’t know who I am. Well, no matter, he’ll know in time. I swished my hips in displeasure. I
couldn’t let that fool steal my joy. Just as I’d rounded
the corner, this child smacked into me! My hat tilted and I rocked back
on my new sequin heels as I grabbed a handful of bushy Afro to steady
him. I pulled his little body from me, but not before I noticed a snag in my pantyhose from his accident. I started to slap the
taste out of his mouth! These pantyhose were fifteen dollars on sale!
If this chap had torn any sequins off of my—Remember what the Anger
Management Class taught you! my mind screamed, invading my
thoughts. Anger Management Class. I’d been forced to take
one after I nearly snatched the piano player bald when she ignored my song request one Sunday. It wasn’t my fault. She was
just messing with me. I’d just lost my grandfather and I wanted to hear
his favorite song. Trifling heffa acted like she couldn’t read my
writing or anyway, that’s what she claimed later. Doesn’t matter. After the whopping I put on her, she’ll know what song I’ m
requesting even if I write it in Chinese from now on. I
took a calming breath before I refixed the smile on my face and
slackened my grip in his hair. He took a step backwards; tears were in
the corner of his eyes. “Are you all right, baby?” I asked
in a soothing tone. He nodded but didn’t say a word. “Go find your
folks, okay?” I still spoke calmly, but the urge to slap the face off
the child hovered just below the surface. He must have felt it because he took off like I’d put my shoe in his behind…and I
wanted to. I swear…I truly did. You know how Pastor reacted
the last time you had to explain the doodoo on the tip of your shoes,
my mind chided me. If that chap hadn’t mouthed
off, he wouldn’t have had these nines up his behind! I retorted
soundlessly. The cost of the surgery had pissed the Pastor off royally.
But it beat them going to the police. I pushed the
child from my mind as I navigated further down the hallway. I gave the
children plenty of room. No need for me to snap so close to the start
of service. It wouldn’t look goo—Glory! Will you look at little Leticia
Godbold? Plaits going any which way but right. Her mama needs
a beat down for allowing her daughter to look this way. I’ll bet her
mama’s hair and nails are hooked up as usual. A few years ago, I would
have pulled that gal in the bathroom and worked on her head. But not
now. Uh uh. She’s not my child and she’s got her own mama. I
learned to let folks raise their children any way they wanted to. So if
her hair works for her mama, it works for me. I sucked my teeth and
kept on walking. I entered the sanctuary and paused while
my eyes searched for any irregularities—a book out of place, a pull in the carpet, a table set out a few inches too much—but everything looked good. Prosperous. My husband and I started this church
must have been ten or fifteen years ago. I tell you, it’s the best idea
we’ve ever had. Oh we tried the conventional stuff—jobs, working for “The Man”—but I tell you, nothing pays as well as
working for the Lord! I stood in the narthex and let the
Holy Spirit invade me. Thank you, Jesus. With my spirit filled up, I
walked towards my designated pew. An engraved gold sign on the
side let everybody know it was my pew, too. I slid onto the mahogany
seat, fingers searching for dust as I got
settled. Then, the smell of Joy perfume wafted to my
nostrils. I didn’t even have to turn to know it was Pat Pumphrey, our so called ‘reformed prostitute’. I turned and gave her the
evil eye anyway. When Pat first found the Lord, she had the
gall to sit on my pew. I didn’t upbraid her at first. The Christian in
me said to just let her be, she would understand her place after a while. Didn’t work. That heffa Amen’d each time I Hallelujah’d. I’d speak a long line in tongues. She’d respond with
words strung together like she was Scrabble champion or something.
Shoot, if I’d wanted a chorus when I praised my husband, I’d have
joined the choir. I mean she was messing up my timing royally! It got to the point where I just opened my mouth and that hussy beat
me praising! I finally had to give her ‘The Talk’ —you don’t Amen my
husband if I’m the only one Hallelujahing him. Now if the congregation
got into the picture that was fine. But if it’s a One Woman Show, let
it continue to be a One Woman Show. I thought that
settled it…but it didn’t. Then, I heard she was sniffing around, trying
to get a ‘healing session.’ Now I don’t know if y’all have heard how
some preachers are running around ‘healing,’ AKA screwing, their women
parishioners. Not my husband. I already know these women up in
here will Honey-do if I Honey-don’t. I’m not having
it! I confronted her ass after church following a horrendous service in which an affair Deacon Myers had going on
came to light. I was fed up with these trifling ‘hos. She tried to deny
it; acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about. But Sister
Shirley had told me and Shirley ain’t got no reason to lie to me! We’ve
been tight ever since I sat with her when she had her abortion five years ago. I had Pat’s lying butt in a chokehold when
Harold rushed onto the scene. He asked me to be calm…I don’t know, the way he said it so quietly pissed me the hell off! I
threw her ass to the ground and zoomed off in my Mercedes 500 SL. She
now tries to avoid me whenever she can and I think it’s a good idea
too. I wrinkled my nose as the usher led a rag-tag
bunch of children in and seated them a few rows from the front. I could see if there were pretty children, but it was obvious they
were the product of project life—loud, good athletic shoes, poor
clothes, poor hygiene…just ugly all the way to the bone—hence, back row
material. I quickly summoned the usher. The way she huffed
and rolled her eyes before she came over told me I needed to give her a crash course in ushering. I was polite as I pointed to
the children and said succinctly, “Back row. Now.” I could tell she
wanted to question my authority and I fingered the brass knuckles in my
purse. She thought we had a problem? I planned to give her a real one! She twisted away, face pursed, but she put them on the back
row like I’d told her. I released the brass knuckles and turned forward
in my seat. A few more parishioners sat down before I
smelled a man stop beside me. Good gracious, it was Sherman Williams. I knew what I would see as soon as he spoke— loud colored
suit, an even louder shirt and tie and gold teeth. Somehow, Mr.
Williams had become ‘taken’ with me. I know I’m a great catch, but I
don’t even know why he thought he should bother me. He drove a BMW 325
and knew he was all that and a bucket of fruit. He even asked
me to ride with him! I told him as nicely as I could—and you know
that was a stretch for me—that the last time I was in anything that had
the number three hundred attached to it, it was a pair of shoes…and
they were on sale. That two dollar pimp couldn’t buy me free water. I’m just that high class. We exchanged pleasantries but I
cut him off when he wanted to linger. I had an image to uphold and he
was blemishing it by association. Finally, the
piano player scurried to her seat. She gave me a scared smile and I
gave her back one with a scripture: Be ever watchful. She read my face
and turned to her music. In moments, the music poured forth and my husband his associates walked in and took their rightful places. Harold looked so handsome, so prosperous
sitting up there. I smiled and winked to let him know what I was thinking. He smiled back One of Harold’s associate
ministers, Reverend Apple, read, or rather, attempted to read the
Scripture. When he said Malacia and not Malachi, I knew that Hooked on
Phonics had found their poster child. The way he murdered the
Word…we should have stoned him right there. I was going to strongly
suggest at minimum a GED refresher course. He made us look
bad. Harold stood and began his prayer. I hallelujahed at
appropriate times and was glad that Pat kept her trap shut.
When he finished, he looked straight at me and smile again. Then
a voice behind me said, “Yes, yes, yes. He sure is yummy.” I almost
flipped the bench turning around to spot the speaker. A red head was
sitting two rows back, a big assed smile plastered on her face. Did
she think he was smiling at her? I stood. I was about to
get this delusional heffa straightened out! Harold must have known what
I was going to do because he gave out an immediate request for
an Altar Call. The people pressed me forward and gave that heffa a
reprieve. She didn’t know it but she hadn’t missed my bullets yet! I
felt the outline of my gun and hoped I’d put on the
safety. We finally shuffled back to our seats. Harold then
asked if anyone had a testimony. People stood and told the usual—deliverance from this sin and that sin, blah, blah, blah.
Then one woman’s story caught my attention. She began telling how she
was involved with a married man and the mess he had her doing—asking
her if she would just stick it out the window so he could ‘hit it’;
driving by and giving her thirty minutes of sex every purple moon; taking her two counties over for a dinner—just ridiculous mess. I
thought she should be glad she finally saw the light that the world
already could see! Instead, she was boohooing like a foolish woman over
a man that wasn’t hers or really his wife’s. Now
here is where it got interesting. That usher that was insolent earlier
swished up to the front and got in her face and shouted, “I know you!
You the bitch that’s been after my Arnold!” You
could hear a fart in the sanctuary. The woman bristled and
stepped forward into the usher’ s face, rolled her eyes up and down the
woman before she said, “Yeah, and?” Uhm uh! I
would have kicked her tail just for the eye rolling
alone. Now the usher had been a hell-raiser in her day…and
every shred of Hell came back to her. While the woman gabbed
her jaws and popped her neck in boldness, the usher reached back and
slapped half the weave off the woman’s head! It was
on! They were scratching and slapping. Bobbing and weaving. The congregation was watching and I could swear I heard
somebody putting a twenty on the usher. I thought about joining the
betting pool, but then the woman kicked the usher in her coochie and
she went down hard, so I held on to my money. The
ministers looked at the deacons. The deacons looked at the
ministers…but nobody even tried to stop the fight. The way everybody
hesitated and looked crazy started to make me suspicious. Maybe they
were afraid to stop it? Afraid of what else the woman had to say? Who else had she been with up in here? I saw red. I
pulled out my 9mm and shot into the ceiling. There were screams and
folks ducked under the pews but I had their
attention. “This is God’s house! How y’all gonna be up in
here duking like you on the streets? And over a man, at that? Both of y’all need to be asking the Lord for mercy on your sick
souls,” I shouted. I then thought about the redhead that
had been talking about my ‘yummy’ husband earlier. I swung the gun around, looked for her. The folks at the back ducked below the
level of the pews in fear. I walked down the aisle until I spotted
her. “You!” I yelled. The redhead’s
eyes were wide in horror. “Me?” she asked like an
idiot. “Yeah, you,” I confirmed for her. “Come over here.”
I waved the gun towards the aisle. She shook her head. This
pissed me off further. “Don’t make me walk on these folks to get to
you,” I said menacingly. The folks lifted and crawled out
of her way as she left the pew. I could see a wet spot where she had
vacated. I marched her to the front of the church, center stage. I turned so that I could see her and Harold, who was now standing,
hands outstretched. “Now,
Honey—” “Don’t you ‘Now, Honey’ me!” I spat. I turned to
the redhead again. “Now tell this congregation why you were sitting behind me saying that my husband was ‘yummy’!” The people
gasped and murmured. Confusion bloomed on the redhead’s
face. “What?” She wanted to play with me. I see. I took a step closer. “Tell these good people why you think you can come up in my church
and try to get with my husband?” “These ’hos have
gotten bad!” I heard someone say. The redhead just stood
and stared. I lifted the gun to chest level. Her eyes stretched, her
hands lifted in front of her, her urine splattered the carpet. “I…I
didn’t know!” she screamed I gave Harold an
I’m-gonna-kick-your-ass look. “You didn’t know and he didn’t tell
you?” “I swear! I had no idea he was married!” “You
didn’t see that fat ass wedding ring?” “He never wore a ring. I
promise!” I gave Harold an I’m-not-gonna-wait-till-church-is-out- before-I-kick-your-ass look. “He took off his ring.” Harold jumped
from the pulpit. “I…I don’t know! I just know that Greg never said he was married.” “Greg never said he…Greg?” I looked at her
crazy. “My husband is Harold!” I grabbed Harold and pulled him closer. He dragged his heels, I guess thinking I was about to show
them who was the real HNIC up in here. “That’s not who I
thought was yummy. It was Deacon Frasier. Greg.” She said, a
now-who’s-crazy smirk on her face. She rotated her neck and swirled her
finger before she pointed to Deacon Frasier. Now I
told y’all about that disrespect stuff and how it will make me whoop
you every time? Well, chick’s actions took me there. I snapped. Anger
Management be dammed! I cocked her upside the head
with the 9mm. It went off on impact. The people ducked and screamed.
Harold ran out the side door. The pulpit cleared. Nobody stopped me as I did the Holy Ghost dance on this heffa who’d made the bad
decision of choosing this church, this Sunday and commenting on the
right man within hearing of a woman who thought she’d meant the wrong
one. Her screams didn’t stop me. The people yelling at me
didn’t stop me (nobody touched me and that was the right decision). The only thing that stopped me was the Taser the
policeman stuck on my arm and shocked the hell out of
me. I felt nothing, heard nothing but saw plenty as I was
dragged down the aisle. The people stared, some smirked and
laughed openly. My sequined shoe flipped off my foot and lay there
lonely. Pat gave me the finger…but nobody stopped them from dragging
their First Lady like trash. Not even Harold. I
can’t wait until I’m back in my right mind again… Pray for
them…
