The Retreat. Dijorn Moss

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      “He is, isn’t he? It has to be someone from that church.” This time, Karen’s tears admitted her guilt. “Who is it?”

      “Listen, baby, we can work this out.”

      The levees that held back Quincy’s anger broke. He swung the golf club down on her glass table like an axe, and shattered a piece of glass.

      “Have you lost your mind?” Karen yelled.

      “Who is it?” Quincy voice had a demonic rage to it.

      He turned toward her picture display case. He hated to have to destroy their wedding pictures. Quincy looked real good in his black tux with the buttercream-colored tie, but that picture represented the sham that had become his life, so it had to go. With one swing, he started to destroy the pictures on Karen’s shelf, including the high school graduation picture of their daughter, Sasha, who was now a student at UC Berkeley.

      He knew he would regret his actions, but he was too caught up in the sounds of broken glass and Karen’s screams. The two entities sounded like thunder. Two men wearing navy blue blazers entered the office.

      “Sir, you have to leave right now!” one security guard said while pointing toward the door.

      “What you going to do with your flashlight, your clip-on tie, and a jacket that’s two sizes too small?” Quincy now raised his bent 9 iron like a samurai sword.

      The second security guard emerged from behind the first. He was almost a foot taller than the other security guard.

      “I guess you choose to do this the hard way,” the second security guard stated.

      With that said, both security guards rushed Quincy before he could get a good swing, and wrestled him to the ground. They lifted Quincy off the ground, and he kicked his feet up to try to get loose.

      “Get your hands off me!” Quincy yelled, but to no avail. The men escorted him out and he endured the dropped jaws of his wife’s coworkers.

      The elevator doors opened, and then sealed in Quincy and the two behemoth security guards.

      The compacted space and elevator music did nothing to loosen the guards’ grips around Quincy’s arms. This would be the part in the movie when the hero disables the guards and walks out of the elevator, with the guards left unconscious on the floor. This would not be the case for Quincy, because these guys were pretty strong.

      The elevator reached the bottom floor and the doors slid opened. The two men carried Quincy out on the tips of his toes.

      “We could let you go if you were going to go in peace,” one of the security guards said.

      “No, I still want to do things the hard way,” Quincy replied.

      “Suit yourself,” the security guard said.

      There was light foot traffic in the lobby, and Quincy was too furious to be embarrassed. If he got a second crack at Karen, he would cause more damage and the real police would be escorting him out. The guards released their hold from Quincy as soon as they passed through the front sliding doors. The sky was still beautiful, but Quincy’s soul was cloudy. He’d heard about out-of-body experiences. Up until this point, he viewed the notion as a load of crap. Quincy had to come to grips with the fact that he just might be having an out-of-body experience. Karen? Karen having an affair?

      Quincy could not begin to fathom that his wife of twenty years was capable of such actions, capable of being unfaithful. Quincy had had his share of perspective rendezvous that he reneged on at the last moment for the sake of his marriage. He thanked God for the fact that he had not engaged in infidelity. Now that very same God had betrayed him. There was only one thing Quincy could do: call up a friend and borrow a G-5 jet. He needed to leave town.

      Chapter Two

      Chauncey pulled his champagne-colored Cadillac into the parking lot behind the baseball field. His New International Bible, just a touch lighter than his chestnut skin, seemed like an extension of himself. As he exited the car, Chauncey was greeted by a gust of wind that pushed the autumn leaves into his path. After locking the door, he turned and started his walk along the cemented path of the park.

      Chauncey passed by an empty playground. He could remember a time when this playground was full of children at play. That was another time. In the distance Chauncey could make out a group of thugs, petty neighborhood gang-bangers, hanging out under a tree, blasting god-awful rap music.

      They, he surmised, were the reason there were no longer children at this park. Drinking, smoking, cussing, and carrying on. Well, that stops now. Chauncey was mighty and strong in the Lord. He was going to take back the park by reclaiming some lost souls. As he continued down the path, he passed a derelict water fountain. It stood in the middle of the park between the soccer field and the basketball courts.

      In the old days, kids would take a break from shooting hoops or kicking around the ball, and gather here. Now it just stood idle. The fountain had a two-step platform. Chauncey walked over and positioned himself on the second step. He opened his Bible. The wind blew the pages over, but the Bible was more for the look and less for the actual message. Chauncey knew the passage by heart, knew every line and the cadence it deserved.

      “Oh yes, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus! Lord, you declare in your Word that you’re the way, the truth and the light. Those who believe in you shall not perish, but have everlasting life. I pray that everyone under the sound of my voice will choose life today,” Chauncey prayed.

      Chauncey’s voice must have carried over the sound of their music; the thugs underneath the tree were now eyeing him.

      “Those who practice sin shall not inherit the kingdom of heaven. You have to be born again.” As he said this, Chauncey felt his voice crack. It was their attention that he wanted as he tried to project his message over the din of their music. “I’m that voice that cries in the wilderness, ‘Make it straight!’”

      “Make it straight with the Lord,” a homeless man shouted from behind him.

      Chauncey turned around. The man had salt-and-pepper dreads that caked his shoulders and reached down his dirty army jacket. He was pushing a shopping cart filled with bags of cans and plastic bottles. As he approached the fountain he continued to speak, but it was low and slow and sounded like gibberish. The smell of caked-on liquor was oppressive, sweet and sour at the same time. It stung Chauncey’s nose.

      Chauncey did not have time for this deranged man. So he broke from the fountain, walking in the direction of the thugs under the tree. Halfway there, he spied a young black girl who lay on top of a blanket. She wore sunglasses and a tie-dyed bikini top with white shorts. Chauncey maneuvered around her to step in her shade, and the girl immediately used her hand as a visor.

      “Hello,” she said.

      “Hello, God bless you. I saw you from over at the fountain,” he replied. “Enjoying this beautiful weather?”

      “Yeah, I’m supposed to be studying.” She pointed to a casually opened philosophy textbook tattooed with garish highlighter and random notes.

      “I would like to talk with you about making Jesus your Lord and Savior.”

      “No, thank you,” she СКАЧАТЬ