Driving with Chris

I was in a hurry to get home, for the rain was scything across my windscreen and visibility was declining. So, it seemed, were my fellow drivers, whose cars scurried past, as though we all shared a common object – hunkering down till we could get to the shelter of our respective homes. We were isolated in our moving machines, but we were warm and safe. I was just thinking how good it felt not to be out in this weather when I saw him.

He was standing alone at a bus stop, hood pulled back, head hunched forward, eyes peering expectantly at the road ahead. I wondered how long he had been waiting. Even though I had just spotted him, there was that in his attitude that led me to think he might have been standing there some little time. And he was noticeable, being the only human being I had really seen that evening, for the cars were mere moving blurs, their drivers quite undistinguishable through the lashing curtains of rain.

I passed him, then changed lanes to the left, but the next couple of intersections forbade a U-turn, so I had to drive on a little way before I could finally turn the car around. As I drove back, I thought about what my lover would say when he knew I had been picking up strangers again.

“Taking enormous risks… Crimes of opportunity… No knowing what might happen… Extremely foolish… Have told you and told you…”

When I drove up to where the youth was still standing, I noticed that he was neatly, though cheaply dressed in a gray sweatshirt with a hood and black trousers. He was still gazing up the road with eager anticipation, as though each passing minute rendered him more impatient. He glanced at my approaching vehicle with surprise, but when I rolled down my window and called out “Excuse me, sir, would you like a ride?” he smiled, nodded, and stepped forward. Climbing into the car, he fastened his seat belt without being asked and thanked me politely.

He was very polite. Every sentence ended with “Ma’am.” He was also educated; he was working towards a degree in business from a local community college. Emboldened by his friendliness, I ventured to ask him why people in his community had so much difficulty accessing higher education.

He did not look offended. Nor did he seem to need the apologies that accompanied my question.

He regarded me for a few moments, his eyes serious, even a little sad, before he answered.

“Black people have settled, ma’am,” he said in a slow, deep voice. “We’ve been hopeless for so long that we’re finding it hard to hope again.”

He spoke musingly, as though mine were a question that, despite its banality, still carried some significance because it formed part of his own thoughts. Behind the quiet words I read the sorrow of a whole people – I heard the echoes of African spirituals and the resignation of a culture that has been part of the U.S. for as long as any other and yet has still to struggle to be accepted.

He talked about his sense of isolation from some of his peers who were into “the street life” including his own brother, who was “not into school, ma’am – he runs with a tough crowd.” Sometimes, he admitted, he felt alone because it seemed that not too many other young black men supported him in his quest for educational and financial opportunity. His voice was relaxed, conversational, but the words still sounded measured and thoughtful, the tones of one who spends time examining and analyzing the world and his place in it.

“Had you been waiting long?” I presently enquired.

He nodded. “I’d forgotten that it was President’s Day,” he said, smiling. “They suspend the bus service in observance of this day.”

President’s Day commemorates George Washington and Abraham Lincoln’s birthdays. The one was responsible for leading the American Revolutionaries against British armies, and the other for the civil war that eventually led to the end of institutionalized slavery in the United States. They had suspended the bus service on this day, so young men like the one beside me, who depended on public transportation to get around, could not get to work and had to depend on the chance of a ride offered by a stranger, a chance itself fraught with its own risks.

We turned into the bus station where the young man wished to be dropped off. As the car idled at the curb, he gave me his number, scrawling it and his name hastily on a battered ticket of Friday Night Valentine.

“Where do you work, Chris?” I asked.

“FedEx,” he responded, and quickly, as though he feared to be disbelieved, fished out a grubby-looking card with his name printed on it and the company’s logo on the top right.

I turned the card over. There was a name written on the back.

“Benny Hinn,” I read aloud. On the journey Chris had spoken once or twice of his faith in God, who he believed was guiding him through the challenges he faced as a young black man trying to make good.

Chris smiled enthusiastically, “Yeah, he’s great. I love his show.”

I knew the name. He was a Christian “televangelist” – a term my MS Word seems to know, though it professes ignorance of Hinn in particular – and he is reputed to be one of the richest of them all. For non-Americans, televangelists are men – and some women, too – who use television to spread the message of their faith. Hinn had been born in the town of Jaffa in Israel, and I had first heard his name from a white woman in Idaho, who narrated ecstatically how Hinn had been to India and how millions of Indians had apparently gathered to hear him “speak of the Lord.” This could well be true – Indians will gather to hear anything – we’re not particular – and as for the Lord, even non-Christian Indians accept Jesus as a god. One or two more don’t make a difference; we have so many, some of them still flourishing on the earthly plane, like the Sai Baba in the Deccan. Indeed, if Hinn had been advertising his powers as a faith healer, he was quite likely to have attracted even more of a following. Indians adore silver-tongued faith healers, and tolerate the schism that usually exists between their words and their promises with commendable patience. Such worthies are often vouchsafed a place in the pantheon of semi divinities. Hinn’s chances, I fancied, were fair; though he had a lot of competition, there was nevertheless plenty of room.

Chris obviously admired the man enormously, and found his words a source of encouragement and comfort. But we had no time to discuss Hinn, for the young man, understandably, was eager to be on his way. It must have been time for his train.

“Be careful in the rain out there, you hear?” I called after him, grandmother fashion.

He smiled, nodded, and lifted a hand in farewell. I looked after him as he disappeared into the station, probably towards the turnstiles. If he took the train to get to work, he would be likely to use a pass. Queuing up for a ticket every day would be too time consuming.

Later that day, I read that a few years earlier, Benny Hinn had solicited donations from his congregation for a “seed-faith” gift for the purchase of a thirty-six million dollar Gulfstream Jet.

He, too, had to get to work if he was to continue his mission of serving his flock, one of whom had just wandered into my car this rainy evening of late February.