New Heart Church



  NEW HEART CHURCH

  BY

  JIM BARRINGER

  Part One

  Chapter One

  December was a decent time to move to Texas, I decided, as I shot one more glance at the numbers on the brick-and-concrete apartment building and wrestled my Chevy Tahoe into one of the parking spaces out front. As someone accustomed to Midwestern winters, I couldn’t complain about the sunny skies and 50-degree air that embraced me as I opened the driver’s door.

  Relocating to Fort Worth definitely hadn’t been high on the list of things I thought I would do when I graduated from college, but here I was, a freshly-minted English major with a degree from a college no one outside of the Midwest, and even most people in Indiana, had never heard of. The only reason I was here at all is that my aunt had recently moved, but was still paying rent on the apartment I was about to move into. My parents had hastily put the kibosh on any thought of having me move back home to look for a job, but I’m not sure I could blame them. Naturally they wanted me out of the house and gone, so that I would stop eating all their food and clogging up their driveway. I also think, though, that deep down they were ashamed at what they had become: dead-end employees in dead-end jobs, unhappy with life, just killing time until the next weekend when they would scratch out a couple days’ worth of happiness before going back to the job they hated. I knew they wanted better for me than that.

  That said, my current situation was not an ideal alternative. I would be moving to the Dallas-Fort Worth area, a city – a metropolis – with which I was not the slightest bit familiar, and in fact had never even been to. I would know nobody, have no support system, and have no job lined up, although I had a substantial savings that would last me through the first month. Even an English major ought to have a job in a month, right? And the people in the apartment building had known my aunt, or maybe they hadn’t, since she was well known for being the quiet, mousy one in the family.

  It may not have been an ideal alternative, but it was, at the moment, the only one.

  Taking a long breath, I spun the key out of the ignition and threw my backpack over my shoulder. Someone wearing a name tag had come out to the curb to see what was taking so long, and she half-smiled nervously at my approach.

  “I’m Eli Radak. I’m here to move in.”

  Some of the apprehension melted off her face. “Oh, Helen’s nephew? We’ve been expecting you for several days now.”

  “Oh. Good, I guess. I mean, I’m glad somebody knew I was coming.”

  “We sure did,” she chirped, with the kind of patronizing smile that made me want to dislike her instantly. “Well, your apartment is number 305. Would you like some help with your bags?”

  “What? No, no. I’ll get them.” I wasn’t in the Midwest anymore; back in small-town Indiana there was no way a woman was going to carry a man’s bags. The woman wouldn’t offer and the man wouldn’t let her. I was a little surprised it had even happened here, in the heart of the south, but this was big cosmopolitan Fort Worth, and I had the feeling that I was only beginning to be surprised by the way things were done here.

  I lugged the first of my bags up the long staircase, my thudding steps echoing in the uncarpeted passageway. The apartment building was old, maybe 1960s vintage, and sat in a not-really-upscale but not-really-rundown area just west of downtown. From the looks of it, it might have been an old warehouse, haphazardly redone as the factories fled the city. Sure enough, opening the door and pushing open the door to 305, I could see that it was a single-room studio, decked out with plain walls, bare hardwood floors, and huge windows, the telltale signs of a converted factory. The winter sun poured in the window, and with my nose pressed against the glass I had a pleasant view out onto the street I was parked on, the name of which I couldn’t remember to save my life. I spent a few hours unpacking my things, although I felt it really shouldn’t have taken that long given how little I owned. The sun was just beginning to dip below the trees to the west when a quiet knock on the door surprised me, and I half-jumped.

  “You white people, always scared of the black man,” the visitor chuckled.

  “Just wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  “I know, son. I was just playing.” He came in and extended a dark hand. “Stanley Raines. You’re Helen’s boy?”

  “Nephew, yeah. Eli Radak. Nice to meet you, Stanley.” His tall, lean frame spoke to a life of working with his hands, and his calluses felt like they’d have been more at home with a rake or hoe in them. If I’d had to guess his age, I’d have put him somewhere near 55; the patches of gray in his close-cropped hair lending him a distinguished aura.

  “What brings you to Texas, Eli?”

  “I’m not sure. Nowhere else to go, I guess.”

  “Well, there are worse places to be, that’s for sure. I think you’ll like it in this building. Lots of good things are happening here.”

  “I could use a few more good things in my life. Right now it seems there aren’t many of them.”

  “We’ll deal with that in due time,” he chuckled, stroking his chin. “For now, can I help you with your bags?”

  The offer of aid caught me on the hop. “Uh, sure, I guess. If you want to.”

  “I’d be delighted. I never pass up a chance to help a brother in need.”

  “Hey, I’m not the brother here; you are.” I wished I could suck the words back into my mouth. What a feeble attempt at racial humor – not a way to make a good first impression.

  But Stanley guffawed, slapping his knee. “I like you already, Eli. You’re quick.”

  I smiled nervously, still not sure how my faux pas had been taken as genuine humor, but before I could even think twice Stanley was out the door and on the way to the stairs.

  A few minutes later we had brought the rest of my bags upstairs. The mound of four suitcases sat forlornly, pushed up against one wall of the cavernous apartment. I had no covers for the bed – I would have had no bed at all, had Aunt Helen not left hers – no silverware, no dishes, no furniture, no television. I had a computer but no desk to put it on. No telephone, no dinner table. No food. An indignant yowl from my stomach reminded me that I’d been putting off that particular necessity for a little too long.

  “I heard that,” declared Stanley. “You’re thin enough as it is, boy. Don’t let that stomach go empty.”

  “Fine. What’s a good place to eat around here?”

  “I guess you don’t have nothing in the fridge? Well, then, you’re always welcome to come eat at my place. I make a mean chicken casserole.”

  “Thanks, Stanley, but no thanks. I’d kind of like to get out, see the neighborhood. Get a feel for the local scene.” I didn’t want to be imposing on people in the very first day I was here. I was grateful for Stanley’s overtures and all that, but if it was all the same to him I’d rather fend for myself.

  “Yeah, sure. Couple blocks down that way you’ll find an Italian place called Leonardo’s. They’ve got decent stromboli and sandwiches.”

  “It’s safe to walk around after dark?”

  “It’s pretty safe. There’s always some bad eggs anywhere you go, you know.”

  “Right. It’s just…well, I’ve never been to a city before. All I know is what I’ve seen on TV.”

  Stanley chuckled. “Lord have mercy. Well, Eli, it was good to meet you. Come say hi sometime.”

  “Will do, Stanley. Thanks for introducing yourself.”

  “My pleasure, son. See you around.”

  In the fading twilight, the streets were already mostly empty. Here and there the streetlights began to flicker on, blanketing the road in a patchwork quilt of light. Away from the apartment, I finally had a
moment to breathe slowly and digest what had happened to me so far.

  Living in a city I was totally clueless about? Check. No job, no friends, no family to call on? Check. No possessions, including food, in my apartment? Check. That was a recipe for a winning life, right there. Basically the only perk was that my aunt was paying for my rent, which was a couple hundred bucks a month that I wouldn’t have to worry about – but I would still have to pay for everything else, which necessitated getting a job post haste.

  I let my legs go on autopilot while I envisioned my resume in my head. Nondescript major from a nondescript college, meager job experience, nothing really outstanding. I truly was the jack of all trades and master of none.

  Forget it. I’d worry about that tomorrow. At least tonight I’d have some good Italian to keep me company.

  I strolled into Leonardo’s and picked up a stromboli and a Coke, then sat down in a corner booth. The crowd and the laughter, sparse as it might have been for eight in the evening, only served to remind me of everything I’d left behind. Swallowing the stromboli along with a lump in my throat, I took my Coke and headed back. The night had descended quickly and the darkness seemed to hover low, like a canopy I could almost reach out and touch. To my east the skyscrapers of downtown loomed, and I could distantly hear the roar of Interstate 30, a mile or so to the south. The road I was on – Sixth Street, I saw, from a glance at the street sign – was completely deserted. So were the sidewalks.

  I couldn’t explain, in that moment, the feeling that came over me, but it was something like profound loneliness. I felt more alone than I’d ever felt. Here I was in a city of nearly a million people, part of a metroplex that was home to more than six million, yet I was all by myself. There was no one I even go share this feeling with. I could hear all around me the sounds of people living and moving, the vibrant noise of a city, but I felt none of that in my own life. I had never been so surrounded by people but so totally isolated. A lump rose in my throat, making it hard to breathe, while I stood, not even sure what to do with the emotions I was feeling.