I like it. It feels authentic. Real people living real lives. I wonder what that’s like. Maybe someday I'll know them as friends and neighbors, but right now I'm alone on the street.
By the time I reach the Portway Tavern, my pants are drenched and my shoes squeak with moisture. The tiny droplets of mist, which seemed so innocuous when I started out, have the penetration power of a diamond drill bit. The bar is empty except for a lone gambler, a young white man feeding twenties into one of the brightly lit video poker games. A corner of the room is dominated by a huge television screen showing a muted basketball game. I drape my dripping coat over the back of a chair at one of the small tables and sit down opposite.
The bartender is a tall Black woman with close-cropped hair. She nods at me and brings over a menu.
“Burger Tuesday,” she says. “Standard burgers cost seven dollars, pint of Bud for three. Craft pint for five. Can I get you a drink?”
“Can you ever,” I say. The day has been a long one. “What’s on tap?”
She presses a finger to her cheek, thinking. “Alaska Amber. A Buoy Beer American pale, IPA from Fort George Brewing, Widmer Hefeweizen.”
Might as well start tasting the community brews, although I do like a good Hef. “I’ll take the Buoy pale, and a cheeseburger. Medium well. No pickles.”
“No special orders on Burger Tuesday. You gotta take it the way it comes.”
“Right. That seems to be the story of my life.” Taking what comes. Maybe there's a lesson there, but I'm too tired and hungry to think about it. I mentally calculate the cost of my meal: twelve bucks, not counting tip. I think of my bank account, healthy with inheritance for now, but no fresh infusions on the horizon.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got the best burgers in town. Everybody says so.” The bartender/waitress cracks a smile and goes behind the bar to pull my beer. When she brings it to my table, she says, “I’m Claire. Give a call if you want anything else.”
Claire goes back to her tasks. The young gambler has emptied his wallet and shrugs on his jacket, looking like a hound dog kicked too many times. He leaves without looking at either of us. Some laminated flyers are tucked between the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin dispenser, and I pull them out.
One is an advertisement for Burger Tuesday, with a photo of a dewy bottle of Budweiser. The second is a drinks menu. The third, not laminated, is an advertisement for a local church. I take a swallow of my pale ale. It has a pleasant citrusy hoppiness without the mouth-puckering bitterness of an IPA. I savor it as I examine the flyer.
“The Church of the Spirit Welcomes You” it reads in a swirly font that looks like it should be on a wedding invitation. “The Spirit speaks to all! Join our worship and be infused with divine creative energy. Pastor Victoria Harkness officiating.” Below the words is a black and white head-and-shoulders photo of a white woman, mid-thirties, with long dark hair and penetrating dark eyes. Her Mona Lisa smile doesn’t show any teeth. Although her name is completely unfamiliar, I feel a chill frisson of recognition.
This is the woman in my vision.
My throat closes up, and perspiration dews my upper lip.
Claire sets a plate down in front of me. I look up, blinking. The cheeseburger smells amazing, with an orange slab of cheddar melting down the side and a pile of thick and steaming French fries. I pick one up and take a bite for comfort. Delicious, despite the lack of customization.
She says, “That’s my church, if you’re interested.”
In general, I’m not a religious person. I’ve seen too much pain and base unkindness and the gross unfairness of the world to have any cozy illusions about the love of God or the possibility of salvation. But now I feel something I don’t understand, connection with the woman pictured on the flyer. I’m confused and a tiny bit terrified, but I rope that off into its own corner. Maybe an infusion of spirituality is called for.
“Who is she?”
“Our pastor. She’s wonderful. Really gifted. You should come listen to her speak.”
“Is she filled with divine creative energy?” I ask, facetiously.
Claire nods, not taking offense at my tone. “She is. And so is everyone who comes. It’s all about opening yourself to the Spirit, and allowing it to speak to you through your own creativity. People have produced some amazing works.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really.” She leans forward, her hands on the back of the chair with my jacket. “Listen, I know it sounds weird, but she’s something else. My husband and I followed the church to Astoria when she moved it from Portland.”
Frankly, that sounds like a cult to me. But Claire seems so no-nonsense, not the kind of person you’d associate with a cult. Plus, the woman in my vision.
I say, “You don’t seem very busy at the moment. Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?”
People can never resist talking about their churches or their children, and the bartender is no exception. I have no doubt it was she who had planted the flyers. I bite into my juicy burger, mop my chin, and decimate my fries as she speaks. I learn that the Church of the Spirit promotes the message that the Holy Spirit communicates to everybody, especially via creative channels. Every service, Pastor Harkness
