I came upon him at the corner of Phibbs and 11th. He was tall, gaunt, with weepy eyes, big ears, wearing a shiny black suit circa. 1920. He stood behind a folding pulpit that was covered with a white cloth that matched his collar. He waved me over.
“I’ll preach anything you want to hear, son,” he said, holding out a tarnished silver tray. “Donate ten dollars and I’ll preach your soul right straight to Heaven—or at least try to keep it out of Hell!”
“Just what I need,” I said, dropping a ten-dollar bill into the tray.
“I’ll preach anything you want to hear, son,” he said, holding out a tarnished silver tray. “Donate ten dollars and I’ll preach your soul right straight to Heaven—or at least try to keep it out of Hell!”
“Just what I need,” I said, dropping a ten-dollar bill into the tray.
