Diamonds and Cole (9 page)

The last time he saw her was at a hamburger stand when he was in college. She bought a Coke and, when the girl handed it to her through the window, the foam had receded to leave the cup’s top inch-and-a-half without soda. Minnie smiled and said as only a 77-year-old Pentecostal spinster could, “You must be a Baptist.”

“Why, yes I am, how did you know?”

“Because your cup’s not full!” Minnie said as she turned and winked at me.

The poor girl never knew what hit her. She knew her theology had just been insulted, but she wasn’t quite sure how. As Cole watched his aunt cross the parking lot and take a seat on the bus bench, he knew the performance had been for him. Minnie had a stroke not long after that and lived out her days in a convalescent hospital full of other old men and women unable to move or speak. Cole had gone to see her with his parents once. She had just lain, eyes wide, lifeless, staring at the ceiling. He never went back. When she died, he got her guitar, a 1950 Harmony Monterey.

“Gomes is my name.” The words brought Cole back to the smiling face in front of him. “Kate Gomes.”

Cole took the hand offered him and said softly, “ Cole Sage is mine.” He was suddenly struck with emotion. Perhaps it was the mortality of everything around him. Maybe he just remembered too much. He slipped past the old woman and through the swinging doors with their big circular windows and into the sanctuary.

Everything was just the same. The gold glitter cross hanging from picture frame wire still hung in an unplanned tilt toward the pulpit, kind of like a model airplane on a kid’s ceiling. The pulpit with its stained plywood still proudly bore the three crosses cut from pine and stained walnut. Two pots of silk flowers wrapped in bright green and red foil and tied with satin bows stood in front of the pulpit. The stage was covered in the same thick red carpet of the foyer and proudly displayed a metallic blue set of Slingerland drums, a Fender bass amp, a Hammond B3 organ, and a row of acoustic and electric guitars. Off to one side sat a small beige tweed Fender amplifier that probably hadn’t been moved in years.

Scattered throughout this musty auditorium were about 50 or 60 people, some chatting, some staring, and some just there to get into the air conditioned building and out of their sweltering houses for an hour or two. Cole took a seat on an aisle about three-fourths back. There was no sense trying to see Bates until after the service. The Reverend had his hand in a little of everything in this part of town. Not that he had any direct power or influence, but he was a force to be reckoned with. If there was something to know, he knew it.

The tabernacle had been feeding the homeless out of the back door since Bates came to town. When the weather turned bad, the aisles and foyer were turned into a makeshift shelter. There was a trust and sense that Brother Bates was watching out for “the least of these.” His love for the lowest of the low was real, and on more than one occasion, he had raised his booming voice at meetings when the city council members thought some new ordinance or other would help clean up the streets. He usually won, and the street people knew it.

He could help the police without being a snitch, and he could just as easily look the other way when he felt like it. He had an Ecclesiastical sense of right and wrong and would not be swayed left or right once his mind was made up.

Cole nervously flipped the pages of the worn hymnal from the rack on the pew. Cole had never quite got religion. He knew there was a force out there much greater than himself, but what was he to do with it? That was the question that had always been with him. He was raised in a very conservative God-fearing, Bible-believing, church-going, and almost-Pentecostal-but-not-quite family.

On some level, he believed, but he had just seen and heard too many things that didn’t agree with what the folks sitting around him would call his “spirit.” As the organ softly played and the faithful quietly chatted, Cole thought of all his questions about this place and a dozen others he had been to.

The dull hum of the ancient air conditioner and the syrupy lull of the organ took Cole far away to memories long forgotten. He thought of preachers and songs, pulpit flowers and the sharp creased edges of Sunday bulletins, and he closed his eyes and let his memories take him away.

At 13, Cole had heard a traveling preacher talk on the subject, “The Day the Moon Turns Red.” For an hour and a half, the man in the navy blue suit and blazing white shirt spun tales from the Old Testament prophets, enthralling and terrifying his Sunday night crowd. With the authority of Samuel of old, he made his case for the end of the world. The sign would be the face of the moon turning scarlet like the sins of man. He went on to explain that you had better repent or you would be left behind in the horrible day of the Lord. The thing that terrified young Cole was that the moon might turn red that very year! For several weeks, without revealing what he was doing, he would go out in the back yard and gaze up at the moon. On the nights the orb hung in the night sky a pale white, he went back inside relieved that he had a little more time on earth. The thing that sent him into a real panic was the night he went out and there was no moon.

As calmly as he could, with his breath shallow and slow, he asked his father where the moon was.

“Dark of the moon. Only the people on the other side of the world can see it,” his father had replied.

What if it were red?
Cole had thought.

Time passed and several full moons occurred before Cole forgot the prophet’s message, only to remember it one night driving home when he was 16. It hadn’t happened. A slip of faith. A false prophet.

Near his 17
th
birthday, a revival was planned at his family’s church. Cole was asked to run a closed-circuit TV camera so the overflow crowds could watch in grainy black-and-white in the fellowship hall. Cole was so proud he could hardly sleep the night before. The big day arrived. Several hundred people packed the main auditorium and, indeed, seats were occupied in the overflow.

It was like no church service he had ever seen. The Evangelist had brought in professional lighting, sound, and a full band, just like on TV—guitars, bass, drums, piano, organ, horns, and four black backup singers. Suddenly, the room was cast into total darkness. A drum roll slowly built, then a voice like the clap of thunder from above announced: “Brothers and sisters, saints and sinners, open your hearts, open your minds tonight, you will be a witness to a miracle! Tonight! Right here, the fire will fall from heaven and God will anoint his servant. The lame will walk, the blind will see, the deaf shall hear! Raise your hands, raise your voice! Welcome God’s man of the hour, God’s man for America, God’s man for
you
, the man who will revive this city, Ben Tanner!”

The lights exploded in white light! The band erupted into a crescendo of “This is My Story, This is My Song, Praising My Savior All the Day Long.” From the right side of the stage came a man in a red velvet, gold-zippered jumpsuit. From the wide bell-bottoms, you could barely see the tips and heels of a pair of flamenco boots. His arms were raised high over his head. A Bible in one hand and the other, fingers spread wide. “Give God a handclap!” he shouted, and the audience was on its feet!

The band blasted hot rocking rhythms that no band in Las Vegas could have touched. The people clapped, stomped, and sang. Old ladies with their hair in tight buns on the back of their heads twirled and danced a Holy Ghost jig in the aisles, eyes closed, hands reaching for heaven. Cole didn’t know what to think. He had been fighting a pitched battle with his parents over rock-and-roll since the Beatles were on “Ed Sullivan.” Now, he was peering through his black-and-white lens at a full-blown rock-and-roll concert. He had a vision of the Israelites dancing around the golden calf in “The Ten Commandments.”

For nearly an hour, Tanner led the crowd in old hymns, favorite choruses, and new “songs of praise.” Each song built on the last, the band sailed on a sea of bass and drums. Building, ever building, each song louder than the one before, if that were possible. Men Cole had never seen out of their Sunday best were peeling off suit coats and tearing off ties. Women who were always dressed to the nines, every bouffant hair sprayed carefully in place, now sweating, swaying, and moving like go-go girls. Cole laughed out loud several times. At first, he caught himself remembering where he was, but later realized no one could hear him and certainly no one was watching him.

With a wave of his hand and a signal to the band, Ben Tanner took the pulpit. “Give God a handclap!” The place again roared with applause. He raised his hands like Moses over the Red Sea and said, “Please be seated.”

For just short of 30 minutes, Ben Tanner pranced, stomped, and waved his Bible. For the life of him, though, Cole couldn’t remember a single thing he ever said. What he did remember was very clear: At the end of his sermon Tanner called for the sick, lame, blind, afflicted in any way spiritually, physically, or financially to come to the front of the auditorium. “The power of God is in this place!” Tanner declared and urged those in need to make their way forward to get a “double dose” of what God had in store for them.

Out of the door on each side of the stage came men and women with a stack of black clothes about the size of a bath towel draped across their arms, standing at the ready like a small army of waiters and waitresses. As people came forward by the dozens, the band struck up Tanner’s theme song, “This is My Story, This is My Song.” As the audience sang and swayed, Tanner made his way through the throng massing at the front of the stage. His mic was turned off as he touched and spoke to various people across the front of the group.

On some preordained cue, the mic came back on, and Tanner began muttering and sputtering out something that appeared to be “speaking in tongues.” Then, to the amazement of everyone in the building, he spun around on his heels and slapped his palm to a rather large woman’s forehead. Down she went. Like an old-time silent comedy, bam!, flat on her back with a slight bounce. One of the waiting attendants ran up and covered her from the waist down with one of the black cloths. Bam!, bam!, bam!, one person after another was “slain in the spirit” as Tanner continued to slam his palm against forehead after forehead. When the last person lay flat on their back on the floor, some babbling in an unknown tongue, some twitching and trembling, some dead still, Tanner threw his hands over his head and cried, “Give God a handclap” and—just like Cole would later see James Brown do many times—Tanner’s knees seemed to buckle. He was grabbed and supported by one of his assistants, the band kicked the volume up two notches, and Tanner was led off to a side door. Elvis had left the building.

The Ben Tanner Revival went on for 36 weeks. Cole’s family gave up after the second week. His father never said anything, but Cole got the distinct impression he wasn’t buying it. Such showmanship didn’t play well with his father’s conservative outlook and demeanor. Cole was replaced as closed-circuit cameraman at the end of week six when the crowds and money dictated that actual TV cameras be brought in and operated by “professionals.” Cole was unceremoniously relieved of duty.

The month-long revival that ended up lasting almost nine stopped as abruptly as Cole’s camera job. Turned out Ben Tanner had an eye for the boys. One afternoon, before, during, or after the sound check and band rehearsal, Tanner was found with the very effeminate Teen Choir pianist, a pimply faced 16-year-old that the guys all called Larry the Fairy. It seems the Pastor of Visitation paid a visit to the fireside room and found Larry bent over the back of a couch, pants around his ankles and Tanner giving him what the English might call an old-fashioned “buggering.”

The revival ended that night with Tanner announcing that the Lord was calling him to Orlando. Larry was swept off to Bible School in Kentucky. The few in the know decided not to let this “sin of the flesh” destroy all the good that had been done. Cole found out when a family friend told his dad over coffee and didn’t know that Cole was reading in his favorite spot on the other side of the kitchen snack bar. The Great Ben Tanner Revival of 1969 was never mentioned again. A second slip of faith, another false prophet.

Three years later, as a college student, the final slip of faith occurred. Cole had found great comfort and excitement in the College Bible Study at the little Assembly of God Church not far from the college. A big deal and much to-do was made about a guest speaker who was to speak on Satan and Witchcraft in Modern-Day America. The announcements promised startling revelation as to how the devil used rock music, art, and the movies to lure young people into witchcraft and devil worship.

In a burst of uncharacteristic Evangelical zeal, Cole invited his friend Chuck and a girl named Robin from his art class. Robin had often told those around her that she was a white witch. She often described Wiccan rituals and her worship of trees.
If anybody ever needed to get “saved” it’s her,
Cole had thought. To his surprise, she accepted the invitation and promised to come to the meeting.

Cole and Chuck sat near the back on the side so they could see people as they arrived. The speaker was introduced but no sign of Robin. The speaker began a history of witchcraft. He talked about Anton LeVay and the Satanic Bible. At 7:15, in walked Robin, her boyfriend, and another couple Cole didn’t know. The speaker seemed to watch them take their seats. He appeared to lose his place and shuffled through his notes. The speaker began to sweat. He stammered and twice took sips of water from a glass on the pulpit. The next few minutes, the man rambled disjointedly about the history of witchcraft, revival in America and something to do with the meek inheriting the earth. The conviction of his talk and the boldness of his speech seemed to diminish as he went.

About fifteen minutes after they came in, Robin and her friends got up and filed out. As she passed Cole, Robin made a hand gesture he didn’t recognize. It was a fist with her index and little fingers extended. Years later, he would learn that this gesture—now a staple at heavy metal concerts—was “the goat’s head” or sign for the devil. Even without knowing its meaning, the gesture and the look in her eyes gave him a shiver.