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The Gospel Man

A short story By Barbara Graettinger

The February sun bounces off the bald, black head of an old bum sitting atop a red milk box, broadly swaying and singing. His lifetime lies at his fee. A Styrofoam coffee cup for people’s nickels and quarters. A dirty green army blanket and some plastic bags full of bits of things he has picked from the garbage. A bronze medal suspended on a blue ribbon. He wears a black wool coat that the Salvation Army gave him for Christmas, a little too small for his frame. A muffler of rainbow yarn hangs around his neck. Fingerless gloves cover his hands and scuffed, black army boots, his feet. He has everything. Everything he needs to sing and sway on this beautiful, clear February day.

Precious Lord, take my hand.
Lead me on, let me stand.*

He sings and sways, sings and sways, rapping and tapping his long-nailed fingers against the giant boom box in his lap. Rapping and tapping his long-nailed fingers to the gospel music playing on the giant boom box in his lap. Rapping and tapping and singing and swaying, sitting in front of the Woolworth five-and-dime. In front of the Pittsburgh five-and-dime where he has sat for as long as he can remember. Where he has sat since the Army sent him home.

I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m lone.

His eyes don’t shine like they used to. Not like they used to when he was a young man on the Hill. Not like they used to when he sang in the Calvary Baptist Church choir. Not like they used to when he was an Army sergeant in Vietnam. Not like they used to. His eyes don’t shine like they used to. Not like the words he sings. They don’t wink or whisper. They don’t see. They aren’t the gateway to his soul. They’ve become milky white nuggets with dark eyelids that don’t quite cover them. They turn people away. They turn him invisible.

Through the storm, through the night,
Lead me on to the light.

He sings to the sound of the people, of the people rushing around him, with his empty coffee cup by his side. Slapping the giant boom box with his hand to the rhythm of the people. To the rhythm of the people rushing through downtown. Rushing to meet their buses. Rushing to meet their clients. Rushing to meet their lovers. To the rhythm of the music. To the rhythm of the gospel music. Slapping the giant boom box. Singing. Bringing joy to the people. Bringing joy to the rushing people with his clear bass voice. With the voice that God left him. That God left him in Vietnam. After the killing. After the burning. After his eyesight was gone. With the voice that God left him in Vietnam to lift up. To lift up to heaven. To lift up and bring joy. To make himself visible.

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.

The rapid sounds of rushing people slow to a trickle. To a trickle of clicking. Light clicking of heels on cold concrete. Like a watch winding down as the city empties for the night. Sometimes when the clicking stops, he knows a person has stopped. They’ve stopped to listen. To listen to the Gospel Man.

When my way grows drear,

He hears a clang.

The clang of a chain.

The clang of a chain near his ear.

Precious Lord, linger near.

"Hey, Gospel Man," he hears the voice of a young man say. "Hey, Gospel Man, play some decent music on that radio."

"Hey, Gospel Man," says another young man. "Your hollerin’s hurting my ears."

When my light is almost gone,

The first voice laughs.

Hear my cry, hear my call

A hand shoves his shoulder.
"You hear me, old man?"

Hold my hand lest I fall

Another hand. Another shove. Harder.

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.

"I said, change the station."

Oh precious Lord,

"Hey, Gospel Man."

Another shove. Another. Harder. Harder.

When the darkness appears…

"Maybe we should change it for him."

"Yeah, change it for him."

And the night draws near…

He holds tight to his radio. The chain strikes his jaw. Again. Again.

And the day is past and gone,

His grip relaxes. His body falls. The box slips from beneath him.

At the river I stand.

Guide my feet, hold my hand.

He lies in front of the Woolworth five-and-dime, the cold concrete pressed hard against his warm, wet face. One by one, the people gather. They gather around to look. To look. To see. To see the Gospel Man.

Take my hand precious Lord,

He becomes visible.

Lead me home.

*(Words & music for Take My Hand, Precious Lord by Thomas A. Dorsey)