A bubble of joy explodes in his belly as he emerges from the car park into the glorious seaside sunshine.
“Jesus is coming!” he shouts out his window to the passersby on Vermont Avenue. “Wake up, everybody! Prepare ye!” he chants, his voice pitched with a frenzy that echoes his earlier incantations at the meeting of Christian Scientists. Where this very morning, he experienced for the first time speaking in tongues, writhing on the floor while the parishioners held him safely. One of the more verbal church-goers, Shandra yelled, “You’s seeing the light, boy!” And he was. He DID.
Now, driving on Santa Monica Boulevard, he is so full of Jesus, so full of the almighty God that he misses the red light, feels like he’s on a JOY RIDE, like he’s at Space Mountain. Doesn’t even realize a police officer tails him, the red lights flashing, sirens wailing.
“Pull over, son,” the officer’s loudspeaker says.
“Dear God!” he says, pulling to the curb in front of Pink’s Hot Dog Stand. “Praise the Lord!” he shouts to the people waiting in line.
“Nutcase,” a girl with dreads mumbles to her friend.
“Driver’s license and registration?” the policeman asks. He peers into the back seat of the vehicle. Crosses his arms.
“Have you seen Jesus lately sir?” the man says. “Are you ready to meet your own personal Jesus?”
The policeman pauses. Assesses. “Okay, buddy, out of the car.”
“Jesus is coming!” the man says, eyes rapt, glowing. “Halleluiah!” he sings.
“That’s nice, buddy, now get out before I help you out.”