By October 1986, the magic had curdled. Port Authority at rush hour. Cold rain slanting sideways, turning the sidewalks into black mirrors. Umbrellas bloomed and dying like jellyfish. I asked 204 people that night. Two hundred and four times I smiled through chattering teeth and said the line. Two hundred and two variations of no.
The two “yeses” were so drunk they could barely stand. I held their wet hands and rushed the prayer while taxis hissed past, horns blaring, steam rising off the grates like hell breathing. Back at the meeting, the chalkboard looked naked. TOTAL ASKED – 2,187, TOTAL YES – 23, TOTAL SALVATIONS – 19.
Stewart didn’t cheer. He walked the aisle slowly, shoes squeaking on the wet floor, stopping in front of the teams with the worst ratios. My sheet was held up like a death warrant. “One hundred and eighty-seven asks. Four yeses. Two prayers.” He let the silence stretch until it hurt. He didn’t have to raise his voice. The quiet was the weapon. “That means you spent three hours and twelve minutes of Jesus’ time talking to goats.” His voice was soft now, almost tender. “Do you hate the sheep, brother?”
I stared at the floor. My shoes were soaked. I could still smell the rain and the drunk man’s vomit on my coat. Someone behind me started crying. Then another. The room filled with the sound of shame. That winter we learned to lie on the tally sheets. We learned to soften the question until it was meaningless, just to hear a yes. We learned to hate the sound of our own voices asking it.
One night in early 1988, the clipboards never came out of the closet. The tally sheets stayed in their boxes. Stewart never mentioned John 10:27 again. But thirty-five years later, if I close my eyes, I can still feel the cold metal edge of that clipboard in my hand, still taste the rain and the exhaust, still hear the second hand of the Timex ticking down toward a salvation that never arrived. And every time someone in a normal church reads John 10:27 aloud, my pulse jumps, my palms sweat, and for one terrified second, I’m twenty-four again, standing in Times Square, waiting for a stranger to tell me whether or not I belong to God.
this is fragment #1