SOME THINGS JUST DON'T GET ALONG

The Roaring Twenties and the Problems at Hand

by Tim Cooper

Pastor Daleson stood at spiritual attention as he walked through the sanctuary of his Birmingham church with his presiding bishop. The bishop was explaining the reasons for Daleson's transfer orders.

"Now, Pastor, we've had a major problem. Our most important minister in the Chicago area was... coerced out of his service to God. The National Methodist Council decided that we need to inject some good-old country values back into the polluted blood of that soiled city."

Pastor Daleson nodded sagely.

"You are the one whom we have chosen to do this," continued the bishop, "and it is a grave responsibility. You were chosen because you have family--your daughter, I believe--in the area. We hope that you can find it within yourself to take up this calling."

"As God wills," intoned Pastor Daleson.

"Good. Your train leaves tonight."

"Tonight? But--"

"God and the Council wills you there. May God be with you on your quest."

The bishop left a thoroughly stunned pastor in his midst.

Jane Daleson checked her watch again, and then matched it with the station clock. They both read 10:10. The 10 o' clock inbound from Birmingham was late. She began to get anxious. She hadn't seen her father for four years since she left home, and dearly missed him, even if he was somewhat anachronistic. With the tin scream of a whistle, the 10 o' clock inbound rolled into the station. Jane got up to greet her father.

Pastor Daleson stepped off the train with his small travel case. The first stimuli to register with him was the sour smell of gasoline and city smoke. The next were the heathen women meeting their various mates from the train. Strangely and exotically dressed, they seemed more appropriate to a brothel than a public station. One made eye contact with him and began to shout "Dad, hey, Dad!" at him.

Looking at her closely, she seemed familiar yet alien. She was wearing a dark black coat, had ludicrously short hair, wearing a silly little cap and had... exposed knees? What was the world coming to? He certainly hoped that this cretin was not of his blood.

"I'm sorry, madam," he began, "but you must be quite mistaken. You see, I'm a minister of God's word--"

Her countenance broke slightly, but returned to its original happy demeanor. "You don't remember me?"

"No..."

"I'm Jane... Jane Daleson..." she was beginning to look like she did have the wrong man, "Jane Daleson, daughter of Reverend Sam Daleson of Birmingham...?"

The pastor was literally taken aback. This was her daughter? There were many questions he wanted to ask, he wanted to hug her, to slap her, but all he could say was "What happened to your hair? You used to have long, beautiful, blond hair...?"

"Oh, that. I cut it."

"I can see. Why is it black?"

"I dyed it."

"You dyed it too?" repeated the shocked minister. "Are you wearing makeup?"

"Yeah... don't worry, Dad, it's all the rage. C'mon, let me drive you to a nice restaurant. Gee, it's been a long time."

"You're driving?"

"C'mon." Jane dragged her ineffectual father to her well-maintained Ford, kicked it into gear and drove to a relatively nice restaurant. Having recovered from the initial shock of his daughter's attire, the pastor had a nice conversation with his daughter until he asked this question:

"So, where's the man of your life?"

This only elicited a raised eyebrow.

"Your husband. Lawfully wedded."

"I don't have one."

Again, shock. "But you're twenty-two, and you aren't married? How do you get by?"

"I have a job. Pretty good money, too. Would you like some more food?"

"You're working? What have you been doing for the last four years?"

"Working. And going to college."

Had the pastor been eating, he would have choked. "College? What good is that? You should be at home, cleaning, serving a man, doing woman... things!"

"I watched Mom doing that for eighteen years, and she didn't seem too happy about it. Drove her to an early grave, I hear. I just wanted to live a little before I clasped on the fetters, that's all."

The pastor was speechless from his heathen daughter's impudence

"Gee, I'm glad I didn't tell you about my boyfriends."

"Boyfriends? Plural?"

***

A quick disowning, a hastily written sermon, and a Sunday later, the pastor was exhorting a fiery message to his flock, who, although few, were being whipped into a fervor.

"We must return to the fundamentals of the Bible!"

A fusillade of "Amens!"

"We must set an example to the sullied heathen! We must be a light in the world of darkness, leading the way back to the path of our fathers!"

A barrage of "Hallelujahs!"

"We must return our women to the safety of the home! We must return clothing to its original purpose to hide the sinful body, not show it! We must strike down the evil and we must strike in down now, in the name of God!" He was beginning to foam at the mouth.

The congregation cried "Who to blame? What to stop?"

Pastor Daleson crouched low, speaking in a secretive tone. "Alcohol. The root of all evil is that vile intoxicant. The laws of this great land forbid it, praise the Lord, but this depraved city still lets the rum flow through the streets. The police look the other way. None opposes this poison idol. Except for us. We must strike wherever we can to disrupt this trade. Go, and scout for the halls of the wicked. When next we meet shall we plan."

A man in the back with a white fedora and missing his left eyebrow nodded.

***

"I don't like it, boss," the man said later in a dark yet clean room.

"Neither do I, Jimmy," replied Paul "Cig" Duchini, a small but heavy-set man continually puffing on a small cigarette that was never lit. "We don't want any trouble from these Baptist types. It cost us a pretty penny to buy off that last one, and I don't feel up to the... er... expenditure again." Duchini pulled the cigarette from his mouth and pointed it at his henchman.

"Talk to the man, Jimmy. Tell 'im we don't want no trouble. If he persists, then we'll have to... uh... alleviate the problem."

"Got it, boss," acknowledged Jimmy as he donned his fedora and sauntered out of the room.

***

Pastor Daleson was not having a good time. He was stuck in the back of a car with some cretin with only one eyebrow.

"Now, ya see, preach," the man was saying, "we don' wan' no trouble from ya. But, ya see, ya keep howlin' to ya con-greg-ation on how we needs to be stopped. We're just runnin' a business, like any ovva, so jest keep to yo business and we'll keep to ours."

"I'm not quite sure I understand what you mean, Mister...uh..."

"We's the booze-men ya keep harpin' about. Jest keep yo trap shut and stick to the peace and light of the Gospel, eh?" Jimmy tried an abortive attempt at a smile.

"You... heathen have no right to tell me, a man of God, how to preach the Gospel! You are placed here to tempt kind souls of God's to evil and--"

Jimmy shifted his weight and mindlessly flapped his jacket to reveal his .357 revolver hanging from a shoulder holster. "Look, jest mind yo own business. It'll do you good, okay? Hey, driva," he shouted to the front, "stop here and let the nice preacha out."

***

Visibly shaken and lost, the pastor wandered around a nameless sector of Chicago he had never seen before. Hailing a cab, he made his way back to his lodging and got to praying. Setting his jaw, he decided that he could not be pushed around by some soulless punk. It was time for action.

***

Next Sunday, Pastor Daleson preached a sermon about Carrie Nation, an old-school Prohibitionist who had taken an axe to the local pubs. Noting the presence of Jimmy in the far corner of the sanctuary, he proceeded to suggest none-too-lightly to his congregation to "visit" their local speakeasy and show the owners "what God thinks of their little establishments." Watching Jimmy's originally-smug face settle, Daleson continued to his next point.

"That man, in the corner, is one of the thugs that we're after!" Daleson pointed to reveal Jimmy.

Jimmy was shocked, but was too cool to show it. He just looked with a raised non-eyebrow at everyone. Fortunately or unfortunately, he certainly looked the part. The congregation looked at him, at the pastor, and then back to Jimmy. They then seemed to communicate to each other through worried glances. Torn between their religion and their safety, they couldn't make up their minds what to do.

Pastor Daleson began to sweat in the 57 degree room. He tugged at his collar ever so slightly. "So... uh... I want you to," he began meekly, but, regaining his nerve, began again in a much more solid voice, "I want you to show this man and his kin that we're not afraid of them. I want you to go out and do what you know is right."

Jimmy gulped.

***

Next Sunday, assistant pastor Reverend Paxton looked upon his temporary flock. Some were bruised, but not too exuberant of their glory. A few of the unharmed ones avoided eye contact with the wounded out of shame of their own health, but still managed to look relieved that they had made it with all of their teeth. Reverend Paxton scratched the back of his neck, coughed, and began in a small and tremulous voice:

"I know it has been a rough time for us all, seeing how we've gone through two pastors in three weeks... um... On the announcements, Widow Baker has said that she'd like to hold her husband's wake on Thursday and has invited everyone. A church group meeting will be held after the end of the service today, with the first thing on the agenda being the need for a new pastor..."