Hey Preacher.

By | 4 May 2016
Be groovy or leave, man. Bob Dylan in the speakers, holding my hand and God’s. I took my velvet coat and slithered into the night. They called me The Confidence Man. I started the car. The machine stroked the road as we glided through the city. Every night until 2:00am, dropping angels off at bars. Time was a physical thing then, a thing with three dimensions that stretched on and on like my mother talking. I remember when I took the job, when it occurred to me. I remember thrashing around to Hendrix, watching people look at art. I remember ascending the stairs to his gallery feeling like something was about to happen. There was an atmosphere of brink. He had the fever. He was cold and sweating. I took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. We hummed together, singing the moment, and then we were silent. You’ve got a cowboy’s mouth, I said. He smiled, and you’ve got the eyes of a preacher.

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