When the corner preachers begin their guerilla service on the occasional weekend morning, I say “Oh God” with them, in tandem. There are usually at least four of them; they stand across from my building, on the southeast corner of Graham Avenue of Puerto Rico and Boerum place in Brooklyn, in front of the 59¢, 79¢, 99¢ and Up Plaza store, the windows of which are filled with stacks of Bounty brand paper towels. I wouldn’t pay them much mind except that they bring with them an amplifier, microphone and some sort of power source.
At the local Pan Latin Café I’ve learned to order breakfast (a pathetic, stammering “uh… jamon y… heuvos, por favor,” to which the cashier replies “okay papi”), but otherwise I can’t speak or understand Spanish. I know that the street preachers are preachers because occasionally out of their impassioned barking I can make out “Hayyy-zeus Christo.” They turn their amplifier up as loud as it will go; their divine words penetrate through my grungy window into my room.
I don’t mind a biblical fable now and again. I wouldn’t mind so much if the street preachers went in for calm story telling. But these guys want to instill awe, respect and fear of their lord. The performance is like a condensed Latin rendition of Hitler’s final month – raving, and, at least to my ears, incoherent.
Which was okay. But the last straw dropped the other weekend when one man terrifyingly slipped into raspy English and roughly told the story of the Arc. “And then the water began to rise! And then they understood! But it was too late! It’s not too late for you! Jesus Christ is waiting!” I immediately stopped writing a school paper, called 311 and filed a complaint with the police department.
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