Coming To
by Matthew O’Brien
Slumped in a folding chair in the front row of the Have Faith Christian Fellowship, a church wedged between a gay club and payday-loan store in a strip mall on West Charleston Boulevard, Michael Walsh was forced to acknowledge that his fifteen-year, rollercoaster relationship with Las Vegas had reached a new low. He discreetly scanned his surroundings. A wooden pulpit and an American flag stood on a squat stage, backed by a series of framed paintings depicting the Stations of the Cross. As if expecting someone, he turned around and squinted toward the back entrance. The door was propped open and cars flashed by on Charleston. A table topped with a stainless-steel coffee pot, paper cups, and pastries occupied the corner opposite the door.
Once again, facing the front of the small, rectangular space, Mike considered the congregation. A young, well-dressed Latino couple wrangled two kids in the row behind him. A middle-aged woman with blond hair and dark roots, face deeply lined, sat stoically on the far side of the couple, dressed in black. In the back row, a thin, sunburned man with stringy hair and a beard, age indeterminate, clasped his dirty hands in prayer.
Mike had not planned on attending church. His attire—a red-and-blue pinstriped T-shirt, gray jeans, and slip-on Vans—attested to that. He’d placed a bet at Arizona Charlie’s sportsbook and was driving back to his apartment to watch the game when he noticed a sandwich board sign declaring that the church was “Now Open!” He made a hard right-hand turn into the driveway, the betting linesheets on the passenger-side seat spilling onto the floorboard. He parked and entered the building. He was sitting in the front row—eyes closed, breathing heavily, and clutching a Bible like a life preserver—before he had time to consider what he was doing.
But now he was coming to, leaning forward in the chair and looking side to side. He wondered if the game had started. Perhaps the team he bet on ran back the opening kickoff. Or, considering his luck of late in and out of the sportsbook, had it surrendered a long return? He reached into his pocket for his phone, then withdrew an empty hand. This was not the time or place to check sports scores, he decided. He set the Bible on the seat to his right and stared down the hallway that led to the parking lot, heels rising from the carpeted floor, but he didn’t stand up and leave.
The bet, though significant financially and psychologically (he needed a victory of some sort), is not what compelled him to turn into the driveway. Something deeper and more abiding drew him here, he realized. Turning his attention to the paintings behind the stage, he thought he could relate to Jesus in at least one sense: They’d both suffered their share of pain and humiliation. In the past year, Mike had been laid off at the weekly paper he wrote for, his wife of three years had filed for divorce and started a new relationship, he’d seen his young son sporadically, he couldn’t find work, and he didn’t have anyone to confide in. An abyss, which he couldn’t explain, had formed between him and most of his friends and family members. Is that why I’m here? he wondered. To have someone to talk to? Who isn’t even physically present and probably isn’t listening?
He dismissed the notion. In bed at night, he pressed his hands together, closed his eyes, and shared his hopes and concerns, but he didn’t consider it praying. He was simply getting thoughts out of him and into the universe. He wasn’t directing them at anyone or anything in particular, and certainly not at God. It was, he resolved for the first time, some unnamed and undefined higher power. Was it therapeutic? Certainly. Had it yielded tangible results? It had not, particularly of late. If it had, he wouldn’t have been slumped in the front row of a strip mall church on West Charleston Boulevard.
He shifted in the seat and flashed back thirty-five years. His mother’s long, dark hair was straight, her skin tawny and smooth. Wearing a black dress with white fringes and conservative platform shoes, she shepherded him and his siblings, also primped, toward the front door. He glanced over his shoulder at his father, who was reclining in his favorite chair, pajamas spilling from under a plaid robe. He was perusing the Sunday paper, glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose.
“Say a prayer for me,” his dad intoned, smiling but not looking up from the paper.
On the occasional Sunday and holiday that Mike’s mom, who is Catholic, dragged him and his siblings to church, he wanted to stay home with his atheist dad. This wasn’t a religious statement; he was too young to have formed a definitive opinion on theology. He just wanted to hang out with his dad, and it seemed like less hassle and more fun than going to church. Eventually, however, he did side with his old man on the subject—his tour of duty in Las Vegas cementing his views—though with less conviction and defiance. He never referred to himself as an atheist, however. He was ‘spiritual’ or ‘open-minded’ or ‘a skeptic.’ He’d also not ruled out the possibility of an afterlife, but his interpretation of it wasn’t as detailed and idyllic as heaven. There was light, air, and consciousness, and little else. He had trouble accepting that it just went dark.
Desperation? An epiphany? Curiosity? He struggled to pinpoint what drew him to this church. He wondered what his dad, whom he’d not spoken to for several weeks, would think about him being here, and he started to stand. Before his knees locked, a door in the corner of the room that he had not previously noticed opened, and he sat back down. A small man with slick, gray hair and square-framed glasses emerged, clutching a Bible in one hand and a cane in the other. Dressed in a black suit, a clerical collar, shiny loafers, and a gold cross dangling from his neck, he shuffled to the stage and scaled it with some difficulty. He positioned himself behind the pulpit and began flipping through the book. Finally, he cleared his throat. The kids in the second row fell still, and the sunburned man in the back row placed his hands on his knees. Mike sat up, scooped his Bible from the seat, and gripped it tightly. He closed his eyes and smiled.
BIO: Matthew O’Brien is a writer, editor, and teacher who lived in Las Vegas for twenty years and is currently based in San Salvador, El Salvador. His latest book, Dark Days, Bright Nights: Surviving the Las Vegas Storm Drains (Central Recovery Press 2020), shares the harrowing tales of people who lived in Vegas’ underground flood channels and made it out and turned around their lives. You can learn more about Matt and his work at www.beneaththeneon.com.