God Is Crazy, Too!
By Claude Hall
Both of us suspected that Dwight Victor Smith was nuts. Only Woody Roberts says he never
just suspected it … he knew it without a doubt. Me? I had my doubts from time to time.
Because there were other times when I thought Deevee was a brilliant genius. And, to be
honest, now I prayed that he was really gifted. Really gifted. He was also a fairly decent disc
jockey. By that, I mean he could cue up a record and give the time and the temperature so
that you could understand what he was saying.
Today, however, I called him an idiot. Perhaps that was a mistake. Regardless, I was
probably the only person who could say something like that without getting into a fist fight.
He had driven me over to a little street in the shoddy part of San Luis Obispo, a pretty
town on the west coast of California.
“You’re nuts!” I told him.
He’d just opened a storefront church in downtown San Luis Obispo. But the first thing I
knew, he was wearing Brooks Brothers suits and ties that cost more than fifty dollars a piece.
Not while he preached. When he climbed that ladder to his homemade altar in his “church,”
he wore a robe. At first, it was made of burlap. But after he climbed up there for several
weeks, he started wearing a robe tailor-made of some kind of green cloth that sparkled.
That’s the robe he wore in all of the photos taken of him later. And he had a bluish spotlight
on his face and a golden light that bathed the upper half of his robe. The light made him look
just a little weird.
“That’s a bit ostentatious, don’t you think?”
Woody said as each of us supped at our Anchor Steam beers in a restaurant in Pismo Beach.
At that time, we were still chipping in on the food. Later, Deevee began picking up the tab.
That first time, he took the check with an expression like, “What the heck.”
“Nice of you,” I said. I suspected some kind of trick.
“Aw, I might as well,” he said. “My current job pays better than that McDonald where
you guys twist your tonsils.”
Actually, Woody and I worked at a local radio station.
“Just a job, huh?” snorted Woody Roberts.
“To tell the truth, gentlemen,” Deevee said, “I think I’ve found my true calling.”
“I don’t believe I heard anyone actually calling you,” said Woody.
I could tell that he was slightly agitated – maybe even angry – at the comparison
between what we did on radio and serving up hotdogs and hamburgers at a fast-food
restaurant. Woody, to tell the truth, took radio very seriously. And, frankly, so did I. And when
you looked at Woody, you had to take him seriously. He kept his hair neatly cut and wore
horn-rimmed spectacles. And often even wore a dark suit. No tie, though. California was not
too big on ties.
“Hey, we had a full house last Sunday,” said Deevee. “And a couple of those women
were driving those big Mercedes-Benz. You know the ones I mean?”
“I most certainly do,” said Woody. “And I’m thinking that maybe I’m just about to get
called.”
That wasn’t true. Radio was Woody’s passion.
“Just stay out of my turf,” Deevee said. “From here to Santa Barbara is all mine.”
“Your goldmine, you mean?”
“Pays for the beer and the tacos,” Deevee said.
Woody Roberts and I were both astonished at this new Deevee. I’d known him for
years. We were in high school together in Winters, Texas. And the three of us had worked on
the Rosy for about a year as disc jockeys. That was before Deevee, of course, was called
and became a preacher.
The Rosy was a Top 40 format radio station in San Luis Obispo. I had the morning slot
and also did the weather and news between records by Bruce Springsteen and other rockers.
Woody handled the mid-day program and was also the program director of the radio station.
He’d wanted to use the name Chuck Blore, but I talked him out of that. The real Chuck Blore
was one of the early successes in Top 40 radio. He’d worked for Gordon McLendon, one of
the fathers with Todd Storz of all of rock radio. Programmed McLendon’s El Paso radio
station for a while. Then became famous when he took over KFWB in Los Angeles and
launched the “Color Radio” concept. Like Storz and McLendon and Bill Stewart, Blore was
sort of a god in radio. Woody’s slot on radio featured music a little softer than the records that
I played. It was my “job” to wake up listeners and keep them awake until they got to work in
their cars. Woody sought to entertain the housewife as she washed the breakfast dishes and
dressed the kids for school. Deevee, under the alias of the Greaseman, took over in the late
evenings … played fairly hard rock music for the kids coming home from school. Until he got
fired.
I don’t know why he got fired. But getting fired in Top 40 radio is not necessarily a big
deal. There were countless radio jobs around. He could have gone to a radio station in
Sacramento. Mostly, we talked about going country. A lot of jocks, once they got too old to
relate to teens in Top 40, became country music disc jockeys. Instead, he’d become a
preacher. I never knew why. And he certainly looked the part for it. Long hair, shaggy
eyebrows, a mustache. And eyes that could burn you like thunder. His voice had balls. It was
deep and like the growl of some heavy bear just on the verge of going on a rampage.
Except for those eyes and that voice, Ernie Farrell was about as ordinary as you could
get. When he became a disc jockey, he’d adopted the name of Deevee after an uncle of
mine. We all used different names on the air. I used Johnny Holliday. As for Woody Roberts,
I don’t recall his real name.
It was the voice that got Deevee a job as a disc jockey and it was those eyes that got
him fired. The general manager of the radio station said he felt like Deevee was looking into
his soul.
I was only in the storefront church once, but later I visited the glass and stone edifice in
which The Mighty Castle of God and Pastor Deevee was housed out on the edge of San Luis
Obispo. At Deevee’s special invite, I might add. I don’t remember if Woody Roberts was with
me on that occasion or not. He told me that he’d already acquired just about as much religion
as he could stand. I must tell you that by this time Deevee was getting to be very popular in
that region of the state.
That’s when Deevee glanced from behind the curtain where we were standing and
emitted a low whistle that only he and I could hear.
“Did you know I had the power back when we were in high school?” he asked.
“Power? What power?”
“You know. Some kinda power like God has. Or I guess he has. I don’t know. But,
Johnny, I’ve got the power. At least, I can heal people. Not all of the time, maybe, but now
then, voila,” and his hands flashed in the air, “and they get cured. So help me. I have that
kind of power.”
“Don’t be absurd,” I said. “Too often we delude ourselves or something like that. Or
someone comes along who deludes other people. None of it proved, I might add.”
He stared at me with those penetrating eyes and wouldn’t you believe, I became a little
nervous under that steady gaze.
“Hey, hang around and watch,” he said.
“If you don’t mind, Deevee, I’d rather not.”
“Afraid, huh?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
“To be honest,” he said, “me, too. Just a little.”
“Anyway, I told this girl that I would meet her for coffee,” I said.
“You could listen on the radio,” he said. “I’ve got a program now on that station down at
the end of the dial that broadcasts those funny talk shows about politics and flying saucers.
Did you know about it?”
“No, I didn’t,” I told him.
“Sure. Costs me money each week, but you’d be surprised at the donations that come
in by mail. I had to hire an accountant to do the counting and banking on it. You just wouldn’t
believe how much money there is out there. And it appears to be a steady flow.”
“I’ll be darned,” I said. “Make that double darned.”
He hemmed and hawed a couple of times, then stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“Next time you get fired and you need a few bucks, just let me know,” he said.
“Thanks, Deevee.”
I was quite impressed. For a disc jockey to loan money to another disc jockey was quite
rare. Not because they might wish to. It’s just that disc jockeys, no matter what they might
tell you, don’t earn that much money.
“But don’t spread the word on that. I don’t want everyone calling me.”
I didn’t stay for the healing part of his show because I really did have a date and the lady
in question was quite gorgeous. A blonde. I don’t favor blondes in particular, but this
particular woman had the other attractions that went with the hair. And, as you might have
known, she ended up a brunette anyway. And this “blonde” wasn’t interested in money … she
was interested in me.
But Pastor Deevee was magnificent. I stood on the side of the rather large cathedral
and watched in awe as he ascended to the podium in his fancy gown that sparkled with every
move. The audience had been chattering like bluejays. However, as soon as they spotted
him, all of the noise vanished as if someone had turned off the faucet. Now, most disc
jockeys know how to grab an audience and grab them he did! The light in the cathedral
dimmed. All he did was raise his right hand into the light, palm out and that was enough.
Everyone hushed pretty fast.
He started his sermon, if you could call it that, with the words “Friends and sinners.” I
left quickly after that. Frankly, I didn’t know which category concerned me and I was afraid
that I might find out.
I darted out the side door and found my car where I’d parked it about a block away on a
side street.
I didn’t talk with Woody Roberts until the next day. Bumped into him in the hallway en
route to the studio to do my show. He’d cut his hair. I almost didn’t recognize him. And had
shaved and was wearing a neat little black bowtie.
“What’s with the new image? You want us all to chop the hair?”
“No. I’ve got an interview over to San Antone on my vacation,” Woody said. “Have to
look sharp and, you know, with it so to speak.”
“isn’t that where Lee Baby Simms is hanging out these days. He’s making a lot of news
these days.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“if I get the job, I’ll see to it,” Woody said.
“Hey, you talked with Deevee lately?”
“No, not lately. What’s Deevee up to?”
“Getting a bit weird,” I told him.
“He was always just a little south of strange,” Woody said.
“Yeah, but now he’s really out there. Thinks he can heal people.”
“Oh, god!” exclaimed Woody.
“Precisely,” I told him. “That’s it to a toenail.” “You seen him do it?”
“Nope. I was at his new church yesterday. It’s really something else. All glass and brick
and pretty as hell, though I probably should use a better word than that. I saw him climb up
on the podium. Under a nice golden spotlight. But I didn’t stay. I was meeting a girl for
coffee. A blonde. Had to dash off.”
“You still hooked on blondes?”
“Well, yes. I guess I am,” I told him. This was, of course, before I discovered that she’d
died her hair and by then I suppose it was too late and I was hooked, period.
“introduce me sometime.”
“Not a chance,” I said. “Anyway, we’re not discussing my supposed girlfriend … we’re
talking about a certain disc jockey who thinks he can heal people. He’s gone really crazy on
us.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. I definitely think so.”
“Well, did he actually turn water into wine … something like that?”
“As I mentioned, I left early.”
He huffed.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it until you read it in the newspaper. Because no one, to
the best of my knowledge, has done anything like that in a hell of a long time. More than
2,000 years, to be exact.”
“I only know what I’ve been told,” I said.
“Something a disc jockey told you? Come now.”
“A former disc jockey,” I pointed out.
“Even worse,” he said and there was a certain snarl in his tone. “Never ever believe
anything a disc jockey tells you and especially if he’s a former disc jockey.”
“Just the same,” I told him, “I think I’ll check the scene out one of these days.”
“If I were you,” Woody said, “I would stick to blondes. More fun. Something real.”
This was, of course, before I discovered that my blonde was actually a brunette. Not
that she wasn’t still quite cute, you know, and smart, that girl was studying on her master’s in
education. Planning to be a teacher. That brought up another factor; what could a teacher
see in an ordinary disc jockey? Oh, I thought a good bit of myself. Ego. You don’t have an
ego, you wouldn’t dare go on the air. Stare at that microphone and pretend there are a whole
bunch of people out there listening to you and just waiting, as the legendary Magnificent
Montague once said, for the record to end so they could find out what you were going to say
next. Montague was the black disc jockey who coined the terms “Burn, Baby, Burn” and “Let
it all hang out.” His clichés were even turned into the title of a book about him and the title of
a hit song. Another helped a politician get elected. Montague was magic on the air. So was
Arnie “Woo Woo” Ginsberg with his train whistle. Two of the best. I wanted to be like
Montague or old Woo Woo. Hey, maybe even Joey Reynolds or Murray the K. You
remember Joey, of course. He’s the disc jockey that made headlines when he called the
mayor of Hartford a “dumb old broad” and got fired. He was on WDRC at the time. Charlie
Parker, program director and manager of the station, loved Joey. But not that much.
It was true. I should have stuck to blondes. For, a few days later, I stayed to watch
Deevee, who claimed to be the chosen prophet of God, heal someone who had trouble
walking down the aisle to the pulpit. It was an elderly lady. She hobbled through the throng of
people who had just listened to an enthralling sermon by Deevee and all of them were
standing and many were shouting things such as “Praise the Lord!” so loud that I’m sure God
must have heard if he was listening.
True, a great number of the audience had already wandered out of the exit. But as
many had hung fire, standing around for something … I had no idea of what.
Deevee came down from his pulpit and stood there on the first circular step and placed
a hand on the head of the elderly lady.
“Heal her Lord!”
And so help me if she didn’t let one of her crutches go and it clattered to the hardwood
floor of The Mighty Castle of God with a noise, in spite of the shouting going on, that was like
sharp little explosions.
“She’s getting better already!” shouted Deevee above the noise of the crowd.
I thought for a moment that she was going to fling the other crutch away. But she didn’t.
She merely smiled up at him and slowly slumped to the first step of the stairway at Deevee’s
feet.
Deevee left her there and began walking though a small crowd that had gathered. He
was shouting and they were shouting. Some of his audience reached out to touch him.
Slowly, he made his way, shifting here and dodging, and out of the first door of the
cathedral and I didn’t see him again for maybe two or three weeks when he dropped by the
radio station.
When I saw him again he was wearing an expensive tailored suit and the proverbial tie
that blared the word money at you and a proverbial grin. And the darkness sunshades I’d
ever seen. You could not see his eyes.
“Told you, didn’t I? You see it?”
He was in the so-called disc jockey lounge that was actually an excuse for not having a
larger broadcasting studio. Very cramped. And sitting in one of the woven cane chairs that
was about as comfortable as sitting on a cactus.
I sort of liked Deevee and, frankly, I’d known him for several years now. But I had no
reason to flatter his ego.
“See what?” I demanded. And not in a very kindly tone of voice.
His hands flew out. I noticed the expensive wristwatch. Perhaps because he wished
me to see it.
“I healed that old lady. She was able to throw away her crutches.”
“She dropped one of her crutches,” I admitted. “But I hate to spoil your image of
yourself, Deevee, I don’t think anything got healed. At least, I’m not sure.”
“Killjoy. Who do you think you are? That lady was able to walk out of the church. Clear
and simple. What you need is a leap of faith. You’ve got to believe in something, you know.”
He slammed his fist into the palm of his left hand. However, the gesture had been a little
violent and he shook his hand to rid that hand of lingering pain.
I stared at him.
“Okay,” I said. “If you say so.”
He turned a little pale.
“You don’t believe me,” he said.
“Look, Deevee. I have to go on the air in fifteen minutes and, heck, I haven’t even
pulled the first record yet. And you know that I’ve got to look at the first ad or two. Can’t we
discuss this some other time?”
He calmed down.
“I suppose so,” he said. He turned to leave. “See you in church next Sunday?”
“Sure,” I said, although I had no intention of going to church on Sunday. I just said that
to get him out of the building. And it worked, because he left.
Then I remembered that I was slated to go to the beach Sunday with my “blonde.”
I figured what the heck, he wouldn’t miss me amidst his packed audience.
But he did.
His Mercedes-Benz was parked in front of the apartment house near the campus of the
university when I arrived back home late Sunday afternoon.
As soon as I parked he came bursting up the sidewalk.
“You said you’d be there!”
“Look, Deevee, there’s this blonde … well, she’s actually a brunette I found out today …
and I’d promised to take her over to Pismo Beach for some of that fantastic clam chowder in
the sourdough bowls at the Splash.”
“You missed church for a bowl of clam chowder? You missed my healing of seven
cripples and the saving of four sinners. Man it was something else!”
“I’m sure it was, Deevee. I apologize. Because I remember telling you that I would be
there. It’s just that this girl is sort of cute … even though she’s not a blonde … and, well …
you know.”
“Know what?”
“I’m not getting any younger, Deevee. To tell the truth, I’ve been thinking about settling
down … moving maybe into management or sales.”
“Sales!” he exploded. As a rule, radio guys only moved into sales when they couldn’t do
it on the air anymore. Some lost their pipes. Some wanted a more stable existence … such
as buying a house and marriage and kids. Very few disc jockeys had a stable life … that is,
made enough money to buy a house. Only guys such as Gary Owens or Robert W. Morgan.
Until they gave it up and dropped their cans in the trash and pulled the plug on the mike, sales
was a dirty word.
Until that time, the word “tradeout” was the guideline. Sure, you got a salary and some
stations paid fairly well. But the apartment where I lived near the university was on a
tradeout. The radio station gave the apartment complex free advertising in trade for my
room. The radio station also had tradeout deals with a clothing firm in town and a gasoline
station. All in all, it was survivable. I heard that some radio stations in Los Angeles and San
Francisco had tradeout deals with hotels in Acapulco and, in return for contracts with some of
their local clients, an accountant with an ad firm could land a nice little vacation now and
then. Besides the apartment, I was able to fill up my Ford once a week and also dine every
two weeks at a Mexican place just off the campus. But all of the salesmen with the Rosy
received better salaries.
I suppose I left Devee in much of a dither, but I had a radio show to do. I’d come up
pretty good in the last ratings and was thinking that if the next ratings book fared well, I might
land a position with a radio station in either San Francisco or Los Angeles and give it one
more go before, maybe in a year or so calling it quits and going for some sales position. And
there was the eventual possibility that I might land a general managership somewhere, maybe
in a radio market such as Dallas or Austin. Most managers came out of sales. Oh, Jack
Thayer had come out of programming in Minneapolis into managing the radio station. But as
a rule managers were promoted out of sales. And radio station managers could make a few
bucks, depending on how well the radio station did.
My cans – earphones – were in the mail box along with a couple of notes from a record
promotion man about the latest Linda Ronstadt record. I didn’t need to be hyped about Linda
… I’d been a huge fan since “Up to My Neck in High Muddy Water” with the Stone Poneys.
Lord, but she had a voice! I even met her once a couple of years ago when she played at the
Palomino in Los Angeles. Drove down. Got to go backstage where John Sebastian was also
waiting in line. I told her that I was a big fan and she said, “Bless you, child.”
Just before I entered the broadcasting studio, Deevee was waiting beside the door.
“A girl, huh? Perhaps I should meet her.”
I scowled at him.
“Not a chance in hell,” I said.
He frowned at the vehement in my voice, then laughed.
“Buddy, you are indeed ripe to be converted. I’m probably going to be baptizing you one
of these days.”
“No chance of that happening either, my good pastor friend. I believe that I’ve known
you already much too long.”
He laughed again and whirled and walked out of the radio station.
And I darted into the studio and closed and locked the door before I realized that Bill
Gardner, the radio personality who was just finishing his show, had been locked inside with
me. He just smiled, unplugged his earphones, and took his notes and let himself out.
The chair was still warm. And, thank goodness, Gardner was fairly neat and I didn’t
have to clear up any mess before I could do my show.
I put the first 45 rpm single, a record by the Beatles called “Yesterday,” on the turntable,
let the turntable spin while holding the disc still with my thumb after I cued up the vocal,
opened the mike.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your old hound dog Johnny Holliday bidding you a warm
and wonderful day as we confer, you and I, about days gone by.”
I lifted my thumb and let the record spin.
And the first thing I know, my stint on the air is over and Macy Brown was standing there
waiting for me to unplug my personal earphones and vacate the room so he could do his
show. It’s usually like that. I get wrapped up in what I’m doing. It’s more fun than anything
except blondes and basketball. Make that brunettes, I suppose, and football.
Her name was Ruth. I met her at a record hop at a local high school. I don’t recall who
the disc jockey was now, but I’d dropped by at his request to give him a little support and just
say hello to the mostly teen audience. And there was this blonde sitting in a chair on the side
of the room and the chair beside her was vacant. Be aware, teen girls are dangerous and I
stay away from them as a rule. But it turned out she was from the local college and there to
observe for a theme paper she was researching.
The first thing I know, we were talking about books and somewhere in the conversation I
guess I’d asked her out to coffee one day after her course at the college.
And, of course, it really didn’t matter that she wasn’t a blonde. On our first real date,
hamburgers just off the campus, her hand fit rather well into my hand when I opened the car
door and helped her out of the car. Just four days ago, I told my mother about her. On a
phone call back to Carlsbad, New Mexico.
Then I had to spend the next ten minutes persuading my mother from coming out for a
visit.
“Good lord, Mother! We’ve only been on a couple of dates.”
“Someone has to teach her how to cook chicken-fried steak,” my mother said.
“That’s true,” I said. “But for cripe’s sake let’s wait a few dates.”
It turned out that Ruth already knew how to cook chicken-fried steak.
“I looked it up as soon as I heard you were from Texas.”
Smart girl! Chicken-fried steak is a Texas delicacy. The national food almost.
So, a few phone calls later over the next three or four weeks and my mother wanted to know if
we’d set the date yet.
Yeah, it was getting pretty close.
The only hangup was Deevee. He wouldn’t let me loose. I had to see him heal a few
people. He was insistent about it.
“But why?” I demanded. “What’s the big deal?
“Everybody says I can do it … that I’m actually healing these men and women. But,
well, Buddy, I’m not really sure. You know? I’m still waiting on the ARB, I guess.”
“No. I don’t know. You say you can do it. The newspaper says you have performed a
couple of near miracles. So, I suppose you’ve got something going for you. Like Mesmer,
perhaps.”
“Mesmer?” he wanted to know.
“A Frenchman. A long time ago. He hypnotized people by placing his hands on them. I
don’t think he actually healed people. Heck, maybe he did. But he performed some kind of
early hypnotism. They may have thought,” and I placed heavy emphasis on the word thought,
“they were healed. Heck, Deevee, I don’t know enough about it to say yes or no. Anyway,
I’ve got other things on my mind right now.”
“Other things! Aren’t you aware, my old high school friend, that this could be the
greatest thing since the invention of sliced bread?”
“Well, yes, I guess it could. But it hasn’t anything to do with me.”
“Oh, it does. It most certainly does, old friend.”
With that, he turned and left me again. This time, I was left wondering precisely what he
meant.
Ruth explained a little of it. This was after she’d dined once again at the Splash in
Pismo Beach, but this time with both Woody Roberts and the great and powerful Deevee
Smith, sans robe. They both liked her immensely and instantly. Why not? She was pretty,
but in a natural girl-next-door sense, and she was intelligent and knew how to keep a
conversation going. Most girls I’d met previously eventually stalled out and floundered during
a conversation. Oh, they might know a little about football and current movies, but you could
forget it when it came to politics and books. My girl, however, could get you talking about a
subject when she didn’t have much of an idea about it and make you think at the same time
she was very interested in what you had to say.
“And you know how to cook chicken-friend steak?” Deevee exclaimed. “Hey, Buddy, if
you don’t want this lovely lady hanging around your door, give me her phone number!”
I smiled at Ruth and said, “I’ve already told him he hasn’t a chance. Same thing to
Woody. As far as these two creatures from outer space are concerned, you’re definitely off
limits.”
“That’s nice,” she said.
“He stole a girl away from me once back in high school. Rhuenell was her name.”
“That wasn’t me, old high school chum, that was Dennis Poe, later to become mayor of
Winters,” Deevee said.
“He did?”
“He most certainly did,” said Deevee. “Dennis was a great guy.”
Suddenly, the topic of discussion switched gears.
“Buddy tells me that you believe you can heal people,” said Ruth without glancing up
from her bowl of clam chowder. We were sitting at a table in the restaurant. It’s difficult to
land a table there during the peak business hours. But Deevee had arrived early and sort of
commandeered a table when some people finished eating.
Deevee set his sourdough bread bowl of clam chowder down on the table. He
presented his most charming smile. I could tell why Rhuenell had liked him better than me
and made a decision then and there that this was the last he’d see of Ruth. That’s for dang
sure! This was a dumb idea anyway … taking your girlfriend to meet your friends just as if
seeking their approval.
“Are you a Christian, Ruth?”
I could tell that she didn’t quite know how to respond to that question. Not only did I
resent Deevee asking about her religion, but I was miffed that he’d immediately started using
her first name, as if he was already on a very personal basis.
I needn't have worried about the question, though. Because she dodged it like a visitor
to a game show when the host becomes a little too personal.
“That depends on how, whom, and what you measure when it comes to Christianity,”
she replied.
He was persistent.
“Do you believe in God?”
“That too is a very good question, Mr. Smith. The kind of question that usually comes
from people who believe firmly that they, themselves, believe in God and doubt most seriously
that you do not.”
He was a little flustered by her. The conversation, in his opinion, wasn’t going in the
right direction.
“Well, what would you say if I told you that He and I are on excellent terms. Such good
terms, in fact, that God has given me the power to heal people?”
She smiled just faintly. Not enough to irritate Deevee, but enough to let me know that
because he was my friend she was careful not to hurt his feelings or insult him in any way.
“That, I presume, is not really a question.”
“You’re correct,” said Deevee. “It’s not a question. I’ve healed several people in the
past few Sundays.”
“Just like Oral Roberts?” she wanted to know.
“I don’t how old Oral did it. Me, I just touch them with my hands. My friend Buddy here
says that some Frenchman years and years ago used to do the same thing.”
“Mesmer,” I quickly stated. I sought to keep the topic of conversation light. “Of course, I
don’t think he wore a robe when he did it.”
“Ah, yes. The robe. I can explain that. I wanted to be a bit different from the other
preachers in California. Stand out. You know?”
“I can imagine,” Ruth said easily.
“You’ve got to come see it.”
“I suppose that I shall,” she said. She gave a small laugh that tinkled merrily like little
bells. “Just as soon as I read up on this Oral Roberts.”
Deevee placed a dash of Tobasco sauce in his clam chowder.
“I’m much better than him,” Deevee said.
With that, my girl friend changed the subject. She was great at something like that. She
would have made a great talk jock. A friend of mine once mentioned that Rollye James was
the best female talk jock he’d ever heard. I think Ruth would have been almost as good.
Later that same evening, it was a Saturday, I mentioned that I’d probably better get over
to The Mighty Castle of God the next morning and catch the complete act of my friend Deevee
Smith.
“You want to go with me?”
“I can’t, Buddy. I’m singing in the choir tomorrow at the Baptist Christ just off the
university campus.”
“Hey, I’d love to hear that!”
“Better not,” she said. “At least not this week. Your friend needs you tomorrow.”
“Needs me? Now that’s a funny way of putting it. Sure, he wants me to catch his act.
Most entertainers seek that little appreciation giszmo. Something to boost their ego.”
“I think Deevee’s need is more than just ego gratification,” Ruth said. “I think in one way
or another he’s seeking verification. Make that confirmation.”
As a rule, one generally replies, “Don’t be silly. You have no idea what you’re talking
about.” However, we were still in that tenuous stage of a relationship where that I was
conscious of the possibility of losing her. In other words, I responded very carefully.
“You think so?”
“I’ve taken just enough basic psychology courses at the university,” she said, “to have a
feeling about these things. He’s not much concerned about me being there for the services
as you. Clear and simple, I think he wants your approval. In fact, he may be desperate for it
in some way.”
I found that difficult to believe. But, after all I’d known Deevee a lot longer than she had.
“I’ll be danged,” I said. “But I find that very difficult to believe.”
“It doesn’t matter much to you,” she explained. “Just to him.
“Well, guess I’d better trot over there in the morning and see what it’s all about.”
If you’ve never been to a church meeting like that, you ought to go. Once, as a kid, my
parents were visiting my grandfather Charlie V. Smith on the farm out in post oak country just
north of the center of Texas. That weekend, they were going to a revival of some kind over to
the Miller community and us kids, of course, went along and sort of ran free and played during
the services. I enjoyed the going because of the strawberry soda pop. Soda pop was free
and handy and iced down in a couple of galvanized tubs sat in the shade under a tree.
I remember my grandfather kneeling and washing someone’s feet and later asking him
why he did something like that. He told me that it was a sign of humility … to show that he
was humble.
My friend Deevee evidently wasn’t into foot washing. At least, he hadn’t got there yet.
From his pulpit up the circular stairway, moving back and forth in his fancy robe, the light
sparkling as he moved, he talked plainly, clear and simple, of God walking among us and
performing miracles every day. He spoke gently of having faith in your fellow man. He spoke
of the necessity of treating everyone else just the same as you’d like to be treated. He spoke
of being at peace with each other. It was a nice little sermon and I was proud of Deevee and
proud that I knew such people on this earth.
Then the light that bathed him began to change to a different hue. From sparkling gold,
little flames began to come to life on his robe. And the drift of his sermon became taut, his
words crackled and he talked of repentance.
For those who were willing to throw away all of their sins, he promised redemption.
“And you shall live again!” he shouted.
There came a rumble from the audience and one or two of them also began to shout,
but I couldn’t understand what they said. Then someone else, as if on cue, screamed, “Save
me, Good Lord!”
Others in the congregation began to chant something that I couldn’t quite make out.
There was a scuffle in the far side of the room, maybe a fight. From this distance, I couldn’t
see what was happening because most of the room wasn’t lighted very well and there were
only shadows over there.
Then someone screamed. Not out of glorification. But as if they’d been hurt.
And Deevee, robe swirling, began to descend his staircase from his pulpit. I could hear
him promising to heal someone. People began to throng at the foot of the staircase, waiting
for him to touch them.
I couldn’t take any more of it. There was something weird and disturbing about the
sermon when compared to the “saving” part and I felt very uneasy. I won’t lie to you: I was
frightened. Like a horror movie. Worse, I didn’t know what to do about it. I stumbled over
someone on my way to the side exit and a couple of minutes later I was speeding away in my
car.
I don’t think he saw me or even know that I was there. I think Deevee was much too
busy, surrounded by screaming people. But about an hour later, he showed up at my
apartment.
“Well what do you think?”
I had to confess that I wasn’t quite sure what to think.
“I really liked your sermon, though. But then, you’ve always had a gift with words. Most
disc jockeys are good at something like that. Public speaking, so to speak.”
“Hell, man! Forget the sermon. I’m talking about what happened afterwards. All of
those people gathered around the stairs waiting for me to touch them. Heal them. And I did!
I laid my hands on more than a dozen people this morning. Healed them all. One guy even
claimed I restored his eyesight. I’m not so sure about that. I was busy with this other guy at
the time who had cancer. God, if I can cure him … and I’m positive that his cancer is already
in remission … can you just think, Buddy? What that will mean to the world?”
“Would you like something to drink?” I asked. “I’ve got water, diet Pepsi, and beer
handy.”
“No. Nothing. I think I’m giving up on the beer. Doesn’t exactly fit the image, you
know? But tell me, Buddy, what is this stuff? What’s going on? You’ve got to let me know.
We’ve been close friends for years now. I’ve always looked up to you for guidance. I need
your opinion now big time.”
I went and got a bottle of Anchor Steam out of the icebox and popped the cap. Deevee
might be going on the wagon. Not me.
He’d followed me to the door of the tiny kitchen. Now, he just stood there in the doorway
as if to prevent me from escaping until I told him what he wanted to know. But, quite frankly, I
wasn’t in the mood just now to feed his ego.
“Very colorful stuff,” I said in response to his questioning and comments.
“You want some of the action? Join my organization, Buddy, and I’ll make both of us
rich. Famous, too, if I’m right about the healing stuff.”
I shoved past him and literally fell onto the couch before sipping at my beer.
“Well?” he demanded, seeking an answer.
“Look, Deevee … something like that deserves a whole bunch of thinking. Not just
some witty comment off the top of my head. I couldn’t just come right out and say sure.”
“Why not, for God’s sake! You saw what I can do.”
“It was a good sermon, sure. About the rest of it, well, I just don’t know.”
“What’s there to know? That blind guy who claims he can now see … well, I don’t know
about that either. Maybe he’s the town drunk or something. But when an old lady throws
away her crutches, heck man, there’s got to be something going on that’s just downright
impossible to explain except … well, faith or something. Maybe even, hey, some kind of
mysterious power.”
“Maybe we should contact a professor at the university. Have someone check
everything out,” I suggested.
His face changed. He scowled.
“Not on your life!” Deevee exclaimed. “You saw it. You saw me touch that old lady. You
saw her walk.”
I remained silent. During all of the years that I’d known Deevee … even back before he
had adopted my uncle’s name as his professional radio handle … I’d never been able to
argue anything with him. He wasn’t just opinionated. His thinking was like it was carved in
concrete. To the best of my knowledge, he never lost an argument. Certainly, he never lost
one with me. And I’m definite about this: He never admitted to losing such a discussion.
I must have hemmed and hawed a bit as I tried to think of something to say.
“Didn’t you?” he demanded.
“Well, not really, Deevee. The crowd was too large. And they were making too much
noise. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what I saw.”
“I healed those people!” he almost shouted at me.
“Okay,” I said. “If you say so.”
He literally stomped about the living room. My living room wasn’t all that large. He had
to dodge around a reclining Lazy Boy before the television set, go around the couch, and
double back.
“I don’t know what to do with you, Buddy. Here I’ve performed a miracle. A great
miracle. And you say you didn’t see it.
“I tried, Deevee. Honest. But, frankly, it was all sort of scary. People crying, even
screaming. All I wanted to do, so help me, is get the hell out of there. I was afraid someone
would pull a gun or something. Or, you know, start swinging. Because I swear to you, some
of those people had to be nuts! It was all sort of insane.”
He stopped his furious strides about the room and fell onto the couch.
“Are you accusing me of faking the whole damned thing? I’m just a hoax waiting to
happen?”
His head hung down just as if he was nervous about looking up at me. I could not see
his eyes. You’ve got to see a person’s eyes in order to really understand how they feel or
what they’re talking about.
“No. Certainly not,” I said quickly.
“I’ve got people raving about my powers. The newspaper is going to do a story. I even
had a phone call from a TV network down in Los Angeles. They wanted to know if they could
come up. See me heal someone.”
“Well, that’s just great, Deevee. I’m very happy for you.”
“But you don’t think I can really do it. Heal someone, I mean.”
“I just don’t know, Deevee. It’s never been done, so far as I know.”
“What about this Mesmer? I read up on him What about Oral Roberts?”
“My other uncle, Sydney Smith, believed that Oral Roberts did it … that he really and
honestly had the power in prayer to make a cripple able to walk. Me, I just don’t know. To be
honest, I’ve always doubted that my uncle really saw Oral do those things at tent revivals in
Texas and Oklahoma. My uncle was … well, a bit off the wall, in my opinion. Not Deevee, he
was the stable, straight-forward oilman. Drilled oil even behind the Iron Curtain. Mexico, too.
You name it. But I had a big verbal fight once with my uncle Sydney while I was back in
college. It started when he accused me of studying Communism at The University of Texas
because he claimed all of the professors were reds. We were visiting my grand parents in
Brady at the time. He refused to spent a night under the same roof with a Communist, he
said, and got up and drove to Coleman to spend the night at my aunt Bertha’s, one of his
sisters.”
“Sounds like a very strange family.”
“Yeah. Sort of. To some extent, I suppose. At least, my uncle Syd was a little strange.”
“And that makes me a bit strange, huh?”
“I didn’t say that. I didn’t even hint that. But, well, a great many disc jockeys on radio
seem to have marbles rattling around in their noggin. You take Howard Stern. And remember
Art Bell who had that syndicated radio program dealing with flying saucers and that sort of
thing.”
“And the temporarily great and late Deevee Smith?”
“Is that a question or a statement? Either way,” I said, “it’s a bummer.”
He sighed. Nodded. “Yes, I guess it is.”
He slowly crawled up from the couch and stood there for a moment staring at me before
turning and heading for the door.
“You leaving?”
“Guess so,” he said. He stood for a moment with the doorknob in his hand. “You know,
Buddy, I really wish you’d stayed this morning … I wish you’d seen me heal those people.
One guy, so help me, had sores all over his arms. Said he couldn’t afford a doctor. Well, I
touched him on the forehead. Placed my hand there. And also gave him some money for a
doctor.”
I know California. More homeless people than you can imagine. Everywhere. Drug
addicts. Alcoholics.
I grinned. “He probably used the money for more booze.”
“You think so? Well, that’s always a probability. I’m aware of that. But I swear to you, I
paused long enough to see a couple of the sores disappear before I moved on to the next
person. Lord, but I hope I healed him. I really do.”
Then he opened the door and when I looked out he seemed to be staggering as he
walked down the hallway for the front door of the apartment building.
I was extremely busy during the following few weeks. You know how it is when you get
married. We honeymooned at a hotel in Hawaii. A tradeout the radio station gave me. And
though we’d already bought furniture for the new apartment where we lived, there were other
things still needed and errands to run hither and yon and discussions about which kind of
toothpaste would be better, hers or mine.
Anyway, I’m proud to say that I made it a point to attend services a few weeks later at
The Mighty Castle of God. I needed have bothered. Pastor Deevee wasn’t there. The new
pastor was pretty good. He seemed sincere. I don’t think he had the gift, though, that
Deevee had for delivering a sermon and he didn’t try to heal anyone at the end. Instead, he
met the congregation at the door and shook hands as they came out into the sunshine that
invades that part of California.
I hung around and asked him about Deevee.
“An amazing, wonderful man of God,” he said. “I owe my life to him. I was one of the
many he cured. I had sores all over. He cured me. I’ve given up the booze and drugs, too.
What you see before you is a miracle.”
“Was he ill today? I expected him to deliver the sermon.”
“Him? Not a bit!” He seemed insulted that I would think so of Deevee.
“Then I’ll catch up to him later,” I said.
He frowned.
“You a personal friend?”
“We went to high school together and later worked on the same radio station.”
“I’m Pastor Chadwick,” he said and stuck out his hand.
We shook hands.
“You won’t find him at home. He’s gone. He decided to return to his former calling. I
don’t know why. If ever a man was close to God, it’s Pastor Devee Smith. I’m surprised you
didn’t know.”
“You don’t exactly know where he went, do you?”
“No. All he said was that he was going country.”
I thanked Pastor Chadwick. He invited me to stop by on Sundays. I thanked him again.
You lose touch with friends in radio from time to time. But they always appear again. Not so
with Deevee.
Yesterday, I visited The Mighty Castle of God after several years. Pastor Chadwick was
still there. I felt his preaching had gotten better.
No, Pastor Chadwick hadn’t heard from Pastor Smith.
“I was hoping he’d write,” he said.
“I’ve got to reach him,” I said.
“I wish I could help you,” said Pastor Chadwick. “Maybe you could phone a few country
music radio stations down in Texas. Someone might know him.”
“I’ve tried that,” I said. “I believe I’ve phoned every country music station in the state.
New Mexico, too. And some in Oklahoma. My wife has been on the phone, too. You see,
we’ve got this little girl. The cutest thing. About three years old now. And she has just been
diagnosed with cancer. The doctors say it can’t be cured. I’ve got to reach Deevee.”
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