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Authors: Sean Chercover
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Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, in the suburb of Jefferson Parish, where a triage center had been established. Trinity was quickly examined by a medic and put on a refugee bus to Baton Rouge, where he sat next to a very old black woman who’d lost her wig and apologized profusely for her bald head.
“Not a thing,” Trinity said as the bus rocked into gear. “Hell, if ’Fess were still alive, he’d be signing songs about you.” He laughed with good nature and held his hand out to her. “Tim Trinity.”
The old woman gasped. “Oh, lordy, you’re Reverend Tim!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She took his hand. “Thought you looked familiar, but I gots me some bad cataracts, can’t see for shit no more.” She smiled at him, lips pulled back from dark gums. She’d lost her dentures in the storm too. “I’m Miss Carpenter. You call me Emogene.”
“Good to know you, Miss Emogene.”
Miss Emogene looked out the window at the dark road ahead. “You got kin in Baton Rouge? I’m blessed with a daughter, lives up this way.”
“No, ma’am. But I’m not staying long, couple days maybe. Soon as they let me, I’ll be back to doing the Lord’s work. Got me a soup kitchen in the Lower Nine.”
The old woman’s face grew haunted, and her smoky eyes filled Trinity with great terror. “I just came from there. I mean to tell you, you ain’t going back there.”
“Sure I am.”
“Boy, you don’t understand. There
ain’t
no Lower Nine no more. It’s…
gone.”
Miss Emogene retreated into her sadness and they rode on in silence. Trinity looked around and now saw that he was the only white person on the bus. A middle-aged man across the aisle turned on an old transistor radio, and the bus went quiet as all strained to hear the latest.
It was bad news on top of bad news. The old woman was right—the Ninth Ward had been wiped off the map, and the list of devastated neighborhoods included most of the lower-income parts of town.
It was at that moment Trinity realized he was finished as a prosperity preacher in New Orleans. His income base had been cut off at the knees. The market had collapsed. They say there’s no man so poor he can’t find a few dollars to spend on whiskey and salvation, but this was something else entirely. This was about survival.
The Lower Nine was gone, but now the whole city needed a soup kitchen. Sure, Trinity could go back in a few days and look like a hero on CNN, but what would it gain him? There’d be no income from the locals, probably for years. And the infrastructure was decimated. How long before he could get his show back on the air to draw money from the rest of the country?
A long time, if he stayed.
By the time they reached Baton Rouge, Trinity had made the decision to start over in Atlanta. He had plenty of money in the bank, could be up and running in a month or two. And he’d always flattered himself he could compete with the big boys in the big city. This was his chance to prove it.
In Atlanta, Trinity bought a large warehouse in the impoverished Vine City neighborhood. Within a month it was decorated with a stage pulpit and audience seating, outfitted with cameras and lighting and a video control room. He was back in business. In the second month, he built his flock, and by the end of the third month, he was back on the air. His new church was an instant hit, and the money poured in like never before.
But he hadn’t counted on the voices.
When they started, he put it down to stress, and an Atlanta doctor prescribed Valium. When that didn’t work, the doctor tried him on Ativan, then Xanax, then Serax. When none of the anti-anxiety drugs worked, he moved on to anti-depressants: Prozac, Zoloft, Effexor. They didn’t work either.
After over a year of pharmaceutical futility, Trinity resigned himself to living with the voices. But then the voices strengthened, and soon they brought the tongues. Tongues that came upon him like epileptic fits,
“Not a thing,” Trinity said as the bus rocked into gear. “Hell, if ’Fess were still alive, he’d be signing songs about you.” He laughed with good nature and held his hand out to her. “Tim Trinity.”
The old woman gasped. “Oh, lordy, you’re Reverend Tim!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She took his hand. “Thought you looked familiar, but I gots me some bad cataracts, can’t see for shit no more.” She smiled at him, lips pulled back from dark gums. She’d lost her dentures in the storm too. “I’m Miss Carpenter. You call me Emogene.”
“Good to know you, Miss Emogene.”
Miss Emogene looked out the window at the dark road ahead. “You got kin in Baton Rouge? I’m blessed with a daughter, lives up this way.”
“No, ma’am. But I’m not staying long, couple days maybe. Soon as they let me, I’ll be back to doing the Lord’s work. Got me a soup kitchen in the Lower Nine.”
The old woman’s face grew haunted, and her smoky eyes filled Trinity with great terror. “I just came from there. I mean to tell you, you ain’t going back there.”
“Sure I am.”
“Boy, you don’t understand. There
ain’t
no Lower Nine no more. It’s…
gone.”
Miss Emogene retreated into her sadness and they rode on in silence. Trinity looked around and now saw that he was the only white person on the bus. A middle-aged man across the aisle turned on an old transistor radio, and the bus went quiet as all strained to hear the latest.
It was bad news on top of bad news. The old woman was right—the Ninth Ward had been wiped off the map, and the list of devastated neighborhoods included most of the lower-income parts of town.
It was at that moment Trinity realized he was finished as a prosperity preacher in New Orleans. His income base had been cut off at the knees. The market had collapsed. They say there’s no man so poor he can’t find a few dollars to spend on whiskey and salvation, but this was something else entirely. This was about survival.
The Lower Nine was gone, but now the whole city needed a soup kitchen. Sure, Trinity could go back in a few days and look like a hero on CNN, but what would it gain him? There’d be no income from the locals, probably for years. And the infrastructure was decimated. How long before he could get his show back on the air to draw money from the rest of the country?
A long time, if he stayed.
By the time they reached Baton Rouge, Trinity had made the decision to start over in Atlanta. He had plenty of money in the bank, could be up and running in a month or two. And he’d always flattered himself he could compete with the big boys in the big city. This was his chance to prove it.
In Atlanta, Trinity bought a large warehouse in the impoverished Vine City neighborhood. Within a month it was decorated with a stage pulpit and audience seating, outfitted with cameras and lighting and a video control room. He was back in business. In the second month, he built his flock, and by the end of the third month, he was back on the air. His new church was an instant hit, and the money poured in like never before.
But he hadn’t counted on the voices.
When they started, he put it down to stress, and an Atlanta doctor prescribed Valium. When that didn’t work, the doctor tried him on Ativan, then Xanax, then Serax. When none of the anti-anxiety drugs worked, he moved on to anti-depressants: Prozac, Zoloft, Effexor. They didn’t work either.
After over a year of pharmaceutical futility, Trinity resigned himself to living with the voices. But then the voices strengthened, and soon they brought the tongues. Tongues that came upon him like epileptic fits,
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