The Knee Jerker...A Southern Trilogy Part I

Metter, GA, Sunday, heat index 112.

Henry promised to introduce me to Willie, his brother. Locals call him The Knee Jerker. He’s now a Prophet. We finish the fried chicken from Edenfield’s Buffet, grab a tooth pick and leave.

Willie lives where he works, in the annex behind the Tabernacle of The Absolute Rapture. The Tabernacle, painted a brilliant red, reminds me of a Twilight Zone movie.

I ask Henry about Willie’s knee jerking. He says a restless spirit lives in his legs. “Some say it’s the devil,” he says. “When his knees get to jerking, he speaks in tongues. People get raptured and fall flat on the floor.”

He adds, “The preacher and deacons laid hands on his legs to cast out this spirit. But his legs twitched and he got to talking in tongues. They anointed him a Prophet right there on the spot.” I’m incredulous.

“Is this a hoax?” I ask. Henry says no. He says when Willie walks into the Tabernacle, it happens. My head shakes in disbelief. I tell Henry the world’s full of knee-jerkers. Some even have devils, I say. He asks me to explain.

Henry obviously knows the devil, so I figure he would understand. I tell him they were also born with deviant spirits, but they usually knee-jerk with their mouths, not their knees. He cocks his head and looks at me. His eyes are luminous and wild.

I try to make it simple. “It’s hard to explain, Henry,” I say. “You see, some people put their mouth in motion before they put their brain in gear. They have foot-in-mouth disease.” He says he never heard of that affliction. I let it drop.

The Tabernacle is enormous. Its vastness looms like a fiery apparition from a hilltop. It overlooks a desolate swamp at the dead end of a railroad track. A red caboose sits there, silent, waiting. For what? I’m afraid to ask. Just in case, I slide my wallet under the seat.

The parking lot is pregnant with Cadillacs and Lincolns. People stand in serpentine lines. They shuffle restlessly, waiting to enter the Tabernacle. They’re dressed in dazzling pastels, black and white. Some have luggage. “My God, Henry, what’s this?” I ask. He grins. Far out!

Two enormous men block the back door. Odd shapes bulge beneath their blazers. A Brinks truck waits in the distance. Henry high-fives. They eye me with suspicion and curiosity, then, let us enter.

Inside, a white-robed choir sways and sings, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Shouts of Hallelujah, Glory and Amen mingle with weeping and wailing. Strange tongues fill the cavernous sanctuary. I search for Dante.

Substantial white buckets swell with cash and fungible lucre, sacrifices considered sufficient to secure a ticket to heaven. Multitudes of acolytes throng the shining throne of Willie, The Knee Jerker. Only today, he’s Willie, The Prophet, clothed with a scarlet vestment trimmed with tiny mirrors.

Petitioners come, offer oblations and touch his knees. They jerk, or don’t, depending on the size of the alms. “Is this legal?” I ask. Silence answers. Soon Willie takes a break, joins us in a back room. Henry introduces me. My tongue is Velcro. It clings to the roof of my mouth.

Willie says, “We have a ‘Rapture Ministry’. People are hungry for heaven, afraid of the devil and ready for the Rapture. We offer hope.” He continues. “The devil’s favorite color is red, so we paint everything red and shove it in his face.”

My tongue finds its voice. “What’s with the red caboose?” I ask.

Willie answers. “Oh, that. It’s symbolic. It represents the last train out. It sits there as a reminder that it’s never too late, even if it is the last train out.”

He says, “It’s not a hoax. The money we collect feeds the hungry. We only pay expenses. We don’t even have a Cadillac or a jet…..yet!”

I ask, “Willie, I gotta know. Do your knees really jerk? Or just your mouth?”

He laughs. “Brother, all things are possible to them that believe.” We exchange benedictions, retreat to our worlds.

I ask Henry if I can get a last-minute ticket for the caboose. He winks. “Son, like the Good Book says, ‘Money answereth to all things.’”

And so it goes. Metter, GA, a Sunday in August, heat index 112.

Bud Hearn
September 8, 2011