The Kaleidoscope Read Online Free Page B

neighborhood, Harold kept his steps to a minimum.
    Once a month he rode the bus to a large supermarket for items not carried in the corner market. This particular Saturday included the barber for his customary 3-2-1 buzzcut. Then he refilled his allergy medicine, picked up the dry cleaning, and allowed between twelve and thirteen minutes in produce for bananas and apples, two fruits he found reliable.
    His stomach churned as he turned the faucets to start the shower. He’d taken one giant leap toward becoming more “charismatic,” as Clyde had suggested, but the very idea of what he planned made him want to hurl.
    Walking past the local church—ironically, the same building Georgia worked to save—Harold had noted the service times. He’d not attended church since he was a kid. Someone kept the walks swept, the small flowerbeds planted with seasonal color. Poor masking for a building badly in need of repair. But Harold’s concern was not for St. Mark’s, but what he might gain for himself.
    “Find some way to make yourself more personable.” Clyde’s advice resonated as Harold froze, forcing passersby to step around him while he read the marquee. What better way to connect with people than through the fuzzy world of faith? A management book, picked up from a sidewalk sale, now nestled in his bag and encouraged as much:  Attending church or temple will increase your chances of being seen as a well-rounded member of your community.
    He had almost talked himself out of going, though. Grandma Destiny would not approve. Religion was for the weak-minded, for kooks. “If you can’t touch it or explain it with science, it’s all hocus pocus,” she’d drilled into his head whenever he asked philosophical questions. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, just like a magician’s tricks. Everything can be explained.”
    But then he read the sermon topic, which could not have been more appropriate for his quest. Or weirdly ironic.
    “When God Became Man: Self-demotion or Selfless Promotion?”
    Harold returned for the Sunday service.
    “Instead of sending around a plate for your usual offering this week,” Father Tucker announced at the conclusion of the sermon, “keep it. I want you to make a personal connection with someone who may be in real need or even in pain. Step outside your personal comfort zone. If we never see who is out there in need, we develop shells so thick we don’t really feel what other people are going through. Not only may your small gift make a large difference, you might find out something about yourself. Oh, and one more thing.” The priest had stepped away from the altar. “Keep our building in your prayers. Unless a miracle happens, we’ve lost our final appeal to the wrecking balls.”
    Harold hardly heard the final words. He was already thinking about what he could do with the money he’d intended for the offering. The city needed more parking spaces; churches were used only once a week. From its cracked walls to the badly repaired stained glass window, he didn’t see how there was any hope, or real need, for the structure on the prime real estate.
    He checked his haircut in the mirror and then left the apartment with the coins intended for the collection plate still burrowing deep in his pocket. Attending the service was supposed to prove his humanity, but the very building that was supposed to herald spirituality, that vague, untouchable part of life Harold knew only from late night dorm debates, the God particle discussions his professors loathed to allow, was doomed. The structure was obviously as irrelevant to the community as it had been to Harold.
    His coffee shop religion in college had consisted of Sunday morning interfaith dialog laced with the aromas of chai tea, pot drifting in from the alley. Pecking at his keyboard, he’d listened to vigorous debates between students from around the globe. Harold had learned to keep to himself. The few attempts he’d made to try and fit in