I was waiting for them to speak, to preach, but they were silent.
Two of them stood on the corner on the intersection of a street named after a Confederate General and a street named after an Anti-Integration Mayor. They'd taken over the bus stop, turning it into two shelves of boxes of fruit. There was a row of boxes on the ground and a row on the bench seat and each box had a bunch of bananas, apples and oranges.
The two Nation Ministers stood there in black suits and bow ties and didn't really say anything.
They gave a bag to a lady in a car. She had a kid in the back seat who smiled. They gave a box to a man walking down the street towards the historic black college. They didn't say anything. A cop drove by and they didn't give him any fruit and he didn't look.
Behind them a shirtless man jumped rope.
The taller minister seemed to be walking in circles, smiling and crossing his arms. A lot of people passed. He didn't try to say anything and they all looked away like the way you teach children not to stare at cripples. A crack head walked up like he was walking up to the tall man, walked up like he was going to challenge him or something or ask for something, but then he walked away.
The shorter minister would work through the traffic at the red lights. He would walk between the cars, not saying anything and not even looking in the windows and sometimes, after maybe a sign I couldn't see, he would stop and pass the fruit.
Another man walked up to the tall minister and the minister gave him a box. When do you meet, the man said and he didn't ask where. The minister said 7, but no one can be later than 7:30, and he laughed.