Since then the police have kept close tabs on me. It was even their idea to use the leather hand straps. They’ve given me a few simple guidelines to follow as well. It’s a free country, they tell me, but I’m not to bother people. And they’ve asked me to stay out of the mall, which is where I had a little trouble another time on account of the overzealous security officers there who accused me of disturbing with my wild stares and weird cross the young girl shoppers that mill around eating salted pretzels and sucking orange drinks through straws. The security guards wanted to grab my arms and guide me forcibly to the exit, and when I refused to let them abuse my rights to freedom of religion and expression, they ended up calling the police to have me arrested for disorderly conduct and disrupting the peace. Except for those two times the police have been nice enough whenever they stop their cars to check in with me along the sidewalk downtown, and there’s even a young lady officer who wears her tight blue uniform shirt with the badge pinned right over her swelling chest, though none of them can keep themselves from winking at each other or chuckling. They know I’m not a criminal, but, even so, they still like to imagine I’m some kind of kook. But that laugh-about-it-all attitude is understandable, given all the wickedness and depravity they witness on a daily basis.

I strip down completely and wrap the loincloth I made from an old white sheet between my legs and then twice around my waist. It’s modest but authentic. I fasten it tightly at both the waist and legs with safety pins to keep the cloth from falling down and my private parts from spilling out as I grapple with the cross. I won’t stand for people having any lewd thoughts or fantasies about an act that’s meant to purify. And I certainly don’t want to be humiliated in public. Outside I hear the wind blowing rain against the garage door as I get ready. No doubt about it, today I’m going to suffer.