The Preachers of Times Square Don’t Want You to Forget

The preachers of Times Square stood lined up on their makeshift pulpits—soapboxes, overturned crates, cardboard stands—each delivering their daily sermons to anyone willing, or unwilling, to listen. They came in all forms: different faiths, different beliefs, different levels of sanity. This was the reality of the city—freedom of expression at its most unfiltered, ready to invade your mind with the most incoherent ramblings you’d ever hear.

A storm was coming. The wind was crisp, cutting through the city streets as Sarah and Joseph walked together, their rare trip to New York meant to usher in 1993 with something special. They didn’t make it up here often, but the energy of the city always held a certain pull. Cold weather never deterred the faithful, though. As they turned onto a crowded row, Christians and Muslims of all sects lined the sidewalks, holding up signs of damnation and salvation, waving pictures of sinners to drive their messages home. Sarah and Joseph walked on, eyes forward, undisturbed.

“I feel our spirits connecting. The Holy Spirit is sending me a signal, telling me that our souls are united. Reach for my hand.”

An older preacher, voice crackling through a microphone, extended his hand toward the crowd—no one reached back.

“Accept Him. Accept Him into your life. Let Him touch your soul through my hand. Touch my hand, and you will touch His.”

His bloodshot eyes locked onto Sarah. He stretched his hand toward her, fingers trembling. She flinched, instinctively stepping back into Joseph’s arms.

“I hate Times Square,” she muttered, glancing up at him, clearly unimpressed with the impromptu sermonizing.

Joseph smirked. “You know, I kind of love it. Where else do you see this many lunatics in one place? It’s like a whole performance—and it’s free.” He gestured around them, his amusement growing as they passed another fervent display.

A tall African man, his thick accent rising above the noise, stood beside a baby stroller. His voice boomed through the street:

“I AM NOT SCARED OF YOU! I FEEL GOD’S LOVE! I FEEL IT IN ME! IF I HAVE HIS LOVE, I AM OKAY!”

He pounded his chest, eyes sweeping the crowd.

“WHATEVER DISEASES YOU CARRY, WHATEVER AILMENTS YOU SUFFER—I WANT TO HELP YOU! I WANT TO TAKE YOUR PAIN! HE TOOK OUR PAIN!”

He reached for people, pulling them into deep, desperate embraces, his voice breaking as he cried out, “GIVE ME YOUR PAIN!” Some followers leaned in willingly, drawn into the moment. Others recoiled, uncertain.

Joseph watched, momentarily transfixed by the man’s intensity, but Sarah tugged at his arm, pulling him forward.

“You treat them like a freakshow,” she said as they walked on. “If you wanted a zoo, we could’ve just gone to the actual zoo.”

The wind picked up. The storm wasn’t in the forecast—Joseph was sure of it. He had watched Sam Champion that morning, making sure nothing would ruin their day.

“The restaurant’s right up ahead,” he said, steering the conversation away. “You complain every time we come here, and then you get the chicken parm, and suddenly, everything’s fine.” He mimicked her in a dramatic tone.

Sarah rolled her eyes but smiled. Even chuckled a little. “You know the chicken parm is my favorite.”

“Exactly. So it’s worth going through all nine circles of hell to get here.”

Joseph looked at her and grinned. The chaos of Times Square, the preachers, the storm brewing overhead—none of it mattered. He wouldn’t have traded this moment for anything. They had been coming to this restaurant since they were teenagers, and now, walking these same streets with her, he knew there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

The storm ahead was just a passing inconvenience. The moment they were about to share—that was what really mattered.

They turned the corner. The restaurant was in sight. The smell of garlic and simmering tomato sauce filled the air, warm and familiar. Almost there.

Only one more preacher stood between them and dinner.

He was young, shirtless in the winter, with wild, unkempt hair and a thick, bushy beard. His bare feet were planted firmly on the pavement, a single piece of cardboard propped up in front of him with the words “DON’T FORGET” sharpied in thick black ink.

Sarah slowed her pace. A strange feeling crept up her spine.

“Isn’t that Matthew?” she whispered to Joseph.

Joseph squinted. Shit. It was.

“Weren’t you two friends at some point?” she pressed.

“Back in middle school,” Joseph muttered. “We stopped talking in high school. He kinda... disappeared. Got weird.”

Weird didn’t even begin to describe what Joseph was feeling now. It had been years since he’d last seen Matthew—someone who had once been part of his life, now standing before him like an apparition, transformed into something unrecognizable. The past suddenly made flesh.

Sarah glanced at Joseph, then back at Matthew. “We should say hello, at the very least.”

Joseph didn’t want to. He wasn’t sure which unsettled him more—the dark clouds gathering overhead or the sight of Matthew, standing in the street like some forgotten prophet.

Before he could object, Sarah had already stepped forward.

“Matthew Becking, is that you?” She gave a small wave.

Matthew didn’t react. He nodded once, dragging on a cigarette.

“It’s Sarah Morris and Joseph Brook,” she said, her voice lifting with familiarity. “We went to high school together.”

Joseph gave a reluctant wave. Matthew exhaled smoke, staring through them.

Joseph’s eyes drifted to the sign at Matthew’s feet. DON’T FORGET.

A shiver crept over him.

“You, uh... you preach out here?” he asked.

Matthew nodded again. Silent.

It was the quietest sermon in Times Square. The outer voice was still, but the inner one—Joseph could feel it—was deafening.

Matthew just watched them, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

Sarah glanced at Joseph, searching for something to say, but he had nothing. Just an eerie, gnawing sensation.

“Well, it was good seeing you, but we better get—”

“Sarah. Joseph.”

Matthew’s voice broke the spell, snapping them both to attention. His expression shifted—like a machine rebooting, remembering how to function. A light flickered behind his eyes.

“How nice it is to see you,” he said, as if he had just now recognized them. He spread his arms, the ghost of a smile creeping onto his face.

Joseph stiffened.

“What are the chances the universe has brought us together today?” Matthew mused. “I mean, when was the last time we saw each other?”

Joseph swallowed. The answer floated to his lips before he could think. “High school graduation.”

Matthew nodded, as if savoring the memory. “Ah yes. That beautiful day. Our transition from childhood to adulthood. The closed world to the real world.” His voice took on an almost rehearsed quality. “I remember those days so fondly.”

The rain came suddenly, slicing through the city air. Fat, heavy drops, striking Matthew’s bare chest like tiny needles.

Sarah instinctively took a step back under the awning of a nearby storefront. Matthew, soaked, didn’t move.

“A shame,” he murmured, tilting his head to the sky. “This rain came out of nowhere.” His eyes flickered back to them, sharp and bright. “The universe brought us together. I would hate to upset it by cutting our meeting short.”

He gestured to a bar just beside the restaurant. “Care to join me for a drink?”

Sarah hesitated. She didn’t like the way he had gone from silent statue to overly familiar. The shift had been too sudden, too unnatural. But she had been raised to believe it was impolite to deny an invitation.

“I think we have time for one drink,” she said carefully, looking to Joseph.

Joseph didn’t answer. His gut twisted.

Something was wrong.

Matthew had been in his life for years, but now, standing here, Joseph realized he couldn’t remember why they stopped talking.

His mind clawed through old memories, searching, flipping through the filing cabinet of his past but the files were missing. Nothing. Just blank space where Matthew should be.

Matthew put on a stretched-out sweatshirt, the fabric loose and threadbare, before leading them inside. The bar smelled of stale beer and damp wood, the kind of place where neon signs buzzed in the windows and nobody asked questions. He ordered three of the cheapest beers they had—couldn’t have cost more than a few bucks. The bartender didn’t even glance up, just slid the bottles across the counter.

Joseph watched the rain outside, now steady, drumming against the sidewalk in rhythmic taps. The storm was here to stay.

Sarah took a sip of her beer, barely masking her impatience. If they were going to do this, she wanted to get to the point. “So, Matthew,” she started, leaning in slightly, “what exactly do you preach about?”

Matthew exhaled smoke and took a slow sip of the beer rolling the taste in his mouth before answering. “I wouldn’t call it preaching. I’m not religious. More… spiritual.” He tapped his cigarette against the rim of the ashtray, flicking away a curl of ash. “I believe my world has ended.”

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “Your world?”

Matthew nodded. “And since my world has ended, I believe all of our worlds have ended.” Another long drag of his cigarette.

Joseph shifted in his seat. “I don’t get it. I see the world still spinning.”

Matthew’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The worst moment of my life took everything from me. No therapy, no pill, no amount of running can take that back.” His voice darkened, the weight of it pressing into the space between them. “So we forget. We push these things away. Pretend they never happened.” His fingers drummed against the table, slow and deliberate. “I tried that too. But then, I was shown the truth by a Great Spirit. It revealed to me that the world has ended—not in fire, not in ruin—but in memory. Because we refuse to remember.”

Sarah crossed her arms, uneasy. “And if we did remember?”

Matthew leaned forward. “Then we could finally move on. We could fix everything. But people like Joseph,” he pointed at him, “have chosen to forget.”

Joseph blinked. The words hit like a slow, creeping sickness. He took a swig of his cheap beer—it tasted like piss—but it gave him a moment to think.

Forget what?

Matthew turned his gaze to Sarah.

“What’s the worst day of your life?”

Sarah stiffened. The shift was too abrupt, too personal. “That’s a hell of a question to drop on someone you haven’t seen in a decade.”

Matthew just waited, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

Sarah exhaled sharply. “When my grandmother died. Thanksgiving. In front of my whole family.”

Matthew closed his eyes, snapping his fingers. “Tell me more. The smell. The sound. What were you thinking?”

Sarah recoiled. “What?”

“What did the room smell like? What was in the air? What was the sound in your ears?” Matthew’s fingers kept snapping, like he was conjuring something.

Sarah’s face hardened. “I don’t know. It smelled like Thanksgiving. My family was there. I was thinking, ‘Oh my god, my grandmother is dying.’” She mimicked his tone, mocking. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

Matthew shook his head, unimpressed. He opened his eyes and looked right through her. “That wasn’t the worst day of your life. You’ve chosen to forget. You are the problem with this world.”

Sarah flinched, caught somewhere between rage and disbelief.

“Not cool, man,” Joseph cut in, his voice edged with warning.

Sarah swallowed hard, her eyes wet but unreadable. How dare he? Who the hell did Matthew think he was, dismissing her pain like it wasn’t real?

But Matthew had already turned back to Joseph.

“I know you haven’t forgotten.” He wagged a finger, cigarette balanced between two fingers. “Your pain is my pain. Our souls were touched on that journey. I remember every detail.”

Joseph’s stomach turned.

“My pain is your pain?” he repeated, voice hollow.

The storm was worsening outside. Wind rattled the window panes.

Matthew took a slow sip of his beer. “Tell me, Joseph. What was the worst day of your life?”

Joseph hesitated. “Probably when my parents got a—”

“No,” Matthew interrupted, shaking his head, eyes shutting again, like he was reaching for something in the dark. “That’s not it.”

Joseph bristled. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You haven’t told her, have you?”

Joseph froze.

Sarah’s head snapped toward him. “Told me what?”

Joseph opened his mouth, but Matthew was already shaking his head again, smiling, knowing.

“Don’t worry,” Matthew said, waving a hand. “He didn’t cheat on you.”

Sarah’s jaw clenched. “You think that’s all I care about?” Her voice was sharp, furious. She was done with Matthew, done with his games, just waiting for Joseph to be done too.

Matthew ignored her. His eyes were shut now, lost somewhere deep.

Then, he whispered, “Joseph… the Candyland house.”

Joseph’s breath caught in his throat.

His fingers clenched around his beer glass. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears.

The filing cabinet of his mind, that blank space where Matthew should have been—the drawer slid open. 

“Fuck.” 

*** 

Tell me the smell.

It was a warm day. Summer vacation. The Candyland House—an abandoned amusement park designed to look like the board game—had become the local secret spot for kids who had nowhere else to be. It had been a failed dream, closing down years ago, its candy-colored walls now dulled with grime, its rides rusting into stillness.

Inside, the air was thick with mold and dust, a suffocating reminder that this place had been left behind. But outside, by the garage, the scents changed—gravel and rusted metal from abandoned cars that sat forgotten, a bureaucratic loophole keeping them from being towed. There was the acrid tang of burnt-out fireplaces, the ghosts of cigarettes and joints smoked in the dead of night. Spray paint cans, some fresh, some corroded, littered the ground, their faded tags whispering the presence of kids who had once left their mark.

Tell me who’s there.

Just the three of them. Joseph, Matthew, and Ben.

Ben was the quiet one, the kid who tagged along because it got him out of the house. He never talked much, but he always showed up. That was enough. They were doing what they always did—loitering by the garage, passing around a stolen cigarette from Matthew’s father, splitting a single can of beer Joseph had smuggled from his fridge. It wasn’t much, but in those long, empty summer days, it felt like freedom.

Then came the rustling.

From under a burnt-out car, they peered through the cracked metal frame. An older Asian kid—Joey Kim. 

He was running, panicked, chased by a group of high school boys. Joseph and Matthew didn’t know their names at the time, but later, they would. The ringleader was Jimmy Luck, the golden boy of the football team, the future high school quarterback.

The trio of boys under the car didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

They wanted nothing to do with this.

Heads turned sideways, they watched through the gap in the metal.

Joey stumbled. They caught him.

What were you thinking?

I should be doing more.

But Joseph didn’t move. None of them did.

The punches started first. A shove. A kick. Joey fell hard, trying to scramble back up, but they wouldn’t let him. The taunts came next—slurs, curses, the kind of words that stuck to your skin like filth. Joey begged, pleaded, but they just laughed.

Joseph knew if they made a sound, they’d be next.

So they laid still. Silent.

Then Joey hit the ground. Face down.

His head tilted sideways, his eyes locking onto Joseph beneath the car.

Don’t look at us.

Before Joey could speak, before he could even register their presence, Jimmy’s boot came down—hard.

The sickening crunch of bone, the way Joey’s skull caved in beneath the weight.

His eyes—God, his eyes.

They bulged, unfocused, blood pouring onto the gravel.

The bullies stepped back, breathless, realizing all at once what they had done. Their laughter cut short. One of them cursed. Another gagged.

Then they ran.

Joseph stayed frozen, lying there beneath the car, Joey’s dead gaze still locked on him.

They waited. An hour, maybe more.

Every time Joseph closed his eyes, Jimmy was still there. Still standing over him. Still staring.

Eventually, the trio fled.

They made an anonymous call from a payphone outside a diner—there’s a body at the Candyland House. Then they walked away, swearing they would never speak of it again.

They had been in trouble the previous summer. Another slip-up, and they would have been shipped off to some boot camp for delinquent kids. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Joseph told himself they had made the right choice. You’ll forget.

Memories fade, just like the ones from when you were young.

The trio never hung out much after that. The weight of the secret was too much.

Joseph buried himself in his relationship with Sarah, distractions filling the cracks in his mind.

Matthew buried it in his own vices.

Ben couldn’t bear it. He threw himself off a bridge in ‘88.

***

Joseph opened his eyes.

Tears blurred his vision, his hands trembling around the porcelain cup.

Sarah was silent, her arms wrapped around him, holding him tight, instinctively knowing this was what he needed.

Matthew, across the table, was smiling. Another convert to his religion.

“Never forget it now, Joseph.”

He lit another cigarette.

Outside, the storm had cleared.

Blue skies—just like Sam Champion had predicted.

Matthew stood, offered a quick, awkward group hug, then left the bar.

He walked back to the street, back to his church.

Joseph sat there, shaking.

The weight of it pressed down on him, deeper than before, heavier now that it had been unearthed.

There was no burying it again.

He swallowed hard.

Took a breath.

And then, quietly—

“Let’s go get that chicken parm.”