On the grass outside the church, several tables were put end to end, then covered with white sheets so it looked like there was one long table. Platters and dish’s of home cooked food were placed on it, brought by the congregation’s best cooks. Fried chicken–that king of the Sunday dinner–was there aplenty, as were mashed potatoes, gravy, buttered corn, rolls, and a whole lot more. My belly rumbled with hunger, but there was another, even stronger desire that brought me, a non-church goer, to church.
I’d just not seen enough of her, you see. Twice, Kathy and I had sat together at the movie theater and kissed, and I wanted more. My buddy, Roger, said she came to this church, so here I am, milling around, stealing quick glances of her through the crowd and thinking unclean thoughts.
Look–she smiled and waved! Oh, boy, I wish we could sneak off somewhere and smooch! She’s mouthing something and pointing at the shrubs. I mouth back at her, “You want to meet me behind the shrubs? Yes? You do?”
Hot diggidy! Now if I can just work my way over there…
“Hello, aren’t you Sammy Dickens–Claude’s son?”
Shoot, it’s old Mrs. Jones! “Uh, yes Ma’am, he’s my dad.”
“Well, I’ve never seen you here before. You must be tired of all that sin you and him have been living in. Are you ready to be saved?”
“Uhhh… “
“Only the blood of Jesus can get you to heaven, Sammy. Let’s get us a plate of this good food, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Oh, I already know all that, Mrs. Jones.”
She gave me a squinty eye. “You do?”
“Yeah, I got saved last summer at that big tent revival they had in the field across from the feed mill.”
She sighed and shook her head. “So, you’re a Baptist.”
“Uh-huh, yeah.”
“Well, alright, then, but if you’re going to be coming here, you’d better start seeing things like us Pentecostals. Believe me, if you die in sin, you’ll not see the kingdom of heaven, and I don’t care what the Baptists say!”
I think I’m dyin’ right now. Where’s Kathy? Shit, there she goes, driving off with her parents!
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones, but I’ve got to go now. Dad needs me to help him fix that bed that him and Marge broke the slats out of last night.”
Short and sweet — or sweaty. I’ve got to admit, Sam, we were very much alike. Thoughts always moved toward females and food, and the latter would always lose out to the former. I got a good laugh out of the ending. You’re very good at doing that.
Thanks. The story is about half true.
I love it! Like a 1970’s memory or movie! Starring Sammy Dickens as himself. Most of mine are like that unless I experiment a bit. A couple from the dude perspective and a trilogy as a dog.
Thank you so much.