In the 1980s, there were times when I was poor. To be fair, I was always poor, what with child labor laws in the America. My parents were sometimes poor and sometimes well off, depending on the quirks of the oil business. Regardless of our financial situation I was always taught to help people in a way that would minimize their embarrassment, should it come to that.
I was in 7th grade and as an active member of the Bogata Baptist Church Youth Group, I was all about Jesus-related Baptist activities, like eating and I loved, LOVed, LOVED to go on trips to eat somewhere besides the fellowship hall at the church or the Tip Top, which was the one restaurant in Bogata. I rarely got to eat anywhere other than Waynette’s Kitchen, where you ate what the chef prepared because she was my Mom and wasn't having any backtalk, but the best food was that found in other cities, mostly because it required travel. To my ‘have only lived in the boonies self” anywhere else was preferable to here, no matter where ‘here’ was located. And curiosity was my primary motivator as my need to go everywhere overrode the fact that I was prone to carsickness when I wasn’t driving. And at age 12, I wasn’t driving…on the highway. Driving a hay truck in the fields was just something you did as long as you were old enough to reach the gas and clutch; whatever age that was. For me, it had been 11; 9 for my extraordinarily tall cousin Jody.
This Sunday night trip was to a nearby larger town called Clarksville. We were going to the Pizza Something (Inn, Hut, Shack, Lean-to, I don’t remember), and were to be chaperoned by our new Youth Minister and his wife. I will not give their real names as they may still live in America and I don’t want to shame them with this true story, so let’s call them Stretch Armstrong and Ursula, based on the fact that he was, at the very least 6’ 12”, and she was as hateful as he was tall. Imagine Ursula the Sea Witch except skinnier, with bangs and the ability to play the piano. We felt certain her heart was black as the visible roots of her dyed kinda-sorta auburn hair, regardless of her husband’s calling to the ministry. These folks were new to Bogata and I am unsure what his qualifications were but as far as we could tell, “enjoying spending time with teens” did not seem to be one of them. We didn't really like them, but when you are a hungry, bored teenager, you will go eat pizza with anyone, up to and including John Wayne Gacy, I can assure you.
I have a dim recollection of who it was, but someone was new to our church or visiting a relative but there was a stranger amongst us, and we effectively kidnapped them to come with us to eat pizza. Southern Baptist teens filled to the brim with a potent combo of Southern Hospitality, The Love of Jesus, and leftover Sunday School Kool-Aid, will completely ignored any protestations of no money or other excuses. We made sure we were entertaining angels all up and through Red River County, y’all. Believe that.
We piled into the van with Stretch and Ursula and away we went. It was a fun time. We laughed and talked and ate pizza, without a care in the world. It was the 80s in the middle of nowhere, about 26 miles from the buckle of the Bible Belt, what was there to worry about? Once the pizza was gone and the bill arrived, we began the lengthy chore of divvying up who owed what. It came to something like $3 per person. It was at that time, our new Friend in Jesus, piped up to say that they did not have any money. I mean, $3 is not much, but when you have $0, it might as well be $100. Between us we came up with an extra $1, but having no frame of reference for how to pray extra money into existence, we did what teenagers do and went to the adults to fix the problem.
It was decided that I would approach Stretch, not Ursula, and explain that our friend had no money and we needed an additional $2 to cover the bill. Expecting the Jesus (and Deacon) approved Christian Chaperone to smile and say, “No problem”, I was surprised and, frankly appalled, when Stretch looked irritated and said, “Fine, but you have to pay me back when we get to your house.” I said, “Me? It’s for Super Jesus Friend #1, not me. I have my $3.” He replied, icily, “Well you’re the one borrowing the money, so you have to pay it back.” I was stunned into silence and went back to the group and said we had the money we needed.
When we returned to the van and made our way home, I became more and more irritated. I shared the story of what happened with The Twins (Carolyn and Sharon) who agreed that I had every right to be appalled and asked me what I planned to do about it. I didn’t have a plan. All I knew was I was 13 kinds of irritated. Also, poor (see beginning of story). I hoped I had enough change in my room at home. It’s hard to take the high road when you’re broke, y’all.
As my family lived the farthest in the boonies, we came to my house first on the way back to the church. I got out and told Stretch to wait and I would retrieve the money from my parents. That was a lie, but I needed him to stay so I could have the dramatic moment I was anticipating. If he wanted to act inappropriately, I was ready and willing to match him pettiness for pettiness. Keep in mind I am 12 and he is…well, I don’t know the age, but he was grown, y’all. And tall. That has to add at least 5 years to your age, right? Let’s just say he was older than 12. Old enough to be married.
I went to my bedroom, not explaining what I was doing to my parents and retrieved the $2 in change from my piggy bank which was actually an inlaid wooden box with a horse and carriage motif that I had picked out at an estate sale when I was in 5th grade in Oklahoma because that is how I have always rolled, people. I was bougie before bougie was bougie, y’all.
My indignation increased with every step and my corduroy-clad thighs smoked as they rubbed together during my brisk walk of superiority. I marched right back to the van and threw the tainted coins into Stretch’s lap, not caring if he was injured. I sauntered back into my house and closed the door and immediately explained to my parents what happened. My mother was appalled at both me and Stretch; luckily more at Stretch than me as I only had to suffer through one “Dustin Terryll, I didn’t raise you to act like that!” The Dad thought it was funny.
To this day I am unsure of the repercussions, but what I do know is that I did not get in trouble at home or church and no one mentioned the event at any point, other than those who bore witness and even then only when no adults were around. Just like David vs. Goliath, it was a win for the (metaphorical) little guy with Jesus on his side.
Amen and Amen, y’all.
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