Like David and Goliath except with Quarters

               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 7^th 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 5^th 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.

Cornbread and Public Indecency

              The inherent differences between my father and I have never been quite as obvious as they were this weekend.  I arrived at the San Jose airport returning from a week-long project management certification for the government and I was wearing a basic travel outfit of colored chinos, white oxford, white Jack Purcell lace-ups and a grey cardigan because something’s got to absorb the boldness of mi pantalones (that’s Spanish).  For this trip, my chinos were fuchsia.  Fuchsia is the physical manifestation of the word awesome.  Now, you don’t have to dress like me in order for me to refrain from judgment but when my Daddy rolled out of his truck to let me drive home, he was wearing his redneck uniform (jeans with suspenders, pocket t-shirt and Tractor Supply hat).  And this, I truly don’t mind.  However, the addition of house shoes with no socks was a bit much as was the fact that his pants were not buttoned or zipped because, I assume, he couldn’t be bothered after his pre-airport toileting.  I’m not sure I even want to know the reasons why.

                After we got home and I unpacked, he reminded me that since I was away for his “day to pick the groceries” that he wanted to pick where we ate dinner.  I was too tired to cook so I heartily agreed and left to go get the BBQ pizza and wings he had seen on a commercial.  I guess he is susceptible to suggestion, too.  Maybe that’s where I get it. 

                On the way back from Round Table Pizza, I stopped to get our drinks (Coke Zero for him, Snapple Diet Peach Iced Tea for me) at the quickie mart down the street.  When I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a woman with her pants completely pulled down.  Like all the way down.  I saw more of her butt cheeks than I have of my own.  And she was urinating.  Squatting beside a gas pump.  Visible from the street.  Without shame.  I thought at first I must be hallucinating as this is just not something I expect to see even in California, land of the heathen.  And then we locked eyes.  The amount of confidence she exuded could have gotten her a career in politics had her lot in life been a different one.

                I parked and walked inside and said to the cashier, “You know that woman by the gray pickup is urinating in your parking lot?” 

                The cashier said, “Dang, man, I told her our bathroom was ‘Employees Only’ but she could ignore the sign and use it anyway.”

                After I paid, I left still not believing I had seen what I had seen.  I couldn’t wait to get home to tell The Dad and then we could laugh about how gross people are and maybe he’d remember some misbegotten adventure with some heinously white trash cousin and we’d be set for dinner time conversation if I included my extensive knowledge of the behavior of sketchy folks.  Sometimes at dinner, we read because there’s just not a whole lot to say between two people who have nothing in common but their lack of commonalities.

                After I told the story, he just looked at me.  I said, “I still can’t believe it.”

                He replied, “There oughta be a law.”

                I said, “I think there has to be.”

                He said, “I hope so.  I mean, businesses shouldn’t be allowed to have an ‘Employees Only’ bathroom.”

                I stared and said, “THAT’s what you got out of my story?”

                He looked confused and said, “What?”

                “You think the weird thing was the bathroom rules and not the woman who stripped half-naked and tee-teed on the side of a gas pump facing the street?”

                “What’s the big deal about that?”

                “You’ve done it before, haven’t you?”

                “I see what you think about me.”

                “Answer the question please.  Have you or have you not urinated in public?”

                “I won’t dignify that with an answer,” he said with more disdain than is warranted from a person who considers potted meat an amuse bouche.   My assumption was based on the fact he was eating it when I got home knowing full well I was en route with dinner.  Excuse me, SUPPER. 

                I wasn’t sure what else to say so I just stopped talking while he pouted.  Then we shared our pizza and wings and the ensuing indigestion.  Nothing says uncomfortable like two people attempting to burp in silence.

                I felt kind of bad so this afternoon I made cornbread.  In a cast iron skillet.  Just like a Southern woman, which is fine except I am not a woman and do not remember purchasing said skillet.  Where would one obtain this item, anyway?  Aren’t they just always there in a southern family, like grits for breakfast or crazy relatives?  I try to tell him love isn’t buying things but apparently I think love is cooking things.  Otherwise I have no explanation for my behavior. 

These latent abilities in the kitchen are a little closer to my roots than I am comfortable admitting at this juncture.  I need to go put on a smoking jacket and cravat and read something really pretentious, just to be on the safe side.  Full disclosure, I would need to buy a smoking jacket and cravat, but I could just go sit on my sun porch and silently judge people while pretending to read French deconstructionist philosophy or, at the very least, the Andy Warhol diaries.

He really enjoyed the cornbread. 

He never did answer my question.