A Step of Faith

We’d all gathered on the sandy bank, standing where the pebbles and grass gave way to soft, damp sand and mud. Leaves had been changing for over a month, many now strewn along the bank and floating up and down the wide creek. In the summer months, we’d all play in the water, sunup to sundown, swimming, wrestling. At its deepest, it’d come up to our chests, and that made it ideal for such things. The other purpose, of course, the one we’d watched all our lives but to this point avoided, was baptism, which was fine in the blazing hot months of summer, but summer had waned, and now we all stood watching Reverend Payton wading out into the water, and we couldn’t help but wonder how we’d gotten there and who’d have to go first. If we were honest, as sometimes we were, we’d have to say that we were all there for different reasons. Tommy’s parents had dragged him to the altar after they’d caught him smoking a cigarette out behind their barn, and he hadn’t put up much a fight on the way after they’d threatened to send him to live with his grandparents, who lived in an even smaller town than us. Little Mitchy Tyler—Bitchy Mitchy, we called him—had gone because we had. Mitchy was a couple years younger than the rest of us and scrawny, but we let him hang around us on occasion, even if was just for our amusement at times. We always made sure he got the ball the most during Smear the Queer, at least until he complained too much of getting hurt. And I had gone because Becky Reynolds had gone, and at that point in my life, I’d have done anything to be around her. Even if it meant kneeling at the altar in front of the whole congregation, leading them to believe whatever they wanted about what I did up there.

            We’d all sat through the weeklong revival, each night seemingly dragging longer than the one before. We sat and paid attention as best we could as the Reverend Randall Sawyer railed against the evils of drinking, smoking, dancing, and sex—the youthful joys we’d just discovered in the first years of our adolescence. Some us were impressed by the fact that he hailed from New York City, a place we had all heard of but never been, except Benny Henderson, who had visited with some cousins a couple years before, and returned with lascivious tales; we doubted most of what he said, but we had to strategically place our hands to hide our piqued interests as he told us of hookers and peepshows, of girls walking around half-naked in the summer heat.

            Ours was the fourth town Sawyer had preached through on this particular mission through our area, though he was no stranger to the south. He’d driven down south every summer for the past several years, his stints stretching into mid-autumn, making his way through the revival circuit, spreading God’s word through small towns, under large tents pitched in fields. Between the large, often multi-denominational ten revivals that would sweep the town into a charismatic fervor—one of the rare occasions in which all the small churches could put aside their denominational differences—he would hold revivals at whichever church would have him. There were always stories, of course, that preceded his arrival—rumors that he was known to sneak off with a flask of whiskey after sermons; rumors that he left a girlfriend in each town and that was why he was never invited back to any particular church for a second visit—we as teens had no idea whether this was true or not, but I knew this was the first time he’d been to our church. These rumors were part of the reason we didn’t mind going on the first night of meetings, part of the reason we didn’t struggle or protest as much as in years past as our parents loaded us into cars. But as the week wore on and no signs of promiscuity showed themselves concerning the stranger, we largely lost interest and had to rely of feigning interest as best we could to keep our parents off our backs; though my father had purported to have seen the reverend drinking in a darkened bar a couple towns over the weekend before the meetings started. I listened, hidden on the stairs, as he told momma about it. When I asked her about it the next day, she said not to blaspheme, and that we should pray for my father. In those years, Daddy was out of church, so momma said we didn’t have to listen to him, especially when he’d been drinking. Just the same, we’d sniff really hard like we were about to sneeze whenever we’d shake hands with the preacher each night, just to get a big whiff of his breath. Some of us claimed to smell whiskey wafting from him, but I never smelled anything on him. It was funny—those who swore the most that the reverend was breaking his own rules, those that said they’d smelled the proof coming off of him, were those who’d never drunk themselves, and didn’t even have dads at home who drank.

            If the adults had heard the rumors we teens talked about so incessantly leading up to Sawyer’s arrival, they didn’t let on. It was though they’d outgrown the near-skepticism to which we were relegated, having adopted a full faith or full cynicism by the time they’d reached middle age. Those on whom cynicism had settled were not the type to frequent revival meetings, it seemed, but maybe if they had, they’d have shared our interest in wanting to catch the holy man slipping.

            Sawyer had left town after the dinner after the morning’s service, so he wasn’t there to watch the jubilation of the adults rekindled by the spirit as they were re-baptized, an outward sign many of the most fervent of believers showed after each revival, an action for which no one had ever provided Biblical grounds and some had even preached against, meaning that most of us who’d answered the call under Sawyer’s oratory would be doing this for the first and only time on that cool October day. But Sawyer, of course, was on to the next town, and not there to watch our tepid steps toward the creek amidst the hallelujahs and amens of the adults around us.

            We stood segregated by sex, casting furtive glances at the group to which we did not belong. Our summer clothes had been swapped for lettermen jackets and sweaters with the changing of the leaves, but on that day, in a slight return of Indian summer, an unusually warm day, we’d been tricked into imagining the water would match the temperature of the air around us, but we realized as we watched Reverend Peyton and the adults plunge into and under that sparkly flood that we were wrong. The adults shivered as they made their way out to the reverend, and as the reverend held them, one hand on the small of their back, their shirts pressed tight against wet skin, his other hand cupped against theirs as they covered their mouths and noses, anything to keep from swallowing creek water; and gasped as they rose anew from their symbolic graves, the cold having washed over them, taking their breaths with their sins. We watched as the adults rekindling their faith gave way to new converts. The first of us to go, after a succession of adults who’d managed to avoid getting salvation during their younger years, was Mitchy Tyler. We all whispered and snickered as he shuffled forward, going first, we knew, just to impress us all. He walked out into the water on scrawny, shaking legs. A ripple passed through his body as the reverend pronounced, “I baptize this my brother in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” his voice bold and profound and like a broken record, and then dunked him under the water. Bitchy Mitchy ran out onto dry land, rubbing the goose pimples that had sprouted on his arms. He was running and whooping like the Sprit had a hold of him, and the adults cheered his outward sign of conversion, but we all knew he was just a pussy who couldn’t handle the cold.

            We stood watching the baptisms, each of us thinking about the sins we’d vowed to give up just days before—sex; the newly acquired taste for purloined alcohol, lifted from our fathers’ cabinets when they weren’t looking; our fathers’ dirty magazines hidden as we snuck off into the isolated  nooks and crannies of our houses and out into the woods—we kept looking around town for women like the ones we saw in the pictures, but the closest we came was Lucinda May, who legend had it, had slept with almost every man in town; she was tall, buxom, and blond, with a toned stomach; she wore short cut-off denim shorts with the stray strands coming down to the top of her thigh; and it was rumored that what she could do to a man was well worth the two-hundred dollar price tag that supposedly came with her company. We came close a couple nights, mostly drunken nights, to pooling our meager resources to see if she was worth it, but we never got the nerve, wondering, though, if any of our fathers had. The thought of following in their footsteps in that regard was too uncomfortable to garner much attention. 

            We had vowed to give up much, too much, perhaps, we would conclude in years’ time, of what we’d just begun to enjoy. Looking around the people I’d known most of my life, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them would follow the straight and narrow, however wide it was becoming in other parts of society; based on experience and watching those whose paths we now followed, I doubted today would last with many.

            The numbers of us still dry were dwindling, and I knew I’d have to go soon. Those who’d already gone through it stood, warming in the afternoon sun, a welcome relief from the chilly creek water. Reverend Peyton had been out there for some time now, and we thought surely the old man’s legs and feet, everything from his bellybutton down, must be numb. We questioned among ourselves why he did it. In the coming years those of us who took our transformation seriously would grow to admire the old man, to have a deep and honest respect for him, but many of us, those whose going to the altar, those whose baptism on this October day would become nothing but a memory, would find the old man’s to be a sad existence. He didn’t drink or smoke. He didn’t dance, and he preached against the places we went, the music we listened to, and the films we saw when we drove to the next town over. He and his wife were quiet people who didn’t go out much. They could be seen sitting on their front porch listening to the local high school football and basketball games while we all drove and walked by to see them played in person. Whenever new restaurants opened in the next towns over, we all went as often as our meager wages, and our parents’ meager wages, would allow. But not the reverend and his wife. They could be found at the local diner a few evenings per week, but other than those few occasions, Mrs. Peyton cooked. Church on Wednesday, twice on Sunday. Board meetings and revivals. Visitation to the sick or shut-in. That was their life. We’d often wonder what in his life had led him to where he was.

            Throughout the baptisms, the adults sang and testified, their voices raised. The men stood in their Sunday best, suit coats over overalls on many. Suits and ties—Sunday for some the only day they peeled off their work clothes caked in grime and sweat, and scraped away the grease and dirt that were ever-present throughout the week. They were good people. Hardworking people, many of whom had gotten onto us over the years for our youthful mischief.

            Many of the new converts came up singing, their voices blending with the old. The longer we were there, the more people stopped along the road to watch. Some left their pickups and cars parked along the gravel skirt, some in the grass, and walked down the embankment to where we were. A few dropped their sins on the way and waded out to where the minister still stood, beckoning to all who were willing to come.

            The group of us boys had dwindled to Tyler Fitch and me. Those who had gone into the water had come out and stood with their parents. Mark, Benny, Lewis—all with washed away sins. No more busting out streetlights on Saturday nights or throwing rocks through the darkened windows of the elementary school that closed a few years earlier and never reopened, the students sent to schools in surrounding towns. Most of the girls had gone into the creek, and we boys watched as the water washed over their young bodies. Our minds were filled with the images we’d vowed to abstain from, carnal thoughts of budding promiscuity, and we knew that no amount of dirty holy water would wash those away. I had to try to cross my legs where they met as I watched Becky Reynolds make her way to the minister. She slipped out of her sandals, leaving them in the grass, and padded barefoot into the creek, the water lapping at her feet, and slowly rising up her still-tan legs. Her dress clung to her thighs, illuminating everything that had burned in my teenaged mind, the water cresting at the small of her back.

            I had never wanted to be a preacher, though my grandmother swore that I had the gift down deep just burning to get out, but I was jealous of the minister’s hands as they held Becky’s wet body, one hand on the small of her back, the other cupped around her nose and plump, pink lips. Her fingers held onto his upraised arm as he slowly lowered her, the water giving way, swelling around her, washing over her. She came up, rubbing the water out of her eyes, her blond hair dripping as she ran her fingers through it, fastening a ponytail with a black hair band that had adorned her wrist. She made her way out of the creek, smiling the smile of those for whom that day was a turning point, the first markings of a new chapter. I smiled at her as she passed me and made her way to her parents. She walked by, not even acknowledging my presence, and my smile slowly faded. Someday I’d get her attention and have the nerve to talk to her. I’d watched her from a distance for the two years she and her family had been in town, but I would guarantee she didn’t know I existed outside of being someone she saw around school. I had thought that maybe this would be the day I spoke, but my voice dried up in my throat as she passed; I found I couldn’t swallow, much less speak.

            I felt my mother’s hands fall on my shoulders, her fingers squeezing me. She’d kept her distance until then, just watching to see if I’d go without some degree of goading. I hadn’t. Instead, I had watched everyone else follow through with their commitments. “Go on, sweetheart,” she said. “We’re all so proud of you.” Her voice was full of the heartfelt sweetness of a mother watching her only child affirming the most important decision of his short life, and all I could feel was the twinge of guilt gnawing at my stomach as I stood there feeling like an imposter. What had I been saved from? White lies? Not cleaning my room? Cheating on spelling tests? I was still a virgin who’d only seen a real naked woman once, and that was only when my neighbors had accidentally left their curtains open one summer night several years ago. So much of life’s sins and discoveries lay ahead of me, newly acquired tastes just waiting to be developed and explored.

            I kicked off my shoes and waded out into the water. Tyler Fitch had gone before me and he was right—the water was awfully damned cold, a rush surging up my legs. I shivered, my legs stunned with the dull shock. My feet sank into the muddy bed, the slimy earth squishing between my toes. With each step, the water rising, a new part of my body grew cold, and by the time it reached my groin, shrinking what little manhood I had, I was ready to turn back, to fight my way back to the safety of the shore, back to where my friends and family stood singing, many with their arms uplifted, but I knew I’d face the disapproval of everyone watching if I did. Peyton’s outstretched hands—and maybe something deeper—drew me forward. As he held me, pulled me into him, his hands moving mine up to cover my nose and mouth, I felt something like belonging, a warmth of love spreading through me, enveloping me as the reverend tilted me back into the water, murkier than it had appeared from the shore, and the growing warmth was washed away by the cold that flowered over my submerged body. Everything sounded distant, distorted, the songs of praise jumbled and unrecognizable over the rumble of the quiet water.

            I rose, shaking to dry myself, and pushed aside the hair that hung in my eyes. I looked around, expecting, just maybe, to perceive things differently, that everything would make sense, would be bathed in a heavenly glow. But nothing had changed.

            The reverend patted me on the back, and I trudged toward the crowded shore, my legs heavy in the water and mud. My mother was standing by the water’s edge, her hands clasped together against her chest as if praying, pure joy beaming from her smiling face, and had a newcomer to the gathering not caught my eye, I would have broken down and cried, hot tears stinging my cheeks from the summersault my insides were doing, all bunched up and twisted.

            The newcomer was Cecil Arthur Fitch, and he was making his way down the embankment toward all of us. Fitch staggered, still reeling and stinking from the night before. I spotted Tyler’s crimson cheeks, working his way toward the outskirts of the congregants. His mother, Missy, just hung her head while several of the other women consoled her. As I watched her, it was as though she were trying to squeeze tight into herself, as if she could disappear from our midst before it was too late.

            The reverend was still standing in the water; his arms were lifted over his head, and he was calling, “Will you come, folks? Will any others come and plunge beneath that crimson flood?” His voice was pleading, his eyes searching the crowd, most of whom, in truth, were saved and had been for longer than I had been alive. But still, as he did every Sunday behind the pulpit, he stood and made the same pleas. “You who are backslidden, you who once walked in the light but have allowed the darkness of the world to lure you back into Satan’s grasp, come, come and let Jesus wipe away the filth of sin from your soul. Your precious, precious soul. It’s not too late, oh sinner. You can still come and be made new.”

            Those in the crowd were looking around at each other, wondering who, if anyone, would go next. Many were praying, their arms up over their bowed heads, eyes closed tight, soft utterances coming from their barely moving lips. My mother put her arms around me and pulled me against her. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she told me that she was proud of me and that she loved me. I could only hang my head; she thought I was praying.

            “I’m coming. I’ll come,” called a voice from behind us. I could see Tyler’s cheeks burning brighter, the tips of his ears turning pink, as his father pushed his way through the crowd. I felt sorry for Tyler, imagining the humiliation he must be feeling, but I was thankful for the distraction, anything to displace my guilt. His old man was making his way through the crowd, loosening his stained tie, filthy from whatever he’d dripped on it the day before. Cecil—Mr. Fitch we were told to call him—tore at the top buttons on his yellowed shirt, fumbling as he tried to slip it off. Some of the younger children snickered as they watched the embarrassing scene; parents covered their innocent eyes out of fear of what the man would do next. Mostly the men were laughing, the women looking away in pious indignation. I had lost sight of Mrs. Fitch, but deep down I was glad for the spectacle: it distracted me from the tumultuous feelings still lingering in my stomach. I watched Tyler’s face burning as he pushed backward through the crowd.

            I never understood why we had to call Cecil Fitch Mister Fitch. That title was often assigned only to those of good repute, those whom our parents saw as equals and productive members of society, those pillars of both church and community without whom our town, it was believed, would fall apart and be taken over by the likes of Cecil Fitch. He was often the subject of gossip behind closed doors and over dinner tables, with mainly the women showing some compassion as they talked about how sorry they felt for Tyler and Missy and how important it was to extend to them the Christian compassion that dictated so many of their thoughts and deeds. There was always talk of a special offering for the Fitches, who were always in need of extra money given the state of Cecil’s work habits: he worked for himself, claiming to be a master carpenter and homebuilder, though his work was often shoddy at best when he would infrequently be hired on jobs. Though Tyler would never admit it, we all knew that they were dependent on the state for much of what they had, which wasn’t much. The special offerings were often smaller than one would expect, with many of the parishioners of town claiming they couldn’t justify their money going to a drunk like Cecil Fitch. When reminded that the money was for Missy and the boy, who couldn’t be faulted for the old man’s actions, the withholders would claim that there was no way to ensure that Cecil wouldn’t get his hands on it and drink it all away. But that was the good Christian charity of the people I knew: God helped those who helped themselves, and Cecil Fitch didn’t help himself that wasn’t made of sour mash. God wouldn’t give him money—the church folk were just following in His footsteps.

            “Do you, sinner, repent of your worldly sins and command that the devil loosen his grip on your soul?” Reverend Payton asked, cradling the larger man in his arms. Fitch had stripped to his undershirt and boxers, both covered in sweat and other stains that we couldn’t decently consider, his feet still glad in socks as he trudged into the creek. He’d plunged into that cold water without a second thought—no hesitation at the shock that awaited him—and now his swollen eyes were looking up at the sky as though Christ himself were coming down to land as a dove on his forehead. I’d quit looking for Tyler or his mother. God and everyone knew he’d hear about it at school the next day. His father’s baptism, which the old man would likely not remember, would be the talk of the town—and that include the school. Anything the old man said before or after being submerged would be used against Tyler into the foreseeable future. And the adults wouldn’t be much better, but at least they’d have the tact not to talk about it in front of Tyler—not much, anyway. But for now, all eyes that weren’t looking away in embarrassment were locked on the preacher and the drunk.

            “Oh, yes, yes. I repent! I repent!” bellowed Fitch. “Save me, sweet Jesus!”

            “Then I baptize you, Cecil Arthur Fitch, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

            With that, the reverend dipped Cecil under the water and pulled him back up. Fitch came back up gasping and sputtering, coughing out mouthfuls of creek water. The coldness of the water had finally been felt, all the way down his throat and into his chest. The reverend patted him on the back, asking if he was ok. It was probably the first time Cecil had had anything to drink that didn’t burn since Thursday night. The reverend led him out of the water as the gathered crowd clapped and amened. Payton was calling it a day—after baptizing Cecil Fitch, any other redemptions would just be a gaudy display of one-upmanship. His being saved had made the day—many of those who’d refused to send money they Fitches’ way were the same who fervently prayed for the man’s salvation, asking God to send whatever He needed to to get Cecil’s attention: ailments, jail time. Whatever He deemed necessary to use against the drunkard.

            Peyton and Cecil were met at the shore as hands were shaken and arms thrown around the new Cecil who only moments ago had been deemed little more than a drunkard. Missy and Tyler begrudgingly made their way forward and were among the first to greet him, both with grins painfully spread across their faces. Mrs. Fitch wiped at her red cheeks and puffy eyes as older women hugged her, many sharing in her assumed tears of joy. Now that Cecil was right with the Lord, everything would get better: he’d secure a job with good wages, make life better for his family, save. Maybe even work his way up to serving on church boards and committees before too long. Who knew what God had in store for Cecil now! Everyone was sure whatever it was it would be big. Life was going to turn around for the Fitches and the hankering for firewater that had haunted Cecil for years was now under God’s thumb, and there it would stay. But even those of us who thought it knew it was a dream. Next weekend, Cecil Fitch would be staggering innocently through town, singing off key and at the top of his longs, moaning out some lovesick tune, until he headed home for the night to pass out. If he made it home and didn’t sleep at the train station at the other end of town, where he would often sit and ramble about waiting on his train to come in, a train that would carry him away—amusing ramblings that always made those passing through town who happened to encounter him leery, but amusing enough to those of us who knew he wasn’t crazy. They’d watch from sideways glances as train after train left and Cecil was never on them.

            We made our way back to the church for the dinner that waiting on us. Long tables of fried chicken and potato salad, of baked beans with molasses, that had been prepared by the Women’s Auxiliary were now waiting for us, had been waiting for us since about midway through the baptism, a few select women leaving the creek to heat up the food. Now we made our way back in a happy parade, all singing at welcoming the new followers into our midst. Tyler was walking with his parents, and when we made eye contact, he smiled. I diverted my gaze to stare at my feet as I walked. Something about watching his father baptized made me feel guilty, likely because it allowed me to think of something other than my own baptism, about which I was still uncertain. Everyone was jovial, enraptured with the Spirit and each other. Many of us were already thinking, though, of our next sins, envisioning what we’d need to repent of by the time the next revival rolled around in the spring. I was lost in this train of thought when I felt something warm brush against my hand. I looked up in time to see Becky passing me, hurrying to catch up to her mother and father. “Sorry,” she said. She was fixing her flaxen hair and had incidentally brushed her hand against mine in the process. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t care. An electric surge coursed through my body and my limbs turned numb as I watched her walk away.

            “It’s ok,” I muttered, barely audible even to myself. My mouth was dry as I tried to think of something else to call after her, something—anything—to get her attention, to tell her that I loved her. I didn’t know what new sins I’d commit between then and the revival in the spring, but as I watched Becky Reynolds walk away, her still bare feet sliding through the grass, her tan legs extending from below the short, cream-colored skirt that still clung to her wet skin, I knew where I wanted my sinning to start. 

Leaving the Matinee

An orchestral swell fills the house, surrounding the audience in its lush, sweeping melody, sweetly melancholy; the type that pulls tightly against the heartstrings, loosening with each melodic downswing, only to pull the audience back in seconds later. Tear-inducing Hollywood magic. The actors on the screen bat their eyes, sniffling and wiping streaks of tears with sunlit hands. The ensemble has gathered around a large dinner table after having scattered the remains of the recently departed patriarch. The music reaches a crescendo; the screen slowly fades to black. Hushed sniffles and muffled throat clearings can be heard sporadically throughout the theatre. The house lights stay off as people begin to file out, large sections migrating en masse to the lobby. Most exit in silence; others talk quietly, their conversations concerning the film and the final scene’s poignancy. Their heads pass before the screen, turn into the main aisles, and disappear through the door at the back of the house. I wait until the credits end, listening as the music changes twice. The final song is not nearly as melodic as the previous few, and it ends abruptly. The final image on the screen reads “In loving memory of…” and then some name I cannot pronounce. The houselights come on, and the curtain begins to close. The mechanic whir is all that I can hear as the gap between the curtain’s edges begins to narrow. The purple and gold velvet drape swings to a stop, the screen now totally obscured. That has always been my favorite part of the show for all of my adult life. Regardless of how good the film, watching the curtain always makes me smile the most. Reminiscences conjure the image of my childhood Sundays spent watching matinees with my father in this theatre. The curtain still works, unlike in so many theatres where, if there is a curtain, it’s merely for décor. I suppose that is what keeps drawing me back, week after week, to this movie house. 

I dab my red-rimmed eyes and sniff loudly. As usual, I am the last to leave. I pull my navy blue ball cap farther down over my eyes and slip into my coat. My leather bag slips easily over my shoulder, and I retrieve my empty popcorn box and watery drink from beside my feet. Butter has coagulated on the cardboard walls of the red-and-white striped box, and the aroma, strong, stale, fills my nostrils as I carry the box toward the exit, providing a moment of olfactory bliss. As I pass row after row of empty seats, I notice all the discarded popcorn and candy boxes in and under seats, the sweating cups leaving pools of condensation soaking into the red and gold carpet. A twinge of sadness starts to well in my stomach and then spreads, my heart fluttering slightly. I have the overwhelming urge to get a trash bag and collect the boxes; to get on my hands and knees and wipe up the water, paper towels soaking through with the miniature puddles; to scrape the mounds of chewing gum hardening to the once pristine carpet. I fight the urge, just as I do every time I observe the degradation of the theatre. I fight the urge and continue to the exit. The cleaning crew have too long a night ahead of them, and the sooner I leave, the sooner they begin the painstaking process of wiping away the grime we leave behind.

I hurry through the door and drop my trash in the receptacle, moving down the dimly lit hallway toward the lobby. I pass framed black-and-white pictures, the dim fluorescence shining off of them: Garbo, Bogey, Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe. The cinematic heroes of my youth. I look each of them in the eyes as though they are real; my eyes reflect back to me. Most of the redness has subsided.

I round the corner to the brightly lit lobby. The far wall is lined with posters of coming attractions, most of which I’ve never heard of; but the closest wall is lined with classic posters: The Kid, Duck Soup, Some Like it Hot, Gone with the Wind. Each of them I’ve seen numerous times, walked by the posters more times than I can count. I stare at each one, committing each line, word, shape to memory. My attention turns to the concession stand; the glass cases are illuminated by small bulbs that run the perimeter of them, casting light on neatly arranged rows of boxed candies. The attendants wear red-and-white striped button up shirts under white vests, some smattered with soda and melted butter. 

I find myself standing at the counter, looking up to my father as he towers over me. I feel the overwhelming calm of youthful innocence, folly, as he tousles my hair. I smile a gap-toothed grin up to him, watch the white calluses on his hands as he pays for our box of popping corn and glass bottles of Coke. The bottles glisten with sweating frost and are cold in my fingers. His hands are rough and hard as my impish hand is swallowed up in his. The aroma of freshly buttered popping corn wafts toward my nose.   

It’s Sunday, my father’s one day off from work each week. He’s dressed in his best suit and tie, his shirt freshly pressed, his shoes shined. My father tips his hat to a lady he knows from the neighborhood, says hello to her husband. “Excuse us,” he says. His voice is a rich baritone. “Excuse me.” I can feel his free hand pressed against the small of my back as he guides me past a small group of men who stand outside the theatre door, smoking cigarettes and talking. I hear them talking about Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau. I recognize both names, of course, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. All I really know is they’re both in this picture; it’s the first time they’ve worked together.  “Excuse me, sir.”

“Excuse me, sir.” My father’s voce is not the voice I hear. One of the concession attendants is calling to me. “Sir, we’re about to close down. Do you need something?” I’ve been staring, I realize. They’re cleaning counters, taking off knobs on the soda machine and soaking them in large tubs of water. Someone is mopping behind the counter. The boy who spoke to me, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old based on the red splotches on his pale face, has purple hair twisted into a small bun under an anachronistic white paper hat, the kind I remember hot dog vendors and soda jerks wearing when I was a child. 

I step up to the counter. “I’d like a bottle of Coke, please,” I answer. The purple-haired kid reaches under the counter and procures a plastic bottle from a hidden refrigerator and sets it on the counter. The bottle starts to sweat. “That’ll be $5.75,” he says. It is evident he is anxious for me to leave.

My brow furrows, eyes squinting, as I scrutinize the bottle. “Do you not have glass bottles?” My question garners a curious look from the kid. The corner of his mouth twist up into a grin as though he thinks this is a joke and at any second I’ll laugh and pay him. I stop him before he can speak. “No, of course you don’t.” I chuckle softly to myself as I turn away. “Have a good night.” I can tell the young man is annoyed; I can hear him whisper to his coworkers, all of whom snicker at whatever he said. The purple-haired boy calls as I walk away, “Hey, old man. Nice purse.” Muffled laughter is not well contained in near silence.

A cleaning crew has come down the stairwell from the balcony level; they stand at the concession counter and watch me leave, snickering as the purple-haired boy relays to them the story of the gaff they just missed. I’m sure to them, all under twenty-five, I am quiet the oddity: an old man, alone, who stares at the older pictures each time he comes; who sits alone, always the last to leave; who stares aimlessly, lost in conversations they will never hear.

I run my hand over my leather satchel unconsciously. Their eyes are still watching me. Through the glass door, the streetlights dance under a lightly falling rain. The last remnants of the day’s popcorn linger in the air around me as I turn and take in the full view of the lobby again, breathing deeply: the posters; concessions; the stairwell; the maroon-colored walls lined in thick gold trim; the carpet, darkly specked and stained from dropped sodas and mud tracked through over the years; the posters that adorn the walls, their glass cases muddied with handprints and speckles of snot and food. When my eyes focus on the workers, all but the purple-haired boy look away as if they have been working all the while, not watching the silver-haired old man relive distant elements of his childhood.

“Goodbye,” I say. The workers eye me suspiciously, assuming in their presumptuousness that I’m speaking to them. I turn back to the door and step out into the cold rain. I whisper, “Old friend,” the object of my goodbye, as the door shuts behind me. I hold my bag tightly against my side; the leather is becoming wet, slick under the steady drizzle. The wind is chilly on my face. It whips softly, steadily. My upturned collar offers little protection as I burrow inside my coat. A voice carries on the wind, a rich voice, full and gentle.

“Gray.” My father’s voice. I turn back to the theatre. He walks through the front doors. A Lucky Strike is pressed between his lips; he straightens the brim of his hat, exhaling smoke from the corner of his partially open mouth. There are four distinct smells associated with my father: the harsh smell of a freshly lit cigarette, the smell of which burned my nose, forcing me to cough in disgust; it would linger on my clothes, carrying with me wherever I went; the fiery scent of bourbon, drunk only on Saturday nights after dinner; a select bottle would sit on the table all week—Saturday nights, my father’s reward for a week’s hard work; his aftershave, the name of which I’ve long since forgotten; it was strong, almost minty, a biting wintergreen; and popcorn, buttery popcorn, shared between us. I could often smell my father before I could see him when he would enter a room. I would crawl up onto his lap and fall asleep as he read the newspaper. I found a solace in the combination of these smells. I focus now, trying to pick up any of them on the wind—the aftershave, the cigarette—but I can’t.

“Gray.” His voice is tired. “Gray, run on home, son. Tell your mother I’ll be late, that I have something I have to do. Eat without me, ok?” He turns but stops after a few paces, turns to look back at me. “I love you, Gray.” I had never questioned my father’s affection for me; like many things, it was understood, but rarely spoken of, especially in public. His smile is wan and his eyes hollow as he turns back and walks away. My voice catches as I try to call after him; then he’s gone, dissipated into the rainy night. 

The rain is cold against my skin. It’s beginning to rain harder now, pelting my face with tiny, pinprick drops. The street glistens under streetlights, soft sloshing whispers rising from under slick tires of passing traffic. I head north, thinking about Walter Matthau. The last film my father and I saw together was The Fortune Cookie. 1966. Billy Wilder, Walter Matthau, Jack Lemmon. I’ve scrutinized that afternoon, the conversations we had, how he laughed during the film, the way he held his mouth, his cigarette. I went over that afternoon thoroughly for years until I just grew too tired.

My reflection stares back at me, reflected in the window of the small café. It’s a short walk from the theatre to Katie’s Coffee. I stand under the awning and try to shake myself as dry as I can before I open the door. The bell above the door dings. The sound is tinny and depressing, quiet. It is the loudest sound in the café, it’s only competition an ancient jukebox that stands in the corner. Bight neon lights bubble in liquid over its frame. A Buddy Holly song pipes through the speakers, which do not project the volume much farther than a few booths in front of it. Those close enough to hear it bob their heads in time and continue as it transitions to Bob Wills.

I smile at the waitress behind the counter. She’s young and pretty. A soft smile sends creases across her cheeks, the corners of her mouth turning up into a half-smile-half-pout. I make my way toward a far corner booth. Most of the people I pass are young, far younger than I. Most are college kids, talking quietly over coffee, some with books, studying. I watch them as I make my way to my favorite booth. My eyes wash over the other patrons, over the walls, the booths. The stained yellow walls are lined with framed photos. There are photos from the café’s opening, the original owners, events signaling the passing of the torch from generation to generation, each set of subsequent owners. Certain booths have pictures of famous people, celebrities and politicians, who have eaten there over the years. Under each celebrity photo, a placard indicates who famously wiped his or her mouth in that spot: Frank Sinatra, John F. Kennedy, Jack Kerouac. “Neil Simon sat here.” I choose his booth.

The waitress stands at the end of the table, pad and pen in hand. “What’ll it be, honey?” She seems nice, tired; her voice is soft and warm. I smile at her from under my hat. “Cup of coffee, and do you have butterscotch pie?” She nods. A strand of blond hair falls into her eyes, and she blows it way. “Yes,” she answers.

“A slice of butterscotch pie then, as well.” She writes the order and walks away. I sit and quietly hum along to the jukebox  as I await my food. My coat is wet, as is my hat, so I take off both and hang them on the hook adjacent the back of the booth, looking to make sure I don’t sling water on any unsuspecting patron. But no one is around me. I run my hands through my hair to straighten it from the flattening suppression of the hat. I open my bag and slide out a large stack of papers. Post-it notes and a blue pen are retrieved from the bottom of the front zipper compartment of the bag, and I bite into the cap of the pen and pull out the shaft, and then reinsert the butt of it into the cavity of the cap. It hangs there for a second like a cigarette as I toss the sticky note pad onto the table.

“Careful,” a voice says. My shoulders tense as I turn to my right. “Tennessee Williams died that way, you know.” The waitress is standing slightly beside me, looking over my shoulder. She moves on around and places the coffee and pie before me on the table.

I drop the pen onto the top sheet of paper. “Actually, it was an eyedropper lid.” Our eyes meet. She shrugs and smiles. “But thanks for the concern.” I raise my coffee cup to my lips and sip. Needs sugar, I think to myself. I can feel the waitress still standing beside me. It is that awkward tension that lingers between two strangers when one wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say. I reach for the sugar canister.

“So,” she starts, “you’re a writer?” I nod. “Wrote anything I’d have read?”

I stir the sugar into my coffee with a plastic stirrer. I shake my head and try the coffee again. My eyes roll up to meet hers. “I doubt it. I primarily write—” But I can see that she’s not listening to me. My gaze follows hers to the kitchen door. A burly middle-aged man, quite portly, is standing in the doorway. His balding head glistens with sweat, and he wipes his forehead with a fat hand. The redness of his face is matched only by the gruffness of his voice.

“Allison,” calls the man. “Come on, I ain’t got all night, sweetheart.” The girl rolls her eyes and tucks her hair behind an ear. She turns her attention back to me and I turn back to my coffee. She says something, but I can’t hear her over the portly man’s booming voice. “Seriously, let’s go.”

She apologizes and walks back toward the kitchen. “Film reviews,” I say to no one. “I primarily write film reviews.” I fork my first bite of butterscotch pie into my mouth. The meringue is soft and foamy, the top crisp and firm. My tongue breaks through the golden-brown crust into the creamy middle. It melts around the thick butterscotch. It reminds me of my mother’s: rich, thick butterscotch, foamy mounds of homemade meringue. She always made them on special occasions; they were my father’s favorite. He would eat butterscotch pie every Sunday after the matinee when we would come to Katie’s. He would eat his pastrami on rye, and I would eat my grilled cheese, Swiss on French bread. A split piece of pie would be our dessert. Every Sunday except that last one. My mother had cooked dinner for my father’s birthday. He was fifty-seven and still worked six days per week, an exhausting existence. Had I been more than fifteen, more aware of others and less centered on myself, I’d have seen he was tired, worn down. My mother had made a roast and a butterscotch pie. We’d waited until the roast was cool, then placed in the oven. The pie began to crust over on the counter. I went to bed that night while my mother sat waiting up.

“So, can I have your autograph?” Allison is back by my side. 

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Your autograph. In case you get famous.”

I try to read her face to determine whether or not she is serious. Apparently she is. She stands there with no real expression on her face. “I collect autographs of famous people. I’ve met several famous people working here, people just passing through.” She rattles of a series of names I don’t recognize. 

I scribble my signature on a Post-it note and hand it to her. She squints at it. “What’s your name?”

“Gray. Gray Kelsing.” It doesn’t ring a bell, I can tell. She has no idea who I am, and I don’t suppose that she has really any reason to.

She thanks me and disappears back behind the counter. I push my half-eaten slice of pie away from me and turn my attention to the manuscript before me: Leaving the Matinee: A Life Spent Watching Film.  I had tried to parlay my passion for watching films into a passion for acting in them. Countless auditions came and went. Each was met with disappointments. My acting career was limited to a few student films, mostly experimental stuff in the late seventies and early eighties, some work as an extra in a few movies and television shows. But that big break, that film that would make me a household name, never came. I supplemented my work as an extra with a job reviewing films for a small newspaper. Gradually the writing career far surpassed that of the acting, and my relationship with film became, as it had been when I was a child, one of awed respect. I respected the craft, was enamored with films, the beauty of them, their potential to move us, to speak to us—I just wasn’t to be a part of them. I made a name for myself as a critic, even if in limited circles, once I returned to my small childhood home. My writings made it across the state, some over the river into parts of Ohio and West Virginia, through syndication, but I was known mostly at home. 

My few devoted readers will be interested to read my memoir, I’m sure. I read over the top page again. My publisher has been after me to finish this draft for some time. Overall the process has taken the better part of two years, between the planning, the writing, the various drafts and subsequent rewrites of each. Collecting the photos. The list goes on and on, and I’ve been left tired of the process. When I send it off, I’ll be glad to be rid of it. I scribble on the top sticky note: Final draft. Print as is. –Gray. I press it onto the top page and lift the papers into my hands. My hands are soft compared to my father’s. They are ghastly pinkish-white and smooth, even in my old age. He is in here, this book. It was he who began my love of film, who took me to the theatre to see the classics. The pages are heavy in my hands. Four hundred and fifteen pages of hours spent watching and writing about film. I tried to answer the question that each memoir attempts to answer: what did I learn through this? How did this shape me, and how do I want my book to shape you, the audience, to move you? I don’t know that I fully accomplished any of that. Over four hundred pages, several mini-answers, mini-lessons, but no definite, life-altering revelation. Perhaps that’s fitting. 

I slip the stack of papers back into a large manila envelope I pull from my bag. The papers slide easily through the mouth of the envelope and sink to the bottom. I lick the adhesive on the envelope. It leaves a bitter, acrid taste in my mouth. The waitress brings my check when I signal her, and I pay, leaving far too much money as a tip. Her face lights up and mouth widens with surprise. She thanks me politely as I don my coat and hat. I scribble the necessary information on the envelope, press on a stamp that has lingered in my pocket all evening, and toss it in my bag.  As I’m walking out, I catch a glimpse of a black and white photo by the door. In all my years here, I’ve never noticed it. In the foreground stand two men and a woman: George Walton, the original owner, Katie, his wife, and his son, Steven. But it is not they who catch my attention. A man in the background is holding open the door to the café for a small boy. The man is tall, with black hair specked with grey. All I can see is his profile, but I recognize the angle of his chin, the soft smile on his face. I must have been around six or seven that day in the picture; my father, holding the door, barely resembles the man who was so worn down a decade later. 

Outside the rain has stopped. It is cooler now, and I button my coat. “Where are you going, Gray?” My father has been standing under the awning waiting for me. He exhales a lungful of smoke that lingers in the air between us. “Go back in and finish you pie, son.”

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the café’s glass door. I look tired, my smile is wan, my eyes hollow. I look a lot like my father did. Same cheek structure, pointed chin. My hair is grayer than his, but then I’m older. “No. I’ve something to do.” I start walking south, back the direction I came. I hear my father’s footsteps behind me. We walk in silence for a few blocks before my father speaks again.

“You should’ve been an actor, Gray. It’s what you wanted to do.” His baritone sounds parental, like when he would reprimand me as a child. His steps quicken to keep pace with mine. “Gray.” I ignore him and keep walking. My heart begins to race and I feel a nervous anxiousness welling up inside my stomach. I feel lightheaded from the throbbing against my skull. I try to keep ignoring him, thinking he will go away. Finally I feel his hand press against my shoulder. “Son—“

“I tried,” I say, my voice harsh and stern. “Damn it, I tried.” My sallow face begins to burn. “I took acting classes; a pathetic waste of my time because all they did was let me down, showed me that I was just one of a million actors trying to get noticed. I auditioned; I spent years scraping by in bit parts in little films, as an extra on short-lived television shows. Demeaning student films that questioned the meaning of life through improvised scenes and a myriad other what-they-called-artistic-expressions that no one really understands. Stuff I didn’t even understand, but I was determined to make it, and that was a start. A start that never finished.” I sigh, overcome with exhaustion. “But do you know how humiliating that work was?”

His eyes narrow at me, and he shakes his head. “You should have tried harder. You could’ve been great. Could’ve been Groucho Marx, Cary Grant. You could’ve made a name for yourself. You could’ve directed.  You should’ve been the next Charlie Chaplin, beloved my millions across the country.”

I shake my head with a smirk. “Chaplin died in Switzerland, Dad; rejected by the country that once loved him.” My father nods and counters, “You forget, though, that he returned for an honorary Oscar, and that could’ve been you. An Oscar for your lifetime of work.” We stand still under the darkened moonlight. Cars pass, bathing us in fluorescent white light. Neither of us says anything for the longest time; we just stand and stare at one another. 

“Look, Dad, I have something I have to do. I’ll see you later.” I turn and start to walk away. He’s then in front of me. He shakes his head, dragging on his cigarette. “Go home, Gray. Go to Kathy and the kids.” I scoff and walk through him. 

“Kathy’s gone, Dad. And there were no kids. You know that.” And he’s gone, dissipated like a fog. But he doesn’t know that. He was gone long before there was even a Kathy. Before we knew she was barren. Before she slipped away at the hands of the cancer eating away at her intestines, causing her to vomit green and nearly constant, especially toward the end, ravaging her fragile body. Before I sat by her side, watching old films as we held hands; looking at black and white pictures from childhood as her eyes grew heavy and finally closed. I pass back by the theater on my way to drop my envelope in the mail. The theatre is dark, the glamour drained from it with everyone gone home for the night. The marquee looks ominous, titles black against a dead white backdrop. I glance briefly and continue on my way. The closest mailbox is only a few blocks, and it is as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders when I reach it. The blue lid creaks open. I lift my envelope from my bag and slide it down into the darkness. It lands at the bottom of the mailbox with an echoing thud. My breath escapes slowly in a deep sigh, materializing in a vapor before me. It is growing colder as the night progresses, and I shiver deeper into my coat. Several cars pass me as I walk along the street. The taxis’ yellow car toppers streak by, each illuminated brightly. I consider flagging one, of stepping toward the street and throwing up my hand. The car will pull to the curb, I’ll throw open the back door and toss in my bag. The taxi will be warm, the heater pumping full blast a thick heat that will envelop me, warming me to the bone, consuming the chill that has settled deep within. I will sigh deeply and nestle against the door. The scent of past passengers, the odd combination of sweaty gym members and the heady stench of perfumed men and women linger in the fibers of the seats, will lay stagnant around me. I’ll laugh at my earlier decision, my plan for the evening. The cabby will take me home. I’ll stare up at my house, walk inside; of course, I’ll be looking all around me to wonder if the neighbors are watching, wondering why my arrival is so late—that is small town life: always be prepared to be peppered with questions from your neighbors should you do anything out of the ordinary. At least, that’s how it used to be. I’m not even certain I could name my neighbors now. We see each other. We speak. The common pleasantries that pass for casual relationships in today’s world. Everyone knows everyone, but no one at all. I’ll fall into bed, a deep, heavy sleep, and in the morning all will be fine. 

But all the taxis are gone. Several have sped by, off into the night. I continue my walk. 

I can hear the river before I see it. The water sloshes against the banks, rocking gently up and over the rocks. A few cars’ headlights stretch the distance of the bridge, everyone hurrying somewhere. I turn my head away from them as I take to the bridge’s footpath. The rusted blue pillars, crisscrossing beams covered in bird excrement, tower to my left, reaching toward Heaven, casting a shadow over me and onto the water, illuminated from the soft white lights high atop the bridge. The handrail is cold under my fingers. The water is black, softly rolling. No signs of life: no boats, no fisherman on the shore. Only the soft whisper of the gentle waves, so soft and slow, the water looks more like blacktop, solid and thick. 

“Go home, Gray,” my father’s voice calls from behind me. I hear him light a cigarette and can soon smell the smoke wafting toward me. “Son—” I turn to face him and he stops speaking, reading the lines on my face, narrowed eyes sending wrinkles spreading from the corners of my eyes. My breathing is heavy, deep. He nods slowly, a fatherly understanding finally settling over him, edging out the harried demeanor I so clearly remember. 

I stare past him and watch the cars passing over the bridge. Their yellow headlamps cast an eerie glow over the glistening road. In between the passing of cars, the night is deadly quiet. The rain returns, falling softly over me. It patters softly off the brim of my cap; drops wet on my cheeks, almost like tears charting courses over the contours of my aged face. I turn my eyes back to the black water below. The rocks on the shore look sharp and jagged under the barely discernable stains of algae and bird feces. “What’s it like?” I ask my father. Just briefly, I catch the light scent of his aftershave, and I hold onto it, forcing my memory to recall it more vividly, to etch it into my mind. He was wearing it when he left the movie theatre that day. The next time I saw him, his already haggard face an ashen grey, his lips purplish blue and set against each other, his cigarette having been lost along the way, the scent was gone. His entire body was bloated, as if everything inside had been washed out to make room for all the water. 

My father shrugs. “It’s a shock at first. The body tries to adjust, coughing and gasping. You feel weightless, limitless. This newfound freedom is given over to the desire to fight. The muscles kick and move, thrusting upward, pushing. And it takes a strong man to fight this urge, to accept. Your extremities go numb, the lungs burn. Your head throbs, the temples pounding as your lungs try to force air out. This tension mounts, escalating. Time disorients. You find yourself wondering if it’s been seconds, minutes. Hours? Air tries to force apart your lips, by now turning blue. Your jaws, tightened from the effort to keep them closed, ache. Your body is in panic, the mind racing, its natural instinct to fight. But not fighting takes so much more strength. And when you breathe, when that rush of ice fills your lungs, you gag, vomit and spit mingling in your throat with the rush of water…” His voice trails off. 

I look back at my father, expecting him to continue. But he’s gone again. And I’m left alone on the bridge. The rain has begun to fall harder now. I stare down at the black water like pavement below. The rain falls harder and sends up little spouts as it hits the river. The air has turned much colder, and my lungs burn as I breathe in the midnight air. My extremities are numbing, my fingers gripping the railing with white knuckles pressed tight against the skin. I find my jaw tightening as I hold my breath. My head begins to swim, and I feel my lungs start to ache. My breath escapes slowly through my narrow hole of a mouth. I glance around again: no one present. I lay my bag against the railing of the walkway. My lungs burn with icy breath, held in to settle on the idea. My eyes stare intently at the icy waters below. My fingers remove my cap and run through my hair.

So close.

And the icy black waters stare back at me. 

The walk home is exhausting in the frigid night, my breath forming clouds before me. I tuck myself tighter into my coat, pulling the collar in closer. As I slip my key into the lock, I see one of my neighbors—the Wilson wife, maybe? Or is it Watson—looking out her front window. I smile and wave as she quickly covers her face with the curtain, pretending we didn’t see each other in the early morning hour. I slip into the warmth of my house, dropping my coat over the back of a chair and placing my leather bag on the table. It has been unnaturally quiet since Kathy passed, and I always fight the urge to call for her, to walk about the house looking. 

But I know the effort would be useless. I turn on the TV in the living room and recline, smiling as I recognize the film. Walter Matthau talks to a wheelchair-bound Jack Lemmon as I smell my father’s cologne. “Good choice, Gray,” his soft voice calls from behind me. “Good choice.” I don’t turn to look for him; instead, I turn up the volume on the television and wait to drift off to sleep. He’ll still be there tomorrow, I’m sure; I can look for him then, and maybe then we can talk. Maybe then I’ll have answers to everything he asks and hints.

But not tonight. 

Gimme Some Truth

Someone told me over dinner recently that, while he enjoyed my writing, he didn’t think I was being completely honest in it, that I was sharing only partial truth, revealing only shades of myself, what I wanted to express at the time. And I think that’s what we as writers do—we reveal ourselves, shades at a time, bits and pieces that reveal some small part of what makes us who we are, some small portion of truth, our truth, with the hope that it can affect someone who reads whatever we deem important enough to say.

On here, I’ve written about religion, politics, stereotyping, education, relationships—those various components of our lives, those ideas and ideals to which we devote so much of our waking hours—and I’ve expressed my views concerning them—in part. When I’m feeling close to God and more spiritual, my writing reflects that; when I’m pining over the loss of a love, or an infatuation, or a missed opportunity, my writing reflects that. When I’m feeling overly happy and content, well, I don’t write, because it’s in those times that I’m enjoying life. Only when those happy moments cede, giving way to moments of questioning and concern, of introspection and doubt, do I take to written words to make sense of my life. Sure, this reflecting and debating exists internally in my mind, but I’ve found it easier to sort out my thoughts and ideas in writing, for I’ve always been drawn to writing, to what it allows us to do, how it allows us to manipulate language, thoughts, and emotions, mixing them into something new. Something representative of that internal dialogue, that banter, between our head and our heart.

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What is truth? Does Truth exist? Is it in the eye of the beholder, each of us forming and shaping the world around us and our version of truth as it pertains to us and how we interact with those around us? Two people, we know, can witness the same event and yet walk away with two different versions of what happened. Is one person’s experience, which differs from the other’s, truer than the other person’s? Does your experience negate what another experienced? Are personal experiences and credibility enough to form a strong argument, strong enough to persuade another of your beliefs, convictions, and ideas?

Maybe not.

And that is part of my problem with God and religion. I once claimed that Christians should be slightly agnostic in their thinking, that they should be skeptical by nature, ever questioning. And I suppose that’s the academic in me—the critical thinker whose worldview is shaped by both church and secular learning, by pastors and professors—who believes in God but finds it difficult to articulate any argument for the absolute existence of God without relying on personal experiences, arguments based in ethos. Anyone who has taught rhetoric will tell you that a combination of the three—ethos, logos, and pathos—makes a good argument, and if you know your audience and their expectations of you, you can adjust the degree to which you rely on any one of them to meet the needs of your audience.

Yet I find that most who argue for the absolute existence of God and the arguments that follow—abortion, gay rights, evolution—rely most heavily on ethos and pathos. After working in English 101 and 102 for a few months, I found myself sitting church analyzing the homily and evaluating the rhetorical techniques the pastor used. Emotionally charged language married with personal anecdotes seemed to be the techniques chosen by most churches. And I think we see this in churches all over—just watch a televangelist sometime or attend your local church on a Sunday morning . Produce a warm fuzzy feeling, and you’re more apt to get people to follow you.

And I’m not saying this is wrong, merely making a point about what I’ve seen. But let’s be honest: when asked over dinner recently about my thoughts of God, I turned immediately to personal stories, stories of how I’ve traced what I believe must be God’s hand in my life. I may be a skeptic at times, questioning my thoughts and why I believe them, trying to determine if I truly believe them because I actually believe them or if I believe them just because they’ve become comfortable, accumulated over the course of a life spent in church, a welcome sort of feeling to which I’ve become accustomed. Yet I can’t deny the existence of God—as much as the intellectual in me wants to be a liberal humanist—for there are too many coincidences in my life, serendipitous moments that have shaped me and led me to here for there not to be someone at least guiding the way. I don’t believe in coincidences, and I believe that everything happens for a reason (a banal statement, I know) , so as I trace the moments of my life—my mother’s passing which led to my father remarrying, which in turn led me to my first wife and son, and to the church, where I happened to meet the person whose conversation inspired this post; my being too poor to attend Morehead and too “rich” to attend Berea (my number one school of choice) fresh out of high school, which led to my attending ACTC, which led to my first few teaching jobs and my meeting some of the people whom I consider my closest friends and confidants; my dad’s career of choice and encounters with people, connections that led to my nonteaching jobs—and as I play the Seven Degrees of Separation game with the events of my life, it affirms to me the existence of God.

Yet this requires me to rely on personal experience and credibility; the academic in me wants hard logical evidence to prove the existence of God, to silence the critic and skeptic in me, and it is that same academic with a liberal voice that can’t side totally with either the Creationist or Evolutionist argument. A friend asked me if I thought a Christian could believe in both God and Evolution, or if the belief in one negated the belief in the other. I tend to fall somewhere in the middle, not truly picking a side, believing in microevolution, but not macro. I don’t believe in the Big Bang Theory or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, yet part of me wants to think that God allows nature to take over at some point. I like Old Earth theories far more than Bishop Usher’s chronology, and while I found the Creation Museum interesting, I don’t know that I bought everything they were selling. Is the entire Bible literal (outside of Revelation)? Or are some stories meant allegorically? If so, which ones? Six literal twenty-four hour days to create the earth? Or days spread over the course of millennia, for “a thousand years is as one day?” Was the Exodus conducted exactly as the Bible details, or was it carried out over the succession of years, as a professor I once had proposed? Is Daniel Quinn’s version of Cain and Able, as found in his brilliant Ishmael, or of Adam and Eve as found in Stories of Adam, more similar to what actually happened? What about Milton’s version of the Fall, a story I’ve always found more touching and human than the account in Genesis?

Can a person be a Christian and still hold liberal political views, views that are seemingly antithetical to Christianity, at least as it is so often portrayed in media? I'm unabashedly pro-gay rights, because I understand that we live in a democratic state, not a theocratic state, and I don't think religion should be used in a non-theocratic state to dictate whom someone can marry. My liberalism-- I consider myself both a social and fiscal liberal (progressives, I hear we're called now...)-- doesn't toe the typical party line. For instance, I'm pro-life (though I hate the terms associated with both stances, for I think they too narrowly define both camps), yet my stance has nothing to do with religion. In fact, after my political views began to shape in high school, it wasn't until I became a father that my views on abortion changed. Having said that, I understand and can appreciate the validity of both sides' arguments. 

So how do I reconcile my worldly beliefs--evolution, acceptance of all religions (and not just for the sake of winning others over), gay rights-- with my religious beliefs? Most days I don't have an answer, at least not one that's the whole truth. 

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These are representative of the conversations I’ve had recently. We all search for Truth in our lives, and we look for it in religion, in those around us, in work, in morality; in the art we produce, and the choices we make. Do we all find it? I don’t think so. But we work toward self-actualization, a lifelong process in which we come to terms with morality, creativity, enlightenment, the highest level of Maslow’s hierarchy, in the name of meaning and truth. And along the way we question what it means to be human, what it means to be alive, what it means to be a part of the world around us, to truly be. And we question truth with the same breath that calls out for it, looking with blinded eyes for answers that will allow us to construct a narrative that makes our lives make sense. So do we as writers swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help us God? Well, maybe with the help of God, we’ll give you some truth, something about which to think. And sometimes, we as writers will give you a glimpse into part of that journey; but we don’t allow you to see it all, just what we want you to see, for it’s our truth, colored by our experiences and our beliefs, shaped by who we are and what we do. And we’ll continue to reveal ourselves, one small glimpse at a time, word by word, until you gain a better understanding of who we are and, just maybe, of who you are too. 

The Id and the Superego Walk into a Bar, or What the Freud am I Thinking?

“We approach the id with analogies: we call it chaos, a cauldron full of seething excitations… It is filled with energy reaching from the instincts, but it has no organization... but only a striving to bring about the satisfaction of the instinctual needs of the subject to the observance of the pleasure principle.” –Sigmund Freud

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If you knew something was wrong and yet could bring satisfaction and happiness, would you do it? Would you take into consideration all of the people your actions would affect—either by benefiting or hurting them, for in any instance, whenever a choice is made, the numerous variables at play have the ability to affect those involved differently—or would you focus on self-satisfaction? What would enter into your mind as you weighed your options: your past failures and the times you were hurt? Would you try to convince yourself that your actions were for the best, even if another was hurt, someone you didn’t even really know? Would you give in to the id—that instinctual drive toward pleasure—or would you allow your superego, that moralizing voice that begins development around the age of five or six and is formed by the norms and mores of society, the lessons and ideas of parents and associates, to talk you out of your actions? I suppose the answer given is dependent on the person being asked. For me, I’ve tended to rely on my superego to dictate the choices I’ve made in my life, silencing that preternatural urge for pleasure and self-satisfaction and self-gratification, that animalistic urge to do what I want.

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I was accused recently of being a good guy, for I found myself in a situation in which it would have been very easy for me to not be a “good guy,” instead taking advantage of opportunities that presented themselves, opportunities that are quite enticing. And I have to laugh, because as I think about it, I keep hearing all the pastors of my youth talking about the attractiveness of sin, how glamorous it promises to be and yet isn’t, but I’m not really focusing on sin here. Okay, so maybe I am, but after a while, everything becomes a sin: stealing a pen from your coworker at work, not cleaning your room when your mother tells you to do so, speeding, wearing clothing of mixed fibers (just seeing if you’re paying attention—I know that’s Old Testament.) Not helping those in need when you can, ignoring the hungry and afflicted. Not tithing.

But what I’m talking about here is more about a moralistic sense of what we do in our everyday lives, aside from religious affiliation and doctrine, those choices that define us. For our choices do define us, maybe not wholly, maybe not as though each decision was emblematic of you as a person, as our character is defined by the culmination of numerous choices made throughout the course of a life, yet they do determine our character and how others perceive us, how we perceive ourselves. And oftentimes we do care how others perceive us, whether we admit it or not. We may claim that we don’t care what others think about us and what we do—and maybe to an extent there is some truth to that—but I would contend that sometimes our actions are dictated by how we think others will perceive us based on them, whether we intend to let their voices guide us or not, and we find ourselves thinking, if I do that, then I become a… and you can insert your word or phrase of choice into the preceding thought. If I’m caught having a drink, I’m a drinker. How will my church respond to that? If I tell one little lie to try to save myself, I’m a liar. How will the person to whom I lied ever trust me again? Will they? Is this line of thinking unique? Of course not, but I’ve been reminded of this lately in certain areas in my life. If I do this, I become a… and someone gets hurt in the process…

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Knowing that this is the case doesn’t make it any easier to ignore that instinct for desire that tells me to do something I know I shouldn’t. Sure, I can claim a moral victory, stand tall and say that I fought the demons of temptation and won, and some days that’s a good feeling. One would think that it should always be a good feeling—and perhaps it should—but sometimes claiming a moral victory doesn’t give you the immediate satisfaction that giving in to temptation would. But then you have to live with the guilt of having given in to temptation, possibly hurting someone in the process. Is the immediate satisfaction, likely short-lived, worth the internal struggle of guilt? Likely not. But that’s a decision made only by those in the moment, those faced with the decisions before them.

One would like to think that a lifetime of moral victories would amount to something. And sure, it does—it makes you a good person, at least in the eyes of those around you. And when presented with my recent decision, when accused of being a good guy, I jokingly said it was either one of my greatest faults or greatest attributes.

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Obviously, I’ve refrained by detailing my situation here, unusual for me, I know. I’m usually brutally honest on here. One reader said of my writing: you’re so honest on your blog, not really sparing anyone’s feelings. Ironic, it seems, given my lack of expression during the conversation at hand. This time, however, I chose generalities, morality without specificity. Though I’m sure some of you can read between the lines.

Am I a purist? Not by any stretch of the imagination. Yet I find myself watching my id and superego fight for dominance, however slight, in certain situations, something to which we can all at times relate. So is there a moral message here? No, not really. Just something to think about.

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So the Id and the Superego walk into a bar. And let’s hope they get hammered, cause they already put up one helluva fight. 

So This is the New Year

So this is the New Year/ And I don’t feel any different…

So everybody put your best suit or dress on/ Let’s make believe that we are wealthy now for just this once

Ben Gibbard, you know I love you, but why couldn’t you have written happy instead of wealthy, for that’s how I’ve always sung it…

The Past

As this year ends, I, like so many others, find myself reflecting on the last year, which, like any other, was filled with ups and downs, a stereotypical statement if ever there was one, and yet I find in it some truth. My divorce was finalized and I lost two teaching jobs; I dated someone I had liked for years, even while I was married, and watched the dissolution of that relationship, just as I had watched the dissolution of my marriage the previous year. I find myself now in almost exactly the same situation I was in last year: just out of a relationship and working at a new job that I’m still learning to navigate and understand.

This past year held many changes for me: a change of careers, a change of partners; tackling life as a single parent. And through it all, I’d like to say I learned something about myself, about who I am and who I’m not. And I suppose I did. It just seems that such lessons always come with a price, and dealing with that realization seems to get harder as I get older.

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At least now you know. Spend the night in the dumps. Allow yourself the evening to be depressed and upset and then get your ass out of bed tomorrow and go at it as hard as you can. It’s a little thing called life and sometimes it just kicks you in the nuts. Better days are ahead and you will not die alone. You will meet someone worthy of your love and attention.

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Older? What a strange sentiment, for I’m only 27, yet most days I feel so much older than the number of my years. I’ve always been an old soul, as many of you who know me know, and I know my circumstances are not unique, yet I sometimes think that they weigh more heavily on me than on others—ridiculous, I know. I’m fortunate, for I have a family who loves me, a son who adores me and whom I adore, and friends who care, regardless of their limited number.

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Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes/ five hundred twenty-five thousand journeys to plan/ Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes/ How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?

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During the first few months of my marriage, I put on weight and began to fill out for the first time in my life. A friend of mine looked at me one day and said, “You’ve put on weight!” a look of incredulity spread across his face. He was always one to make fun of my small frame over the years, and as I accepted that I had put on weight, he told me he could see it in my face. Contentment pounds, he called them—what a misnomer. Over the last year, that weight has fluctuated as I’ve dealt with the divorce, the ramifications thereof, and my subsequent relationship struggles and job searches, all of which have exacerbated my depression.

It’s funny that when I had no job and was dependent on unemployment checks and family to make ends meet, the rest of my life seemed to be going well; once I got a job, the rest of my life seemed to take a turn for the worse. I know this sounds melodramatic, and that is not my intent. It just seems that the various components of my life can never peacefully coexist in harmony, likely the result, I’ve learned, of some character faults on which I admittedly need to work.

And one of those faults is with my thinking. I used to think that person’s career choice was a quintessential defining element of who he or she was. I was a teacher—regardless of whatever else I was (writer, husband, father, friend, office manager, cashier) I was a teacher. I was an academic who enjoyed intellectual discussions concerning politics, pedagogy, literature, theatre, and film, and tried to use those interests to make those around me think about the world differently than they would otherwise. I wanted to change minds, enhance vocabularies, and broaden horizons. That to me was my defining statement: I’m a teacher.

But I’ve begun to wonder how much a person is truly defined by a career. I have two college degrees and have nearly completed an MA in English (the focus being on education), and yet I’m training to run a gas station. And I don’t see myself going back into education anytime soon. Had anyone told me at seventeen or eighteen—even at twenty-five—that this was where I would be in my life at twenty-seven, I’d have thought the person was crazy. There’s a lot more to me than just the person who wears a black polo instead of blue polo to work, a name tag stuck to my shirt, but as I’ve watched my status as a teacher be erased, I can’t help but wonder how I would define myself to someone. Hi, I’m Dave. I’m a co-manager of a gas station. And I used to be an academic. That’s a turn-on, right?

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After all these years, I suppose merely asking how you’ve been would seem a rather silly way to start a conversation, but it’s the best I have at this point. So, how’ve you been?

Well hello there. I have been alright I suppose. Good times and bad but that’s just life. How about yourself?

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This year, I continued to work on my novel, finished my first play and wrote a few others, and sent out work for publication, all of which was rejected. Yet I continued to push myself as a writer, looking for outlets, one of which is this blog. I never expected much response from people when I started this, but I’ve received praise from people who’ve read it, people who have thanked me for my honesty and for writing pieces that are relatable, that allow them to draw parallels to their own lives. But let’s be honest: I was hurt, pissed, and depressed, and needed an outlet. So it really started for me, as a place for me to try to make sense of the world around me. The fact that you read it and related to it is an added bonus. I’ve received compliments from people I don’t really know that well who have responded to a post and messaged me to tell me about it, people I’ve not seen since high school. And I must admit that it’s a little disconcerting that people from my church read the blog, what with my discussion of alcohol, religion, politics, and the use of language usually deemed foul in church circles. Yet even from church members, the responses have been overwhelmingly positive, perhaps signifying a difference in the Church I’ve come to know and the Church I thought I knew growing up.

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A few of my friends quit smoking this year, though one relapsed. Good for them. I started again after nine years of just the occasional cigar (again, sorry to those of you for whom this is a startling revelation.) This past year I was the first time I ever took medicine for depression and anxiety. I was prescribed Lexipro and it was great until my insurance ran out. I had wondered to what extent it truly helped, and I was interested to see if a change of life situations (marriage and my job) would have eliminated my need for it. I’ll admit that I did feel better even after my refills ran out, though that result was short lived, and I felt myself longing for something to make me feel better. I suppose that is why I spent a cold winter’s night last January around a fire drinking too much moonshine and bourbon on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Why I drank too much Fireball and bourbon a couple months later at a bar where I obviously did not belong.

A short time after Amanda left, I was walking into work at the college when I noticed a rather attractive woman, maybe about my age or a few years older, walking into work as well. I don’t recall now what I was actually doing there, as I was teaching on a different campus. But I recognized her as someone on the staff, though I don’t know who she was or what she does, and I noticed she was smoking. My first thought was “She’s hot” (forgive the baseness of my phrasing and thinking) and my second was “Could I date someone who smokes? I have a kid to think about.” This was obviously before I rediscovered that smoking can take the edge of.  A lot of my time in the early months of the year, it seems, was spent thinking thoughts like that: where do I go from here, and not just for myself.

As I do with many things in my life, I went to Travis for guidance. I don’t recall our conversation, but I find myself thinking the same things now: where do I go from here.

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The Future

As the new year starts, I suppose I have many resolutions, as there are many things I want to do in the coming year and many things about myself that I wish to change. I want to write more and finally publish my book, assuming I can get around to editing a final draft; I hope to stage at least a table read of my first play; and I hope to finish many more works.

But in truth, I want to find a way to be happy. It would be easy for me to say I want to find someone I can make happy and with whom I can be happy, but if I’ve learned anything in the past couple years, it’s that you can’t rely on others to make you happy. You have to find your own internal happiness before you can be happy with someone else. That’s a harsh realization to reach, one that is easier said than accepted, but it’s a truth I must own.

If work will allow, I plan on becoming more active in my church, maybe even getting up in time for Sunday school. I joined a church softball league this past year, and though I’m not athletic or skilled in the least, I enjoyed it far more than I imagined I would, for it offered a sense of community and togetherness. I know there is something missing in my life. If we’re being honest, I kind of thought it was sex. But I’m starting to think it’s community.

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--If I think that you're good looking, I say you're attractive. Just sounds better. Dont ya think?

--I think attractive does sound classier. Plus it has the association of attraction, which carries with it the idea of drawing together. So much better than the Neanderthalithic hot that has worked its way into our vernacular. (And better than handsome—old grandmothers call their grandsons handsome.)

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A friend of mine recently told me I’m hot (a statement I find unfounded) and that I likely won’t be single for long. She said that looks aside, I’m still quite a catch (her words, not mine) for I’m a devoted father, and I’m funny, smart, and talented. Maybe there is some truth in that. But I think what I maybe need to accept in the new year is that I can be single. I went from a six-year relationship into one that lasted almost a year, with no silent time in between. Alison and I started talking (whatever that means) a week after Amanda left, went on our first date nine days after my divorce, and were together for nearly eight months until just last week. My natural inclination is to find someone, for I don’t like being alone—there are too many ghosts in my house that dance around me when I’m alone—but maybe if I take the time to be alone, to truly reflect on my past lessons learned, I’ll be a better person for it, and I’ll not make the same mistakes I made this time around.

So here’s to the new year, a time of introspection, growth, and building; a time of reflection, creation, and devotion; and a time to ensure that next year doesn’t end the same as this one and the one before, for if we continue to make the same mistakes, we surely haven’t learned.

Here’s to hoping I’ve learned.

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If you take the time to read this, know that I appreciate it.

Have a happy New Year.