assholes in the eighth grade are capable of anything stupid and petty. In my manuscript, though, I have made them capable of anything period! I could just kick myself for not burning those underpants, and isn't it a shame that it's come to that, having to burn things? It started bleeding back there a few weeks ago, but I have it under control now.
While the imagination certainly has its place, I feel that it is important for a writer to back certain chapters with a little experience, so a few months ago I started hanging out in the rest room of JCPenney in hopes of getting just that a little experience.
I stood at the urinal for almost two hours before someone finally took the bait and gave me a signal that he was there to play hardball. Meeting his eyes I understood that I could use him as my research stud, fodder for my manuscript a little footnote who would drive my future biographers wild and leave my readers breathless and hungry for more. Research Stud and I skipped over all of the bullshit that everyone else goes through: the formal introductions, the phone calls, the dates we just got to the exclamation point right there in the stall! Afterwards, he sort of ruined everything by telling me that he is a political science major at N.C. state and his name is Julian. I hate that name. In my manuscript he is named Dirk. I've made him about three inches taller and have then him a good, thick ten and one-half inches between his legs. Julian and I met in the rest room a few more times before we were interrupted by a store detective who, I am convinced, was interested in arranging a three-way. After that, we started doing it in Julian's car. He'd drive us out into the country and park behind an abandoned house set on a dirt road.
Julian was all right, but nothing at all like the hard-driving top man I've made him out to be in my manuscript. He was actually very stiff and uptight. We'd be doing it and I would whisper, 'Talk to me, talk to me,' and he'd start telling me about his summer job as a page at the state legislature building. That was not the kind of talk I was after. I asked him if he had any friends he could invite along the next time. I wanted a good mental picture of what it might be like with three or four studs at one time, ramming away and taking it all. When Julian backed off, I went to the bathroom at the Trailways station and found some real men who could help me.
Research Studs numbers five and six were absolute horses. I'm not changing anything about them. My readers are going to get the unbridled truth as far as those cocksmen are concerned. I just wasn't prepared for the bleeding back there. Not buckets of blood but a slow and steady flow that lasted about five days, during which time I considered asking one of my sisters for a tampon.
When my father brought up the priest I had a sinking feeling that something was up, that he knew more than he was letting on. It is confusing when a stupid man plays dumb.
I'll go out later tonight with a flashlight and check to see if my manuscript is still there, out behind the shed, where I keep it buried.
Firestone
AS A favor to my pastor, Carlton Manning has hired me to work at his service station even though I am unable to drive. You might say that this is like having a baldheaded barber or a toothless dentist bending over your body with advice. You might say, 'What does he know?' I will bet that he knows more than you think. I bet that he has a great deal of respect and admiration for the teeth you take for granted. Listen to him. He has inside information.
Sometimes I walk to work but usually I take the bus. Many people ride the bus because their own cars are broken or unreliable. These people see me in my uniform and they think Lord knows what, but they act like there is a doctor in the house.
Canton says that they are looking for free advice. Since I have no knowledge of the automobile, either foreign or domesticated, I reshape their questions into a way that will allow me to fellowship, to make friends out of strangers.
I have made several fine friends on the bus. Friends in need: In need of a dollar or two, in need of a comb, in need of my transistor radio. Last week I gave a woman my sneakers after hearing that vandals had slashed and shredded the seat of her son's motorcycle. Having nothing upon which to sit, her son is forced to walk back and forth between his home and the church where he takes his meals.
'What can I do to help?' I asked myself. 'I have no tailoring skills with which to repair a torn motorcycle seat. What can I do?'
'What can you do? Give her your shoes,' came the reply from somewhere deep inside my heart.
So I did. I gave her my shoes.
'What do I want with these?' the woman asked.
'That will be revealed in time,' I responded.
Now every time I see this woman I ask, 'Has it been revealed yet?' She tells me it hasn't but when it is I will be the first to know.
Friends! Every day the bus driver offers me the steering wheel and every day I am forced to turn him down. While I would enjoy nothing more than to shepherd these passengers to their destination I am forced by state and federal law to decline his kind invitation.
I can't drive because of my eyes, which grow weaker by the day. In the future I will be rendered blind by the hand of fate. My poor sight is genital in nature, passed down to me from my, mother. I have turned my back against any number of 'operations' because I cannot be so presumptuous as to force the hand of God in another direction. I will travel willingly along the path He has designed for me. Whether I walk or stumble or crawl, it is up to Him, not me. Carlton has trouble understanding my position. He says that, in a year or two, he will be in the market for a new liver. He always asks pretty girls if they have one they can spare. Carlton says that he will ask for their livers and steal their hearts while he's at it.
On the radio I hear about men whose time has come, yet they deny the truth and attempt to live off plastic hearts installed in their cut-open chests. But what kind of a life is that, to push your heart's battery over the rugged terrain of this earth? God looks down upon these men who try to wheedle Him out of His plan and I believe He chuckles. He lets them have their minute in the sun and then He calls them up for a consultation. The Lord gives these men just enough rope to hang themselves but in a gentle and crafty way that nobody can imitate or ignore.
Being a very quick learner I took only a few weeks to master my position as a service station attendant. The first hardship was finding the gas tanks, which are designed by hotshots to blend into the surface of the automobile.
Why?
I cannot answer that question. I can only speculate. Perhaps these hotshots would like to convince you that an automobile runs of its own accord, like an animal charging from place to place. You might look at, say, a dog running alongside the road and ask yourself why it runs. Rarely would you ask how the dog runs. You never think of the dog's gas tank, a bowl of food and water set beside his cushion. These hotshots would like to confuse the natural and the mechanical world.
Can they fool the public at large?
Perhaps.
Can they fool me?
No.
Once I located the tanks I found it difficult to read the meter and administer gasoline at the same time.
'Give me seven bucks' worth, unleaded,' a customer might say.
'What does that feel like?' I would ask myself. Seven dollars' worth of unleaded gasoline passes quickly. It is a brief period of time compared to the seven dollars' worth one might get from a movie or the time it might take to enjoy a meal at your favorite restaurant. Think about it!
Though my sight is poor I could clearly see that many of the station's visitors were in need of more than gasoline. It was difficult to converse from my position at the rear of the car but where there's a will there is a way. During the chilly weeks of April I found myself hoarse by noon, raising my voice over the sounds of traffic and of life itself. I would minister to all my customers and found the greatest challenge in certain young people who seemed to believe that Hell is nothing more than a hot day at the beach. I would have been more than happy to counselthese
