OK, so who was shocked that now-former Congressman Anthony Weiner, after getting caught with his pants down, announced he was going in for therapy and treatment?
Therapy is the new religion. It used to be that whenever a politician or some famous person was caught doing something the general population used to consider inappropriate or illegal, that person would find God.
Now, they find out that whatever they did is not their fault because they have an illness.
And you know what? They're right.
Whenever things like this happen, I find myself thinking back to Art Schlicter. Maybe you remember him: golden boy quarterback at The Ohio State University; top six in the Heisman Trophy as a sophomore, junior and senior; led the Buckeyes to a national championship; fourth-pick overall in the NFL draft.
He had everything - including a gambling problem. Midway through his NFL rookie year, he'd blown his entire signing bonus. Gambling consumed him, and eventually cost him everything he once valued. He spent the equivalent of 10 years in 44 different prisons and jails around the Midwest.
After years of ruining his life with his gambling, someone finally diagnosed Schlichter as a pathological gambler, recognized as an illness by the American Psychological Association.
When Schlicter heard that, he had tears in his eyes as he said, "Thank God I'm sick. I thought I was just a loser!"
Of course, the truth is, Schlicter was a loser. Just like Anthony Weiner. And me. And, I dare say, you.
We're losers, because we're all sick; we're all addicts - to ourselves.
Your parents or maybe grandparents or preacher or priest would have called it "sin,'' but that's not a very popular word these days.
Nobody likes to talk about sin. If they do, they talk about it in terms of lying, cheating, stealing, adultery, murder - this list of "things" that we do that we call sin. See, we like lists, because we can rank lists, and then we can compare ourselves to others. Lying is not as bad as cheating, which is not as bad as stealing, which is not as bad as adultery, which is not as bad as murder, and so on.
The only problem is, those things are not really "sin." Those are just the outward expressions of "sin."
Oh, I know - God put together this list of sins that we refer to all the time. But go back and read the story: God gave people what they called "the law" because they couldn't handle the freedom of living not by rules but by relationship.
If you know your Bible, you know that in the New Testament, when asked about the law, Jesus said it's not the act, it's the attitude. It's not adultery, it's lusting; it's not murder, it's hating someone.
See, "sin'' is really deciding that nothing in the world is more important than what I want in a given moment.
Not to get all religious, but Adam and Eve's first sin wasn't taking a bite of a piece of forbidden fruit; the first sin was deciding that what God said was "right'' was not, and that Adam and Eve could decide what was ''right" for themselves.
And that holds true across the board of all religions: there is a God, and I'm not it.
(If you're an atheist, it doesn't make any difference what you do because you don't believe in any ultimate justice or afterlife anyway; you're on your own. Seriously.)
If there is God, there is Truth. And that truth is bigger than me, and not determined by me. It's universal, eternal, and non-negotiable.
If I go against that Truth, then I'm setting myself up as equal to God.
That's pretty presumptuous.
But then, so is gambling away the gifts God gives you.
Or sending obscene pictures of yourself and embarrassing your family and your country.
Sure it's sick. Yes, it's an addiction.
And I'm all for therapy and psychology and admitting you have a problem and need help.
We all do.
And we have two choices: we can decide there are standards and they are important and we believe in them and we hold each other - and ourselves - accountable.
Or we don't.
Quite frankly, I'm afraid of the world where every man is god.
It just doesn't work that way.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The word is "illegal;" don't be afraid to use it
The word is "illegal."
In all the discussion about immigration that is going on these days, what with all the attention focused on these "tough" immigration laws being passed by Arizona, Alabama, and Georgia, that one word seems to be forgotten.
I've read that getting tough on immigration goes against the teaching of the Bible, and I understand that. One of the tenants of the Old Testament is to not mistreat "the aliens in your midst."
I even read one columnist argue that the new tough immigration laws are just new "Jim Crow" laws, designed to discriminate against a certain group of people the way black Americans were legally discriminated against after the Civil War.
Of course, the difference is that black Americans were citizens and supposed to have full rights and privileges of that citizenship. Even though they were denied that, and there were people who said, "Let's send back where they came from,'' the truth is that those black Americans had been born here, that their parents had been born here, and that in many cases their grandparents or great-grandparents didn't come here by choice but by force.
I appreciate all the arguments. I have an opinion. I could be wrong.
Here's the thing, though: I'd feel a lot better about the people who are arguing on behalf of the immigrants if they'd remember to insert the word "illegal'' in their arguments.
They never do.
Oh, sometimes they like to say "undocumented."
Yes, and "documented" immigrants are legal.
Even those countries that have said they are going to sue the state of Georgia over Georgia's immigration law - the point is that the people who the law is aimed at are already breaking the law by being here illegally.
I admit, I'm moved when someone worries that we're going to deny educational opportunities to immigrants, or deny jobs to immigrant, or deny any number of certain rights the rest of us enjoy to immigrants.
But these laws aren't going to do any of those things.
The laws might deny educational opportunities to illegal immigrants. These laws might deny any number of benefits to illegal immigrants.
I don't know about you, but the addition of that one word - illegal - has a rather chilling effect on the argument.
Honestly, I don't know what the answer is.
I'd just feel a lot better if the other side would just recognize the word "illegal.''
Take any opinion you want, the most eloquent columnist or pundit, and read their argument with the word "illegal'' in front of every reference to these "undocumented" immigrants.
Every time I do that, no matter how persuasive the argument - and I have read some very persuasive arguments - the effect changes because of the word "illegal."
My family came here from somewhere else. But they came off a boat at a port in broad daylight, not hiding or sneaking. Legend has it that one of my grand-mothers or great-grandmothers wasn't going to be allowed off the boat because she was unmarried, so right there in port she married her brothers' best friend who was also on board. That's what it took to be legal, so she did it because it meant that much to her (and the marriage lasted, by the way).
I don't know the answer. Except that I do know I believe in the difference between "legal'' and "illegal."
And we won't get a good answer until we're willing to frame the argument honestly.
In all the discussion about immigration that is going on these days, what with all the attention focused on these "tough" immigration laws being passed by Arizona, Alabama, and Georgia, that one word seems to be forgotten.
I've read that getting tough on immigration goes against the teaching of the Bible, and I understand that. One of the tenants of the Old Testament is to not mistreat "the aliens in your midst."
I even read one columnist argue that the new tough immigration laws are just new "Jim Crow" laws, designed to discriminate against a certain group of people the way black Americans were legally discriminated against after the Civil War.
Of course, the difference is that black Americans were citizens and supposed to have full rights and privileges of that citizenship. Even though they were denied that, and there were people who said, "Let's send back where they came from,'' the truth is that those black Americans had been born here, that their parents had been born here, and that in many cases their grandparents or great-grandparents didn't come here by choice but by force.
I appreciate all the arguments. I have an opinion. I could be wrong.
Here's the thing, though: I'd feel a lot better about the people who are arguing on behalf of the immigrants if they'd remember to insert the word "illegal'' in their arguments.
They never do.
Oh, sometimes they like to say "undocumented."
Yes, and "documented" immigrants are legal.
Even those countries that have said they are going to sue the state of Georgia over Georgia's immigration law - the point is that the people who the law is aimed at are already breaking the law by being here illegally.
I admit, I'm moved when someone worries that we're going to deny educational opportunities to immigrants, or deny jobs to immigrant, or deny any number of certain rights the rest of us enjoy to immigrants.
But these laws aren't going to do any of those things.
The laws might deny educational opportunities to illegal immigrants. These laws might deny any number of benefits to illegal immigrants.
I don't know about you, but the addition of that one word - illegal - has a rather chilling effect on the argument.
Honestly, I don't know what the answer is.
I'd just feel a lot better if the other side would just recognize the word "illegal.''
Take any opinion you want, the most eloquent columnist or pundit, and read their argument with the word "illegal'' in front of every reference to these "undocumented" immigrants.
Every time I do that, no matter how persuasive the argument - and I have read some very persuasive arguments - the effect changes because of the word "illegal."
My family came here from somewhere else. But they came off a boat at a port in broad daylight, not hiding or sneaking. Legend has it that one of my grand-mothers or great-grandmothers wasn't going to be allowed off the boat because she was unmarried, so right there in port she married her brothers' best friend who was also on board. That's what it took to be legal, so she did it because it meant that much to her (and the marriage lasted, by the way).
I don't know the answer. Except that I do know I believe in the difference between "legal'' and "illegal."
And we won't get a good answer until we're willing to frame the argument honestly.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The story of my buddy, Homeless Mike
There is no point to this story, other than it's true - and the adventure in Mississippi never stops.
The other night I'm driving back from the Point Cadet, the dock behind the Isle Casino, where the BillFish Classic was being held. It was late - I'd been there all evening, watching four boats come in (out of nearly 70 entered in the two-day tournament) with big Blue Marlin, the largest weighing 702 pounds.
Now, people that know me know I'm not a hunter or fisherman. I like my sports on solid ground - football, basketball, baseball, golf. But I've got to admit I got sucked into the excitement of watching these giant fish being hauled off the back of these multi-million dollar fishing boats and hung upside down to be weighed.
I was telling the tournament director my surprise at how much fun this really was, that the closest thing I'd seen to this was at a BassMasters Classic where they fill up a small arena, bring the boats in on trailers with music blaring and an MC whipping the crowd into a frenzy, then the spotlight hits the boat and some angler opens the fish well and pulls out some big bass to the cheers of the crowd.
"You know what we call that?'' said Bobby Carter.
What? I said.
"Bait," he said, with a grin.
Anyway, it was late and as I go to start my car to leave, I notice it doesn't want to start. It finally turns over, but once running the electronic read-out says "battery not charging." However, since I hadn't seen any warning lights prior to this, I assumed the alternator was out and I had enough battery to get home and to the store the next day.
Unfortunately, about a quarter mile down highway 90 the lights started dimming and the car starts backfiring. Just past the Hard Rock, right in across the street from the Beau is the only gas station-mini mart on that end of Biloxi. It's a gold mine; it's always crowded.
My car finally goes dead but I am able to make the turn into the quick-mark parking lot and pull up almost all the way into a parking spot, next to a nice SUV. I get out and open the hood. There's a guy sitting in the truck and I say, "Hey, do you have jumper cables?" He does.
The story is not nearly as interesting as the people, so here goes:
This guy was just sitting in his truck. He tells me he was waiting on his wife, who is across the street at the Beau. She is supposed to be out shortly and call him. There was no place for him to wait over at the Beau, so he'd parked in the last spot at the end of the mini-mart lot to wait.
His name is Ken. He never tells me what his wife is doing in the Beau. But he is very nice. He has to dig through all kinds of equipment in the back of his SUV - fishing poles, coolers, stuff that was put away very neatly and orderly - to find his cables, which I was embarrassed about because I remember I have jumper cables in my trunk, but he had already halfway unloaded his SUV by then.
He gets them out and he's telling me how this happened to him recently, and he went and bought a new battery but it turned out it was his alternator and he hoped my luck would be better than his.
While he's popping the hood on my car, another guy comes up and says, "Hey, guys, my car ran out of gas about two blocks up the road and they don't have a gas can here and I need some gas."
Neither of us had a gas can, but this guy proceeds to help put the jumper cables on my car while Ken and I discuss how to get a gas can. We get my car started, but as soon as we take the cables off my battery, my car stops.
"That's your battery,'' Ken said. "You're going to have get a new one."
Where? Turns out both men know there is a Wal-Mart just up I-110, in D'Iberville, that is open 24 hours.
The second guy - who eventually tells me his name is Mike - asks me if I have any tools, which I do, and he says, "well, let's get the battery out of your car. You're going to have to exchange it for the core."
The problem, of course, is how to get to the Wal-Mart. It's 11 o'clock at night, and Ken says he'd really like to give me a ride but he doesn't know when his wife is going to call and he has to be there for her. In fact, I can tell he is trying to figure out how to do it anyway when I say, "If we get some gas for Mike's car, Mike could take me to Wal-Mart."
That was when Mike came clean.
"Hey, I have to tell you the truth,'' he says. "I don't have a car. I'm homeless. I'm just trying to get some money. I haven't eaten all day."
Meanwhile, he continues taking my battery out.
Ken and I just look at him.
"So there's no car?" I say, stupidly.
"No,'' he says, trying to find the right wrench to loosen the cables.
"You can't take me to Wal-Mart even if we got you a gas can,'' I say, still stupid.
"I'm sorry,'' he says. "I was just embarrassed to tell you the truth."
Ken looked at me and says, "Well, if my wife calls, she might let me take you to Wal-Mart, but I just don't know."
A cab pulls in the parking lot.
"Maybe I can take a cab,'' I sat.
I walked over to the cabbie and say, "Hey, I have a dead battery and need a ride to Wal-Mart to buy a new one. Will you take me?"
I can tell he doesn't want to. He wants to go inside first, which is fine with me. I want to go inside too, and get a drink. But my car is outside with two guys I didn't know, one of whom is homeless and hasn't eaten all day.
So I stand there at the front door, trying to keep one eye on the cabbie and one eye on my car where Mike the homeless man is busy under my hood.
The cabbie comes out and says, "I can't take you, but this guy can,'' just as another cab pulls in. "Hey,'' the first cabbie says, "Can you take this guy to Wal-Mart and back?"
Understand, all this is going on at 11:30 at night, across from one of the busiest casino/hotels on the coast, in the parking lot of a quick-mart where every parking spot is full and every pump is busy. People are coming and going all around us.
"Sure,'' the second cabbie says. "Let me go get a drink."
I go back to my car, only to find Ken has left but there's another guy helping Mike the Homeless guy take my battery out. While I stand there watching them, this girl walks up in a tank top and tight jeans, push-up bra, tattoo, and asks this new guy for money. A four-door pick-up truck is now parked beside my car, and as the back door of the truck opens, several empty cans of Amstel Light fall out of the floorboard onto the ground, and the guy and girl start to laugh.
"Well,'' she says. "Why don't you give me some money and while you're playing auto mechanic I'll go get the stuff,'' and he pulls out his wallet and gives her some money.
I say to Mike, "OK, I've got a cab that will take me to Wal-Mart,'' and the new guy says, "Don't do that. Go ask the cab what he's going to charge you for the trip and I'll do it for half."
Turns out he is the driver of the truck that was parked next to me, the one the empty beer cans fell out of.
So I go to find my cab driver and ask what he's going to charge me.
"I'll do it for 20,'' he says. "Normally it would be about 15 both ways, but I'll do it for 20.''
I figure this isn't a bad rate and decide I'll go with the cab instead of the truck with the two guys, the empty beer cans, and Miss Push-Up Tank Top with Tattoos. But when I get back to my car, the battery is out and already in the back of the pick-up truck.
"I'm going to go with the cab,'' I tell the new guy, whose name I still don't know. "The cab said he'd take me for next to nothing."
"OK,'' says the guy, and immediately Homeless Mike runs over and pulls my battery out of the back of the pickup and says he'll take it over the to cab.
Then it hits me. I've got my car in the parking lot of this mini-mart and it's close to midnight. I can't lock the car because the window is down and won't go up without power. I decide to get my back-pack that has my work computer in it and put it in my trunk. However, when I open the trunk and put the back-pack in there, suddenly I realize the trunk won't close because it's electric.
Now I've got my hood open, my car unlocked with a window down, and my trunk open with my golf clubs and assorted other stuff in the trunk. There are people coming and going constantly in this parking lot, it's midnight, and I've got to leave my car to ride in a cab across the bridge to D'Iberville.
I decide to take my backpack with me to Wal-Mart. Homeless Mike takes my battery and puts it in the back of the cab and I try to figure out what to do to protect my car.
"I'll watch it,'' Homeless Mike says. "I'll just stay here and look out for you."
"Mike," I said. "You already lied to me once. I promise if you watch my car I'll make it worth your while. We'll get some food and some cash. Just please watch the car and don't let anything happen to it."
"I won't,'' he said.
"I mean it, Mike," I said. "I'm in a bind here. Can I count on you?"
"You said you'd make it worth my while,'' Mike said. "Why would I mess with you when you say you're going to make it worth my while?"
Meanwhile, Ken comes back with his wife.
"Hey, if you still need a ride to Wal-Mart, my wife doesn't mind if we take you,'' he said.
I have to admit I was touched.
"No, thanks,'' I said. "I'll take a cab. I really appreciate it. You take your wife on home and have a good evening."
But that he made a point to come back across the street to check on me meant a lot. He didn't have to do that, particularly with a wife that he'd made it sound like he was going to be at her beck-and-call.
So I get in the cab and drive off to Wal-Mart.
Now, the cabbie is not the guy whose picture is on the cab license hanging from the rearview mirror. He's down from Hattiesburg, he tells me. He moved down to take care of his grand babies, because his son moved down here to find a better life. ... You know the story. I hate to say it's a cliche, but it is.
We drive to Wal-Mart, and all I can think of is my car sitting wide open in the parking lot, being watched by a homeless guy who, for all I know, could get arrested just for loitering, and how far would he go to stop someone from taking stuff out of my trunk anyway?
We get to Wal-Mart. The cabbie decides he'll go in with me. He gets a cart and puts the old battery in and we walk in together, go to the automotive section. The woman working isn't overly happy to have to wait on me, but she tells me there is a book over by the batteries and if I find my car model, it will tell me the size of battery I need, and when I find the battery let her know and she'll ring it up for me back there.
I find the battery, and the cabbie comes over. He's found a seat cushion he wants to buy, and we make our purchases and head back out to the cab.
We're driving back and he tells me how his oldest son died, and he doesn't want to lose his youngest. But his youngest feels like he knows everything, and the old man would like the son to join the military, but since he's already lost one son he doesn't want to risk losing another, and anyway this son has a good job as a trainer at the KFC where, because he trains new employees, he gets plenty of overtime and even though they want to make him store manager he doesn't want to be the store manager because he likes working as a new employee trainer better.
And all I can wonder is, what are the odds a homeless guy has stayed with my car and really looked after it?
We pull into the gas station and there's a police car, lights flashing, and a crowd gathered next to my car.
My heart sinks.
But it turns out the police are there for the crowd, and as I get out of the cab Homeless Mike pops up from in front of my car where he's been sitting on the curb by the engine. I pay the cabbie his 20 bucks and wish him well, and Homeless Mike gets the new battery and won't let me help him put it in my car.
This time, I get a flashlight out so he can see. Why I didn't do that to start I have no idea, except I was trying to figure out what I was going to do and didn't think of it.
Lights are flashing behind us. I turn around a a car full of girls is parked next to us, and they keep taking our picture, for some reason.
But Mike gets the battery in, and - voila! - the car starts! The trunk closes. The window goes up.
"OK," I say to Mike. "Tell me what you want - you want food? I will take you in the quick mart and get you what you want. Or I'll take you to a fastfood place and get you something better."
My guess is that he'll just want to go inside for beer. But this night has been full of surprises.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
I tell him I have even though I haven't, but I'll take him to get food. There's a McDonalds across from the Hard Rock, and he asks if I"ll take him there.
"Sure,'' I said. "We'll go inside and I'll get a drink while you eat."
We jump in the car and drive down to the McDonalds. Mike tells me he had a car, but he was sitting in a casino playing quarter slots and drinking and when he came out he got busted for DUI and the police impounded his car. He said he got to a judge and since it was just his first DUI they fined him, but he didn't have the money to get his car out. He'd gone to a temporary work agency and got one day's work and earned $35, but there was no work the next day when he went back.
We go to McDonald's and I tell him to get what he wants. "You get a meal, and I'm going to give you some cash, too,'' I say.
He orders a No. 1 and I get a sweet tea. I give him $35 cash, because that's all I have.
"Wow!" he said. "You don't know what this means to me. This means I can get a shower and eat tomorrow."
"Well,'' I say, "You can do whatever you want with it. It's yours."
"No,'' he says. "I promise you I'll use this wisely. I won't misuse it. You've really done me a favor."
Again I say, "No, you earned it. You can do whatever you want with it. I hope you do use it wisely, but it's yours to do whatever you want."
I ask him if he needs a ride anywhere else, and he says no, he's going to sit there and eat and for me to go on. He thanks me again and we shake hands and I leave.
I realize how fortunate this night has been. It's now well after midnight. I've run into nothing but people who were willing to go out of their way to help me; strangers of a different race, maybe looking at an old man in a pair of khaki pants and billfishing classic t-shirt and a beat-up old Cadillac and figure I'm one step away from being homeless myself.
I don't know. But it was a glimpse of the way life should be.
By the way, I went back to look for Homeless Mike the next day, in the daylight. I'm not sure why, except to see if I could help him out again or something. I couldn't find him.
Hopefully, he found some work and got his car and his good deed was rewarded.
We have a saying around the response:
You can't make this stuff up.
The other night I'm driving back from the Point Cadet, the dock behind the Isle Casino, where the BillFish Classic was being held. It was late - I'd been there all evening, watching four boats come in (out of nearly 70 entered in the two-day tournament) with big Blue Marlin, the largest weighing 702 pounds.
Now, people that know me know I'm not a hunter or fisherman. I like my sports on solid ground - football, basketball, baseball, golf. But I've got to admit I got sucked into the excitement of watching these giant fish being hauled off the back of these multi-million dollar fishing boats and hung upside down to be weighed.
I was telling the tournament director my surprise at how much fun this really was, that the closest thing I'd seen to this was at a BassMasters Classic where they fill up a small arena, bring the boats in on trailers with music blaring and an MC whipping the crowd into a frenzy, then the spotlight hits the boat and some angler opens the fish well and pulls out some big bass to the cheers of the crowd.
"You know what we call that?'' said Bobby Carter.
What? I said.
"Bait," he said, with a grin.
Anyway, it was late and as I go to start my car to leave, I notice it doesn't want to start. It finally turns over, but once running the electronic read-out says "battery not charging." However, since I hadn't seen any warning lights prior to this, I assumed the alternator was out and I had enough battery to get home and to the store the next day.
Unfortunately, about a quarter mile down highway 90 the lights started dimming and the car starts backfiring. Just past the Hard Rock, right in across the street from the Beau is the only gas station-mini mart on that end of Biloxi. It's a gold mine; it's always crowded.
My car finally goes dead but I am able to make the turn into the quick-mark parking lot and pull up almost all the way into a parking spot, next to a nice SUV. I get out and open the hood. There's a guy sitting in the truck and I say, "Hey, do you have jumper cables?" He does.
The story is not nearly as interesting as the people, so here goes:
This guy was just sitting in his truck. He tells me he was waiting on his wife, who is across the street at the Beau. She is supposed to be out shortly and call him. There was no place for him to wait over at the Beau, so he'd parked in the last spot at the end of the mini-mart lot to wait.
His name is Ken. He never tells me what his wife is doing in the Beau. But he is very nice. He has to dig through all kinds of equipment in the back of his SUV - fishing poles, coolers, stuff that was put away very neatly and orderly - to find his cables, which I was embarrassed about because I remember I have jumper cables in my trunk, but he had already halfway unloaded his SUV by then.
He gets them out and he's telling me how this happened to him recently, and he went and bought a new battery but it turned out it was his alternator and he hoped my luck would be better than his.
While he's popping the hood on my car, another guy comes up and says, "Hey, guys, my car ran out of gas about two blocks up the road and they don't have a gas can here and I need some gas."
Neither of us had a gas can, but this guy proceeds to help put the jumper cables on my car while Ken and I discuss how to get a gas can. We get my car started, but as soon as we take the cables off my battery, my car stops.
"That's your battery,'' Ken said. "You're going to have get a new one."
Where? Turns out both men know there is a Wal-Mart just up I-110, in D'Iberville, that is open 24 hours.
The second guy - who eventually tells me his name is Mike - asks me if I have any tools, which I do, and he says, "well, let's get the battery out of your car. You're going to have to exchange it for the core."
The problem, of course, is how to get to the Wal-Mart. It's 11 o'clock at night, and Ken says he'd really like to give me a ride but he doesn't know when his wife is going to call and he has to be there for her. In fact, I can tell he is trying to figure out how to do it anyway when I say, "If we get some gas for Mike's car, Mike could take me to Wal-Mart."
That was when Mike came clean.
"Hey, I have to tell you the truth,'' he says. "I don't have a car. I'm homeless. I'm just trying to get some money. I haven't eaten all day."
Meanwhile, he continues taking my battery out.
Ken and I just look at him.
"So there's no car?" I say, stupidly.
"No,'' he says, trying to find the right wrench to loosen the cables.
"You can't take me to Wal-Mart even if we got you a gas can,'' I say, still stupid.
"I'm sorry,'' he says. "I was just embarrassed to tell you the truth."
Ken looked at me and says, "Well, if my wife calls, she might let me take you to Wal-Mart, but I just don't know."
A cab pulls in the parking lot.
"Maybe I can take a cab,'' I sat.
I walked over to the cabbie and say, "Hey, I have a dead battery and need a ride to Wal-Mart to buy a new one. Will you take me?"
I can tell he doesn't want to. He wants to go inside first, which is fine with me. I want to go inside too, and get a drink. But my car is outside with two guys I didn't know, one of whom is homeless and hasn't eaten all day.
So I stand there at the front door, trying to keep one eye on the cabbie and one eye on my car where Mike the homeless man is busy under my hood.
The cabbie comes out and says, "I can't take you, but this guy can,'' just as another cab pulls in. "Hey,'' the first cabbie says, "Can you take this guy to Wal-Mart and back?"
Understand, all this is going on at 11:30 at night, across from one of the busiest casino/hotels on the coast, in the parking lot of a quick-mart where every parking spot is full and every pump is busy. People are coming and going all around us.
"Sure,'' the second cabbie says. "Let me go get a drink."
I go back to my car, only to find Ken has left but there's another guy helping Mike the Homeless guy take my battery out. While I stand there watching them, this girl walks up in a tank top and tight jeans, push-up bra, tattoo, and asks this new guy for money. A four-door pick-up truck is now parked beside my car, and as the back door of the truck opens, several empty cans of Amstel Light fall out of the floorboard onto the ground, and the guy and girl start to laugh.
"Well,'' she says. "Why don't you give me some money and while you're playing auto mechanic I'll go get the stuff,'' and he pulls out his wallet and gives her some money.
I say to Mike, "OK, I've got a cab that will take me to Wal-Mart,'' and the new guy says, "Don't do that. Go ask the cab what he's going to charge you for the trip and I'll do it for half."
Turns out he is the driver of the truck that was parked next to me, the one the empty beer cans fell out of.
So I go to find my cab driver and ask what he's going to charge me.
"I'll do it for 20,'' he says. "Normally it would be about 15 both ways, but I'll do it for 20.''
I figure this isn't a bad rate and decide I'll go with the cab instead of the truck with the two guys, the empty beer cans, and Miss Push-Up Tank Top with Tattoos. But when I get back to my car, the battery is out and already in the back of the pick-up truck.
"I'm going to go with the cab,'' I tell the new guy, whose name I still don't know. "The cab said he'd take me for next to nothing."
"OK,'' says the guy, and immediately Homeless Mike runs over and pulls my battery out of the back of the pickup and says he'll take it over the to cab.
Then it hits me. I've got my car in the parking lot of this mini-mart and it's close to midnight. I can't lock the car because the window is down and won't go up without power. I decide to get my back-pack that has my work computer in it and put it in my trunk. However, when I open the trunk and put the back-pack in there, suddenly I realize the trunk won't close because it's electric.
Now I've got my hood open, my car unlocked with a window down, and my trunk open with my golf clubs and assorted other stuff in the trunk. There are people coming and going constantly in this parking lot, it's midnight, and I've got to leave my car to ride in a cab across the bridge to D'Iberville.
I decide to take my backpack with me to Wal-Mart. Homeless Mike takes my battery and puts it in the back of the cab and I try to figure out what to do to protect my car.
"I'll watch it,'' Homeless Mike says. "I'll just stay here and look out for you."
"Mike," I said. "You already lied to me once. I promise if you watch my car I'll make it worth your while. We'll get some food and some cash. Just please watch the car and don't let anything happen to it."
"I won't,'' he said.
"I mean it, Mike," I said. "I'm in a bind here. Can I count on you?"
"You said you'd make it worth my while,'' Mike said. "Why would I mess with you when you say you're going to make it worth my while?"
Meanwhile, Ken comes back with his wife.
"Hey, if you still need a ride to Wal-Mart, my wife doesn't mind if we take you,'' he said.
I have to admit I was touched.
"No, thanks,'' I said. "I'll take a cab. I really appreciate it. You take your wife on home and have a good evening."
But that he made a point to come back across the street to check on me meant a lot. He didn't have to do that, particularly with a wife that he'd made it sound like he was going to be at her beck-and-call.
So I get in the cab and drive off to Wal-Mart.
Now, the cabbie is not the guy whose picture is on the cab license hanging from the rearview mirror. He's down from Hattiesburg, he tells me. He moved down to take care of his grand babies, because his son moved down here to find a better life. ... You know the story. I hate to say it's a cliche, but it is.
We drive to Wal-Mart, and all I can think of is my car sitting wide open in the parking lot, being watched by a homeless guy who, for all I know, could get arrested just for loitering, and how far would he go to stop someone from taking stuff out of my trunk anyway?
We get to Wal-Mart. The cabbie decides he'll go in with me. He gets a cart and puts the old battery in and we walk in together, go to the automotive section. The woman working isn't overly happy to have to wait on me, but she tells me there is a book over by the batteries and if I find my car model, it will tell me the size of battery I need, and when I find the battery let her know and she'll ring it up for me back there.
I find the battery, and the cabbie comes over. He's found a seat cushion he wants to buy, and we make our purchases and head back out to the cab.
We're driving back and he tells me how his oldest son died, and he doesn't want to lose his youngest. But his youngest feels like he knows everything, and the old man would like the son to join the military, but since he's already lost one son he doesn't want to risk losing another, and anyway this son has a good job as a trainer at the KFC where, because he trains new employees, he gets plenty of overtime and even though they want to make him store manager he doesn't want to be the store manager because he likes working as a new employee trainer better.
And all I can wonder is, what are the odds a homeless guy has stayed with my car and really looked after it?
We pull into the gas station and there's a police car, lights flashing, and a crowd gathered next to my car.
My heart sinks.
But it turns out the police are there for the crowd, and as I get out of the cab Homeless Mike pops up from in front of my car where he's been sitting on the curb by the engine. I pay the cabbie his 20 bucks and wish him well, and Homeless Mike gets the new battery and won't let me help him put it in my car.
This time, I get a flashlight out so he can see. Why I didn't do that to start I have no idea, except I was trying to figure out what I was going to do and didn't think of it.
Lights are flashing behind us. I turn around a a car full of girls is parked next to us, and they keep taking our picture, for some reason.
But Mike gets the battery in, and - voila! - the car starts! The trunk closes. The window goes up.
"OK," I say to Mike. "Tell me what you want - you want food? I will take you in the quick mart and get you what you want. Or I'll take you to a fastfood place and get you something better."
My guess is that he'll just want to go inside for beer. But this night has been full of surprises.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
I tell him I have even though I haven't, but I'll take him to get food. There's a McDonalds across from the Hard Rock, and he asks if I"ll take him there.
"Sure,'' I said. "We'll go inside and I'll get a drink while you eat."
We jump in the car and drive down to the McDonalds. Mike tells me he had a car, but he was sitting in a casino playing quarter slots and drinking and when he came out he got busted for DUI and the police impounded his car. He said he got to a judge and since it was just his first DUI they fined him, but he didn't have the money to get his car out. He'd gone to a temporary work agency and got one day's work and earned $35, but there was no work the next day when he went back.
We go to McDonald's and I tell him to get what he wants. "You get a meal, and I'm going to give you some cash, too,'' I say.
He orders a No. 1 and I get a sweet tea. I give him $35 cash, because that's all I have.
"Wow!" he said. "You don't know what this means to me. This means I can get a shower and eat tomorrow."
"Well,'' I say, "You can do whatever you want with it. It's yours."
"No,'' he says. "I promise you I'll use this wisely. I won't misuse it. You've really done me a favor."
Again I say, "No, you earned it. You can do whatever you want with it. I hope you do use it wisely, but it's yours to do whatever you want."
I ask him if he needs a ride anywhere else, and he says no, he's going to sit there and eat and for me to go on. He thanks me again and we shake hands and I leave.
I realize how fortunate this night has been. It's now well after midnight. I've run into nothing but people who were willing to go out of their way to help me; strangers of a different race, maybe looking at an old man in a pair of khaki pants and billfishing classic t-shirt and a beat-up old Cadillac and figure I'm one step away from being homeless myself.
I don't know. But it was a glimpse of the way life should be.
By the way, I went back to look for Homeless Mike the next day, in the daylight. I'm not sure why, except to see if I could help him out again or something. I couldn't find him.
Hopefully, he found some work and got his car and his good deed was rewarded.
We have a saying around the response:
You can't make this stuff up.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
A cheeseburger can be paradise
They say the body is a temple.
Well, if that's true, then mine is a monument to Ray Kroc.
To me, food is simple: if it isn't fried or served in a bun, then I don't want it.
Years ago, my old friend Kelly With The Three Last Names summed it up best. For some reason, conversation was "what's your favorite restaurant,'' and Kelly laughed and said, "Ray's is easy: anything with a drive-thru."
The truth is, when it comes to eating it doesn't get much better to me than sitting behind the steering wheel, Kenny Chesney on the stereo, a large sweet ice tea in the drink holder, a packet of hot fries between my thighs and a quarter-pound of ground beef with cheese tucked between two pieces of bread in my right hand.
OK, that might be an exaggeration. But only slight.
The Trophy Wife likes to watch those cooking competitions on cable, the one where a group of chefs get together and have to create these magnificent plates of food and then get chopped or axed or whatever until some one wins.
There is always the drama of some cook, er, "chef'' who can't figure out what to do, and nobody seems to ever think of the obvious: whatever it is, wrap it in bacon, roll it in flour, and deep fry it. Who could resist that?
Believe it or not, my cholesterol remains ridiculously low, always somewhere between 127 and 105. As much as I'd like to take come kind of credit for that, I can't. It's genetics, pure and simple. I take it as a sign that I was born to eat fried food.
Not that I'm skinny, either. Truth is, I could stand to lose a few (dozen) pounds. But I could eat anything I wanted and gaining weight was a problem until I turned about 40. Then a life of bad-eating habits (and metabolism) caught up to me.
At the same time, crazy as it may sound, I sometimes have a problem with food. As much as I like to eat, sometimes I'd rather not. Particularly when I'm alone, and not driving. Or if I'm particularly wrapped up in work; I've been known to just forget to eat.
I thought of all this when talking on the phone to The Trophy Wife, and I was talking about being tired and quite honestly sounded like it. Being the perceptive one in the family, she said, "What have you eaten today?"
Truth is, not much. I was working the night before and didn't eat dinner. There was nothing in the house for breakfast when I woke up other than a quick Diet Coke. It got near lunch time and I had one Chicken Pot-Pie left, so four-to-five minutes later (with two minutes for it to sit in the microwave), I had what passed as a full meal.
"You have to remember to eat,'' she reminds me.
Of course, she'd prefer I ate well - fruit, non-fried chicken, healthy stuff. But she didn't grow up in the Deep South, where every meal included something fried - including fried okra, fried green tomatoes, fried corn, even fried green beans (the good ones wrapped in bacon!).
It's not healthy. Not much about my life is - at least, not intentionally.
Even today. It's exactly two miles down to the marina where there is this little fast-food cafe attached to Keith's, a gas station/mini mart (as if there were any other kind these days). So I walked, thinking it would be good exercise, followed by a delicious (if unhealthy) meal, then a two-mile walk back. All of this was mid-afternoon, in the heat of the day.
So I walked, and got there right at 3:09. Only problem? The cafe closed at 3. So I went into the mini-mart, got a bottle of Diet Coke, a trail mix candy bar, and walked back - where, once I got to my car, I drove to Burger King (the nearest drive-thru).
The Center for Disease Control and Prevention puts out regular reports on obesity rates in the United States. Southern states consistently rank at the top for obesity percentages, and in the last ranking Mississippi ranked No. 1.
Some people would call that a problem.
Me? I call it ... home.
Well, if that's true, then mine is a monument to Ray Kroc.
To me, food is simple: if it isn't fried or served in a bun, then I don't want it.
Years ago, my old friend Kelly With The Three Last Names summed it up best. For some reason, conversation was "what's your favorite restaurant,'' and Kelly laughed and said, "Ray's is easy: anything with a drive-thru."
The truth is, when it comes to eating it doesn't get much better to me than sitting behind the steering wheel, Kenny Chesney on the stereo, a large sweet ice tea in the drink holder, a packet of hot fries between my thighs and a quarter-pound of ground beef with cheese tucked between two pieces of bread in my right hand.
OK, that might be an exaggeration. But only slight.
The Trophy Wife likes to watch those cooking competitions on cable, the one where a group of chefs get together and have to create these magnificent plates of food and then get chopped or axed or whatever until some one wins.
There is always the drama of some cook, er, "chef'' who can't figure out what to do, and nobody seems to ever think of the obvious: whatever it is, wrap it in bacon, roll it in flour, and deep fry it. Who could resist that?
Believe it or not, my cholesterol remains ridiculously low, always somewhere between 127 and 105. As much as I'd like to take come kind of credit for that, I can't. It's genetics, pure and simple. I take it as a sign that I was born to eat fried food.
Not that I'm skinny, either. Truth is, I could stand to lose a few (dozen) pounds. But I could eat anything I wanted and gaining weight was a problem until I turned about 40. Then a life of bad-eating habits (and metabolism) caught up to me.
At the same time, crazy as it may sound, I sometimes have a problem with food. As much as I like to eat, sometimes I'd rather not. Particularly when I'm alone, and not driving. Or if I'm particularly wrapped up in work; I've been known to just forget to eat.
I thought of all this when talking on the phone to The Trophy Wife, and I was talking about being tired and quite honestly sounded like it. Being the perceptive one in the family, she said, "What have you eaten today?"
Truth is, not much. I was working the night before and didn't eat dinner. There was nothing in the house for breakfast when I woke up other than a quick Diet Coke. It got near lunch time and I had one Chicken Pot-Pie left, so four-to-five minutes later (with two minutes for it to sit in the microwave), I had what passed as a full meal.
"You have to remember to eat,'' she reminds me.
Of course, she'd prefer I ate well - fruit, non-fried chicken, healthy stuff. But she didn't grow up in the Deep South, where every meal included something fried - including fried okra, fried green tomatoes, fried corn, even fried green beans (the good ones wrapped in bacon!).
It's not healthy. Not much about my life is - at least, not intentionally.
Even today. It's exactly two miles down to the marina where there is this little fast-food cafe attached to Keith's, a gas station/mini mart (as if there were any other kind these days). So I walked, thinking it would be good exercise, followed by a delicious (if unhealthy) meal, then a two-mile walk back. All of this was mid-afternoon, in the heat of the day.
So I walked, and got there right at 3:09. Only problem? The cafe closed at 3. So I went into the mini-mart, got a bottle of Diet Coke, a trail mix candy bar, and walked back - where, once I got to my car, I drove to Burger King (the nearest drive-thru).
The Center for Disease Control and Prevention puts out regular reports on obesity rates in the United States. Southern states consistently rank at the top for obesity percentages, and in the last ranking Mississippi ranked No. 1.
Some people would call that a problem.
Me? I call it ... home.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Blessings and demons
The old Priest looked at me as we said goodbye and said, "You know you're going to burn."
Needless to say, the message was somewhat disconcerting - which is exactly what I said.
"Uh, you know, hearing a priest say I'm going to burn is kind of disconcerting."
He laughed.
"Take it in context,'' he said.
We were standing in 101-degree heat on the dock at the Small Craft Harbor in Biloxi, waiting for the annual Blessing of the Fleet. The old priest - Father Gregory - probably isn't really that old, but somehow it always sounds better to say "the old priest." He was getting ready to go out on the boat to do the blessing, both of us were extremely hot, but the good Father even more so in his priestly black.
"I wear a white robe when I do the blessing,'' he said. "But it doesn't help."
It is interesting, the things that go through your mind when you talk to a priest - particularly when you're not Catholic, and haven't talked to that many priests in your life.
We were talking about the history of the Blessing of the Fleet, the traditional start of the shrimping season when the shrimp boats line up and pass by the boat with a Catholic priest on board who sprinkles Holy Water toward each boat and offers a blessing of safety and good shrimping for the coming season.
It's a pretty cool event, with the boats all brightly decorated, kind of like a Mardi Gras parade on water except without the masks and beads ... which means it's not really like a Mardi Gras parade at all.
Anyway, people take boats out to Deer Island and camp out so they can be on the far side of the waterway; others take their own boats out to line the parade route, and sill more simply set up on the near shore to watch.
Basically, it has become another excuse to a party in a part of the country that seems to find a reason for a festival or celebration every weekend.
But any time I talk to a priest, I can't help but think of The Exorcist.
I remember when The Exorcist came out. The guys on my dorm hall decided to go. I said no, because I've never been a fan of horror movies - particularly those that involve The Devil or Demons.
It sounds silly now, but The Exorcist was incredibly frightening for its time. The guys came back and couldn't talk about any thing else. They were scared witless (and a few halfway there already). One of the guys down the hall was especially terrified. I found out the next day that he'd stayed up all night, reading the Bible, refusing to let anyone turn out the lights. He swears he read it all the way through.
But being guys, they goaded each other into going back the next night to see it again. And again. And again. Until it was no longer frightening and had become almost a comedy. They would come back and figure out elaborate ways to re-enact scenes from the movie in the dorm room. Soon, "Tubular Bells'' - that frightening theme from the movie - echoed up and down the dorm hallway like it was Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama."
There was a lot of interest in exorcisms back then, about how they were performed by a special class of priest and there were only a few who could do them.
But the first exorcism I ever saw - and that in itself sounds strange - but the first exorcism I ever saw, I was part of.
It remains also the only exorcism I've ever witnessed.
It was two years after The Exorcist came out. I was working a summer job with a billboard company outside of Athens, Ga., before my senior year of college. It was a summer full of interesting stories, but the best had to be when Phillipi asked ... no, he didn't ask, he told me we were going to cast out a demon.
Needless to say, he had my attention.
Phillipi was an artist. He was a big ol' country boy and a deacon or Elder in his Pentecostal Church. His name wasn't really "Phillipi,'' but that was his nickname. We all had nicknames that were earned in the most unusual ways and stuck with us.
But Phillipi was the old man, and one of the most amazing artists I'd ever seen. This company, in addition to traditional paper and glue billboards, also did painted billboards and Phillipi was the painter. He'd put a big board in the warehouse, stick a verse of Scripture that he was memorizing at the top, a picture of what the client wanted on the side, and he could free-hand like nobody's business.
And sing. Phillipi had one of those nasally tenors that you only hear on AM gospel stations. He was a musician at church as well as a part-time preacher, and he'd sit there while he painted and sing during breaks (free-hand painting took all his concentration).
Anyway, Phillipi knew I was a Christian because at the company picnic, I'd reached into the drink cooler and picked up a beer, then dropped it to pull out a Coke. Later, he told me "I know you're a Christian because I've been watching you."
I hoped it was because he'd been watching the way I acted at work, my language, my work ethic. But the reality was he had seen me pick up that can of beer and drop it for a Coke, and that, to him, was a sign that I was a true Christian.
I didn't bother to tell him I just never liked the taste of alcohol.
So anyway, one day Phillipi got a call from someone in his church, and the next thing I knew was he was grabbing me and heading out the door to his truck, telling me to come on, we were going to cast out a demon.
Why me? I asked. Because you're a Christian, he said, and he was going to need serious Christians to "wrestle with this demon, just like in the Acts of the Apostles."
I have to admit, I was intrigued. Part of me really wanted to do this; part of me suddenly wished that I drank beer.
Now, apparently casting out demons was something Phillipi had done before. At least he acted like he had. He seemed awfully convinced this guy we were going to see was indeed demon-possessed, and in truth when we got there the guy was shaking and sweating and groaning and in general displaying a lot of the more gross symptoms of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
Inside, we were joined by a few other Pentecostals who were waiting on Phillipi.
"This is Ray,'' Phillipi said, by way of introductions in passing. "Ray, we're going to cast out a demon. Start praying."
I was way ahead of him.
The old man was lying on his bed when we walked in. The room reeked. He was shaking and sweating and recoiling in apparent fear of Phillipi.
Phillipi walked over and boldly put his hands on the man, and while the rest of us dropped to our knees praying, he called out, "Demon, I know you're in there. I command you in the name of Jesus to come out and leave this brother alone. Come out, demon! Come out!"
Nothing happened, except the man sat up on the edge of his bed, groaning.
Phillipi looked around at us and said, "Pray harder,'' then turned back to the man.
"Demon!'' Phillip called. "Speak to me, demon! I command you in the Name above all Names, the Name of Jesus! Speak to me demon! Tell me your name!"'
In the corner, I was praying all right. I was praying, "Please, Lord, don't let the demon speak. Please protect me and get me out of here. Please, if there is a demon, keep him quiet. In the name of Jesus, demon, keep quiet!"
Counterproductive? I felt a little bothered that I was praying against what Phillipi was praying for. But I couldn't help it.
"Speak to me, demon!" Phillipi roared, bouncing the man up and down on the bed with the force of his hands on his head. "I command you! Speak to me! Tell me your name!"
"Please, demon,'' I silently but fervently prayed. "Don't speak. Just leave! Get out!"
And nothing happened.
The man continued to shake and groan, but there was no demon voice, no sense of a demonic presence, no "Tubular Bells'' playing off in the distance.
Eventually, Phillipi quit. The man got quiet, rolled over and passed out in his bed.
We walked out through the kitchen, and I noticed a trash-can full of empty beer and liquor bottles. I showed them to Phillipi.
"The demon of alcohol!" Phillipi said. "Well, as least now we know his name."
Phillipi checked the cabinets and found one lone six-pack. Phillipi took it, and we headed back to his truck. We drove back to work in silence, except when we crossed a bridge over the Oconee River. Phillipi stopped and threw the six-pack far over the side of the bridge, to shatter on the rocks below.
As it turned out, Phillipi's friend was simply going through the "DTs" (delirium tremons). It was one of the scariest things I'd ever seen.
But it did make me realize I must believe in demons. And I was kind of pleased that I'd had the guts to go along.
Although I don't know that I'd want to do it again.
Oh, and the Biloxi priest?
To his credit, before I turned to leave, he said, "If you're really worried about burning, I'll be happy to talk to you afterward."
No need, Father.
No worries here.
Needless to say, the message was somewhat disconcerting - which is exactly what I said.
"Uh, you know, hearing a priest say I'm going to burn is kind of disconcerting."
He laughed.
"Take it in context,'' he said.
We were standing in 101-degree heat on the dock at the Small Craft Harbor in Biloxi, waiting for the annual Blessing of the Fleet. The old priest - Father Gregory - probably isn't really that old, but somehow it always sounds better to say "the old priest." He was getting ready to go out on the boat to do the blessing, both of us were extremely hot, but the good Father even more so in his priestly black.
"I wear a white robe when I do the blessing,'' he said. "But it doesn't help."
It is interesting, the things that go through your mind when you talk to a priest - particularly when you're not Catholic, and haven't talked to that many priests in your life.
We were talking about the history of the Blessing of the Fleet, the traditional start of the shrimping season when the shrimp boats line up and pass by the boat with a Catholic priest on board who sprinkles Holy Water toward each boat and offers a blessing of safety and good shrimping for the coming season.
It's a pretty cool event, with the boats all brightly decorated, kind of like a Mardi Gras parade on water except without the masks and beads ... which means it's not really like a Mardi Gras parade at all.
Anyway, people take boats out to Deer Island and camp out so they can be on the far side of the waterway; others take their own boats out to line the parade route, and sill more simply set up on the near shore to watch.
Basically, it has become another excuse to a party in a part of the country that seems to find a reason for a festival or celebration every weekend.
But any time I talk to a priest, I can't help but think of The Exorcist.
I remember when The Exorcist came out. The guys on my dorm hall decided to go. I said no, because I've never been a fan of horror movies - particularly those that involve The Devil or Demons.
It sounds silly now, but The Exorcist was incredibly frightening for its time. The guys came back and couldn't talk about any thing else. They were scared witless (and a few halfway there already). One of the guys down the hall was especially terrified. I found out the next day that he'd stayed up all night, reading the Bible, refusing to let anyone turn out the lights. He swears he read it all the way through.
But being guys, they goaded each other into going back the next night to see it again. And again. And again. Until it was no longer frightening and had become almost a comedy. They would come back and figure out elaborate ways to re-enact scenes from the movie in the dorm room. Soon, "Tubular Bells'' - that frightening theme from the movie - echoed up and down the dorm hallway like it was Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama."
There was a lot of interest in exorcisms back then, about how they were performed by a special class of priest and there were only a few who could do them.
But the first exorcism I ever saw - and that in itself sounds strange - but the first exorcism I ever saw, I was part of.
It remains also the only exorcism I've ever witnessed.
It was two years after The Exorcist came out. I was working a summer job with a billboard company outside of Athens, Ga., before my senior year of college. It was a summer full of interesting stories, but the best had to be when Phillipi asked ... no, he didn't ask, he told me we were going to cast out a demon.
Needless to say, he had my attention.
Phillipi was an artist. He was a big ol' country boy and a deacon or Elder in his Pentecostal Church. His name wasn't really "Phillipi,'' but that was his nickname. We all had nicknames that were earned in the most unusual ways and stuck with us.
But Phillipi was the old man, and one of the most amazing artists I'd ever seen. This company, in addition to traditional paper and glue billboards, also did painted billboards and Phillipi was the painter. He'd put a big board in the warehouse, stick a verse of Scripture that he was memorizing at the top, a picture of what the client wanted on the side, and he could free-hand like nobody's business.
And sing. Phillipi had one of those nasally tenors that you only hear on AM gospel stations. He was a musician at church as well as a part-time preacher, and he'd sit there while he painted and sing during breaks (free-hand painting took all his concentration).
Anyway, Phillipi knew I was a Christian because at the company picnic, I'd reached into the drink cooler and picked up a beer, then dropped it to pull out a Coke. Later, he told me "I know you're a Christian because I've been watching you."
I hoped it was because he'd been watching the way I acted at work, my language, my work ethic. But the reality was he had seen me pick up that can of beer and drop it for a Coke, and that, to him, was a sign that I was a true Christian.
I didn't bother to tell him I just never liked the taste of alcohol.
So anyway, one day Phillipi got a call from someone in his church, and the next thing I knew was he was grabbing me and heading out the door to his truck, telling me to come on, we were going to cast out a demon.
Why me? I asked. Because you're a Christian, he said, and he was going to need serious Christians to "wrestle with this demon, just like in the Acts of the Apostles."
I have to admit, I was intrigued. Part of me really wanted to do this; part of me suddenly wished that I drank beer.
Now, apparently casting out demons was something Phillipi had done before. At least he acted like he had. He seemed awfully convinced this guy we were going to see was indeed demon-possessed, and in truth when we got there the guy was shaking and sweating and groaning and in general displaying a lot of the more gross symptoms of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
Inside, we were joined by a few other Pentecostals who were waiting on Phillipi.
"This is Ray,'' Phillipi said, by way of introductions in passing. "Ray, we're going to cast out a demon. Start praying."
I was way ahead of him.
The old man was lying on his bed when we walked in. The room reeked. He was shaking and sweating and recoiling in apparent fear of Phillipi.
Phillipi walked over and boldly put his hands on the man, and while the rest of us dropped to our knees praying, he called out, "Demon, I know you're in there. I command you in the name of Jesus to come out and leave this brother alone. Come out, demon! Come out!"
Nothing happened, except the man sat up on the edge of his bed, groaning.
Phillipi looked around at us and said, "Pray harder,'' then turned back to the man.
"Demon!'' Phillip called. "Speak to me, demon! I command you in the Name above all Names, the Name of Jesus! Speak to me demon! Tell me your name!"'
In the corner, I was praying all right. I was praying, "Please, Lord, don't let the demon speak. Please protect me and get me out of here. Please, if there is a demon, keep him quiet. In the name of Jesus, demon, keep quiet!"
Counterproductive? I felt a little bothered that I was praying against what Phillipi was praying for. But I couldn't help it.
"Speak to me, demon!" Phillipi roared, bouncing the man up and down on the bed with the force of his hands on his head. "I command you! Speak to me! Tell me your name!"
"Please, demon,'' I silently but fervently prayed. "Don't speak. Just leave! Get out!"
And nothing happened.
The man continued to shake and groan, but there was no demon voice, no sense of a demonic presence, no "Tubular Bells'' playing off in the distance.
Eventually, Phillipi quit. The man got quiet, rolled over and passed out in his bed.
We walked out through the kitchen, and I noticed a trash-can full of empty beer and liquor bottles. I showed them to Phillipi.
"The demon of alcohol!" Phillipi said. "Well, as least now we know his name."
Phillipi checked the cabinets and found one lone six-pack. Phillipi took it, and we headed back to his truck. We drove back to work in silence, except when we crossed a bridge over the Oconee River. Phillipi stopped and threw the six-pack far over the side of the bridge, to shatter on the rocks below.
As it turned out, Phillipi's friend was simply going through the "DTs" (delirium tremons). It was one of the scariest things I'd ever seen.
But it did make me realize I must believe in demons. And I was kind of pleased that I'd had the guts to go along.
Although I don't know that I'd want to do it again.
Oh, and the Biloxi priest?
To his credit, before I turned to leave, he said, "If you're really worried about burning, I'll be happy to talk to you afterward."
No need, Father.
No worries here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)