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Effluvia Get your church on:
Boss Kenny 
"Do you ever burp and kind of puke a little bit, too? I hate that." |
08/12/2000 Captain Ron Friday You see, it's weird, 'cause I updated Wednesday night, nothing happened yesterday and nothing has happened - yet - today. So I really don't have anything to write about. I'll do my best, though. It rained really hard in New Orleans yesterday! I drove through the worst of it (or almost - there were tornados west of the city) on my way home. Lights were out, streets were flooded, traffic was slow. It was a very tropical thunderstorm. A frog-strangler, my grandfather would have called it. And I'm really out of shape! I've pretty much excused myself from anything more strenuous than eating since the move - and I think I earned it. The moving weekend itself was one long lifting session, as near as I can remember. And the stress of July was pretty bad, too. Still, yesterday I ran from my car to the stairs ('cause it was raining) and then up the stairs and by the time I reached the living room I was panting like an old, fat, balding dog. Not pretty. It's Friday, which means "Casual Friday" to Dilberts like me. I've got a vaguely computer-ish job, so jeans are in order on Fridays, right? That's what my boss told me. So I wore jeans today, and hardly anyone else did. I don't understand that. If you give me the opportunity to dress down I'm going to dress down. My friend Glen The Pig, former coworker and eighties music afficianado, is coming to town this weekend with a bunch of his reprobate friends. We're going to meet them tonight and make fun of them, 'cause they're tourists and we're locals. Saturday So we met Glen and his buddies last night. But it wasn't easy. Glen gave us the address of the wrong hotel, where we sat in the lobby. Well, Sonya sat in the lobby while I called Glen's cell on the payphone, insisting we were downstairs. "The room's not in your name," I told him. "Oh yes it is!" he said, already drunk, "is there a Ramada Inn across the street? Are there balconies?" I told him there was not. Eventually we figured out what the problem was and met up. We all went to Acme for seafood, and then wandered on Bourbon. Me and Sonya and Glen went into The Dark Entry - Glen got a t-shirt that said "Just do it" and had a picture of a guy jumping out of a high-rise; Sonya got a Sisters of Mercy EP. Then Glen and his people went to some loud drunken tourist disco. The Wife and I couldn't see it. We strolled on down the street to Lafitte's for a nice, candlelit beer. And there we met Captain Ron. Captain Ron is a salty old sea captain, currently running a hundred-foot dive support boat in the Gulf. He was a helicopter door gunner in Vietnam (just like my father in-law), has a degree in linguistics and engineering, knows how to weld, was born in New York and has lived in Houston, Atlanta and now in New Orleans. He has an excellent supply of truck driver jokes and is only in town every six weeks or so. He has a son my age. Captain Ron had brought his boat in for repairs that morning for out in the Gulf and had been up and going for well over twenty-four hours or so. "But I've just been drinking beer, so I'm feeling all right," he said. "I don't patronize escort services," he told us, "so I come in places like this and just talk to people. Like this." Ron was totally cool. We probably hung out with him for two hours, mainly just listening to his entertaining near-monologue about his life and working on a boat. Then he got a round of shots for us before we left. Captain Ron, wherever you may be, I salute you.
This is a semi-funny story. While my family never attended church regularly while I was growing up - my mom worked rotating shifts and no one else was really interested in going - during my senior year of high school my mom was regularly going to Second Baptist in West Memphis on Sunday mornings. When she asked me to go I'd go with her - I was a fairly agreeable teenager, but we clashed occasionally all the same and this was an easy way to keep things pleasant. Besides, I liked the preacher quite a lot (a year later he would perform the service when Sonya and I got married) and, while he did get worked up about rock and roll quite a bit (he pronounced Ozzy Osbourne's last name "Oz-burn," which always tickled me), he was a smart and funny man. Going to church wasn't so bad. Several times during the summer and fall of that year some member of the congregation - and I can't remember his name, so we'll call him Horatio - got up to "lead the singing," as they call it. Now this Horatio had no vocal skills to speak of; his voice would go up, then go down, get earsplittingly loud, then silent - but not once was it ever in key. Small southern churches are, as a rule, not terribly judgemental places. I mean, sure, they judge the teenage girls wearing not-enough clothes and the dope smokers and the abortionists, but when it comes to their own people you can get by with a lot. Yes, people will talk about you behind your back but, say, if the baked beans you bring to the Wednesday night Potluck taste like fried pig-ass no one is ever going to tell you that. They'll just shake their heads, talk about it outside of church and not eat your damned beans. As it got closer and closer to Christmas Horatio would lead the singing more and more frequently and, amazingly, he got worse and worse. True, his volume- and tone-control improved, but his volume was stuck at "Foghorn Blare" and his tone was always an octave or two off of the song in question, no matter what song it was. The sweet little lady who played the piano would grimace and frown her way though each and every song, looking as if she smelled a particularly noxious fart when, in truth, she actually had a touch of musical talent and just couldn't stand to hear the classic old hymns butchered like so many turkeys before Thanksgiving. The full congrgation took to singing louder and better than they ever had in the past in an effort to drown Horatio out. It never worked, though; he had a microphone. Finally, one Sunday right before Christmas the preacher said that Horatio had something he wanted to say to the congregation. Horatio and his homely wife approached the podium together. He gave a nice little testimonial, talking about all the sinning him and the wife had done back before they started to come to church. I don't remember the details, but I do know I was one impressed teenager as this man reeled off an unbelievable litany of sins. "Cool," I thought. "I've come to a decision," Horatio finally announced in his barely-modulated foghorn voice, "I think God has called me to serve him..." Well that was nice, the polite nods around me seemed to say, we need more preachers. "...by going into the music ministry..." Eyes went wide. Nostrils flared. The little lady who played the piano looked like she might fall off the bench. More than a few young people stifled a laugh. I know I did. "...at another church." It was a quiet, almost whispered sigh, but you could hear the pews creak as the congregation relaxed. While they were good people at Second Baptist, I don't think even they could have stomached paying Horatio to sing. Horatio and his homely wife left shortly thereafter, and I suppose they were going to pursue that career as music minister he said he wanted. I've wondered about him from time to time over the years. Did he find a church, maybe, where he can bray his noise at the worshippers to his heart's content? Did he, perhaps, find his voice and learn how to use it properly? Did someone pull him aside and advise him to think, and maybe choose another career option? I doubt all these things happened. I'm sure Horatio and his wife move from small town to small town in Arkansas, and after he leads the singing once or twice he's told that they really can't afford a music minister right now, and Horatio wonders why he hasn't found the right place yet. |
