“That about sums it up,” I said sheepishly.
“Well. It’s inventive.” She smiled and then her expression turned sincere. “Elmo, just relax. We’re both in our mid-twenties; we’re past that place in life where we need to impress each other. Look, we have a lot in common—vocationally, academically, spiritually . . . just be yourself. That’s the Elmo I want to spend time with tonight.”
From where I was sitting, that little pep talk dripped with intimacy. I could really like this girl. A calm came over me unlike anything I’ve ever experienced on a date before.
Remembering Elmo’s First Date Strategy, I said, “Bonnie, tell me all about you—about your family, your favorite things . . .” I knew she was a writer, so I added, “and tell me about those books you want to write.” Then I settled in and worked hard at being a good listener.
The rest of the dinner flew by. We talked about everything. And we laughed and laughed. I kept my foot planted firmly under the table and out of my mouth. Overall, we had a great time.
As the evening concluded and I walked Bonnie up the path to her apartment, I started to get the old nervous stomach again. The end of a first date has to be one of the most awkward moments ever created. Especially for me, since I’ve never successfully navigated one. The normal guy is always thinking, Should I try to kiss her goodnight? The normal girl is thinking either, I hope he kisses me goodnight, or I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me goodnight!
However, Bonnie was not your normal girl. In fact, I found her extraordinary.
When we arrived at her door, I was totally clueless. So I just smiled and said, “Bonnie, thanks for—”
Before I could finish, she leaned in and kissed me. Just for a moment, nothing too passionate, but I know I felt my heart flicker. When she pulled back, all I could muster was, “Thank you.” As far as words were concerned, I was done for the evening.
“Elmo, I had a really nice time tonight. Please, let’s do it again?” She smiled, then turned and disappeared into her apartment.
I lingered there for an extra moment or two before waltzing back to my car still thinking about her kiss.
Man . . . too cool.
The Advisor
My Monday morning glee morphed into a frown. I had just opened my email inbox to find 47 messages. After deleting the spam, I had only one legitimate message left, and it wasn’t from Bonnie. It came from Tom Applebee:
Dear First Church Staff member,
Just a reminder about our annual Primary Staff Retreat this Thursday and Friday. We will be leaving by church vans from the west porte cochere at 10:00 a.m. One of the main goals of our retreat is team building, so I recommend that all staff members ride in the vans. The retreat will be held at the Golden Stallion Stables and Spa on Highway 320 near Spencer Springs. Horseback riding will be available for those interested. However, Bob Stevens has informed me that our insurance carrier strongly discourages it. Pack light.
Here is a list of those confirmed going and the areas of ministry they represent:
Tom Applebee: Chief of Staff
Fran Bruker: Pastor’s Administrative Assistant
Harry Simpkins: Music Ministry
Fred Snooker: Senior Adult Ministry
Bob Stevens: Administrator
Bernard Coggins: Pastoral Care
Louis Estrada: Singles Ministry
Raze Hankins: Minister to Married Adults
Doreen McGinty: Children’s Ministry
Thurm Wilson: Youth Ministry
Johnny Rochelle: Recreation Ministry
and Elmo Jenkins: Church Intern
*Dr. Jorgensen will be joining us Thursday evening.
Sincerely,
Tom Applebee
There I was at the bottom of the list, but I took comfort in the “and” before my name. Have you ever noticed in movie credits, they always give the main star top billing, but the super-cool, better-known, and more respected actor gets the last spot? And there’s always an “and” before his or her name?
. . . and Anthony Hopkins
. . . and Meryl Streep
Well, that was me on this list. At least, that’s the way I chose to interpret it. Hey, it could have been worse. They could have asked me to carry everyone’s bags.
My intercom beeped and Miss Figghie crackled, “Elmo, are you there?”
“Yes, Adrianne.” (I tried to stay away from the whole Miss Figghie thing.) “I’m here.”
“Pastor Applebee asked me to remind you that he would like you to give a short report to the staff at the retreat on Friday morning. Nothing heavy, just highlight some of the things you’ve learned and any suggestions you might have. He also wants you to help with the luggage.”
“Got it. Thanks. I’ll be ready.”
The intercom went silent. I’m convinced God has a great sense of humor. He sure knows how to cook up the humble pie. To be honest, I need a piece of it on a regular basis just for perspective.
Little did I know this staff retreat would be a full dessert tray.
Once a week, I made a quick visit to the seminary to meet briefly with my faculty advisor and bring him up to date on my internship. Due to unfortunate luck or some other bad karma, Dr. Auguste De Villa was assigned as my advisor. Dr. De Villa had been at Harvest Morgan Seminary way too long. He chaired the Psychology Department and still taught several courses, but in my opinion, he had succumbed to senility many years ago. Random topics spontaneously sprang to life from somewhere deep down in his demented mind, resulting in obscure and often bizarre lectures. Taking one of his courses was a true adventure. Regardless of the topic, each class turned into a, shall we say, Detour du Jour. Still, he had no trouble filling his courses each semester as everyone knew he gave A’s to all his students. Even the noblest of seminarians found it too tempting to pass up such an easy GPA boost.
The schedule called for me to meet with Dr. De Villa for fifteen minutes every Monday afternoon from 3:30 to 3:45. Often, he just didn’t show up, but as long as I signed in, I’d fulfilled my requirement. Of course, the weeks he went missing in action were the best.
“Dr. DV, you’re here,” I said, sincerely surprised as I sat in the only other chair in his office.
“Well, Mr. Jenkins,” he grunted, “I suppose that depends on what you mean by ‘here.’” He then cleared the phlegm from his throat and spit into his wastebasket.
Deciding to ignore his psycho-babble, I cut to the chase. “Dr. DV, my internship at First Church is going well. I’m getting lots of hands-on ministry assignments and—”
“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “The rich and famous are treating you well—blah, blah, blah. I need you to do a favor for me, Jenkins. I owe old man Snooker $100 from a bet I lost to him years ago. It concerned a land deal I thought Buster Sapp was involved in. Well, it’s a long story, and I don’t feel like telling it. Anyway, I’ve finally decided to pay up. That’s a long story too, and I don’t feel like telling it either.” He handed me an unsealed envelope with a hundred-dollar bill inside. “You tell Snooker that now we’re even, and I don’t want to hear any more of his whining.
“But Dr. DV, I’m not sure—”
“Jenkins, just deliver the dang envelope, and take some advice from your advisor. Don’t get sucked into all the pomp and circumstance of First Church. Watch your back, watch your wallet, and watch who you trust.” He paused, glanced at his watch, took a deep breath, and barked, “I’m late for my next class.” Then Dr. Auguste De Villa, esteemed head of the Psychology Department of the prestigious Harvest Morgan Seminary, got up and stormed out of his own office, leaving me sitting in a cloud of Freudian dust.
I elected not to tell him his fly was open.
Driving back to First Church, I couldn’t help but wonder what in the world that was all about. I would have to ask Harvest Morgan alumni Thurm Wilson if he had any insight into the Dr. DV vs. Fred Snooker issue. Unfortunately, The Envelope would have to stay in my possession until Wedne
sday morning, since Fred Snooker wouldn’t be in his office until then.
My cell phone rang. It was Bonnie. Yes!
“Hello?” I answered, pretending not to know who it was.
“Elmo, this is Bonnie. I just wanted to call and say thanks for a great time Friday night.”
“I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Through sheer coincidence, John Mayer is in town this Friday night for a concert. I already asked Erlene Markham to go with me, but she turned me down. What do you say?”
“Well, I can’t promise you the same quality of jokes Erlene would have brought to the date, but I’d love to be her replacement.”
Yes! “I‘ve got that dumb staff retreat on Thursday and Friday. Which means I’ll be cutting it close to get back on time. I’ll buy the tickets and let you keep them in case we run late. Is that okay?”
“No problem, Elmo. I’ll enjoy the concert—with or without you.”
“Thanks. I think? I’ll just do whatever it takes to get back, even if I have to pick up and throw the slow moving Fran Bruker into the van so we can vamoose on time.” I paused. “Wait, did you hear horses rearing?
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll see you at staff meeting on Wednesday, okay?”
“Will do. Bye, Elmo.”
On Wednesday morning before the staff meeting, I stopped by Fred Snooker’s office. Fred worked part-time, keeping office hours only Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. I needed to drop off The Envelope from Dr. DV, and I also wanted to ask him about the gum wrapper note I’d found in my office.
Fred’s office was just a couple of turns down the second-floor hall from The Closet. During office hours, he simply left his office door wide open. Many of the First Church senior adults spent several days a week doing volunteer work at the church. They stuffed the bulletins with ministry inserts or helped count the tithes and offerings. Some helped in the kitchen preparing the Wednesday evening family supper. Others sorted bags of donated clothes for the ministry distribution center. These senior souls were in and out of Fred’s office continuously. Finding him alone would be rare, but I really wanted some privacy for my questions.
I walked down the hall to his doorway. Sure enough, The Three Widows as they were known were ensconced in Fred’s office, but he wasn’t there.
Emily, Beatrice, and Fanny had all been widows for quite some time. I would guess they were all in their late seventies or early eighties. Though they weren’t related, they functioned almost like triplets. They lived together; they dressed alike; they finished each other’s sentences, and to the older single men in the church, they were a virtual three-headed terror—and not above stalking. An unfortunate fact of life for Fred, himself a widower.
“Ladies,” I said, greeting them with a big smile. “If it’s not my favorite troika of warm lovin’. How about a hug?”
“Well, lookie there,” Fanny said, smiling.
“It’s Ellington!” Beatrice squealed, getting up from her seat.
“He’s all mine, girls, I claim him first!” insisted Emily.
“Easy girls, there’s enough Elmo for all three of you.” We shared a group hug. “Tell me ladies, where’s Pastor Snooker this morning?”
Fanny jumped right in. “Well, he excused himself for a trip to the restroom. He always leaves for the restroom about the time we get here.”
“It’s his morning constitutional,” quipped Emily.
“I think he’s incontinent,” added Beatrice. “Why else would he be running off to the bathroom so often? My second husband Earl was incontinent. What a mess, and oh my goodness, the smell—”
“Pastor Snooker doesn’t smell!” Fancy snapped.
“That’s ‘cuz he goes to the restroom so much,” Emily insisted.
I knew this little discussion could go on forever. I also knew Fred was hiding in the restroom waiting for The Three Widows to wander off to some other location in the building.
I decided to expedite the situation. “Ladies, don’t tell anyone, but before I came up here, I left a box of three dozen Krispy Kreme donuts on the table in the downstairs boardroom. If you hurry, you can snatch one before the staff meeting starts. If anyone asks, just tell them that Elmo-the-Great said it was okay for each of you to have one.”
“You don’t—”
“Have to—”
“Ask us twice!” answered Emily, Beatrice, and Fanny in that order. They scurried out the door, still bickering down the hall about Fred Snooker’s bathroom habits.
I stepped around the corner and stuck my head into the Men’s’ restroom. “Pastor Snooker, The Three Widows have left the building.”
A stall door opened immediately and out stepped Fred Snooker closing his Daytimer. “Good morning, Elmo. Are you sure they’re gone?”
“Yes sir, I directed them downstairs for a free donut.” I held open the restroom door for Fred, and we walked back to his office.
“Sweet ladies, but . . .” he paused. “Thanks for running interference.”
“Pastor, may I have a few minutes of your valuable time?”
“Remember, I’m actually retired,” he grinned. “You can have as much time as you want.”
“Just a couple of things. This won’t take long.”
Fred was counting on this interim senior minister gig to be short term. After he was pressed back into action following the death of his predecessor Hugo Withers, he didn’t even make any changes to Hugo’s office. He just moved in, using Hugo’s chair, Hugo’s desk, even a coffee cup with “Hugo” on the side. We sat in two vinyl chairs at a round table in a corner of the office. Opening my wallet, I handed him the gum wrapper I discovered in The Closet. Dated May 17, 1959, it included a handwritten message:
“I told you that is what he would do. You should have taken my advice. Now you’ll have the devil to pay!” — T.B.T.
Fred spread open the wrapper and read the message. “Well, now there’s a find. Where did you get this?”
“It was sticking out from behind one of the shelves in my closet office. I noticed it when the sun coming through the window reflected off the wrapper and caught my eye. Any ideas?”
“Oh, it’s a puzzle piece. Looks authentic. It’s part of The Black Toe Enigma.”
“The what?”
“The Black Toe Enigma. It’s part of the folklore here at First Church going back almost 100 years. I’m actually the resident keeper-of-the-lore. It’s kind of a long and detailed story, which I’m more than happy to share with you. Unfortunately, it will require more time than we have this morning. According to my watch, staff meeting starts in about fifteen minutes. Tell you what. Let me keep this wrapper, and I’ll add it to a special album I’ve helped compile with all the bits and pieces of The Black Toe Enigma. When we have more time, I’ll fill you in on all of the known details and show you the TBT album.
“That would be great. Just let me know when.” I stood up to leave.
“See you at the staff meeting, Elmo. I need one more stop in the restroom. I’m borderline incontinent, and I use a preemptive strategy before any long meetings.
“Oh, one more thing,” I added quickly. “Dr. De Villa asked me to give you this.” I handed him The Envelope. “He said something about an old wager.”
He took the envelope, opened it and pulled out the hundred-dollar bill. “Well, son of a—” He caught himself. “That sorry old goat. He’s owed me this money for over forty years. The next time you see him tell him thanks for me. And kick him in the—” He caught himself again. “Just tell him thanks. I’ll do the kicking myself.” He headed down the hall toward the restroom whistling like a man who’d just won the lottery.
The Golden Stallion
Thursday arrived. At 10:00 a.m. sharp, we loaded up in two of the sleek First Church vans.
Most churches have a few donated secondhand vans or buses with the bare minimum of amenities necessary to transport people. Not First Church. Their fleet included four regular miniv
ans and four twelve-passenger vans, all fully loaded with the latest available accessories. They also had two full-size Greyhound-style passenger buses. All the vehicles were custom-painted the same color and had matching interiors. Each year, the oldest two vehicles in the fleet were replaced with new models. The ten First Church vehicles were named after the disciples in the Bible (excluding Judas the Betrayer and Thomas the Doubter, of course).
I rode in Bartholomew on this cool fall morning. I’d made a conscious decision not to ride in the John. It just sounded too much like a porta-potty on wheels. Bob Stevens drove Bartholomew with Fran Bruker riding shotgun. Thurm and I were in the far back, and Harry Simpkins, the minister of music, rode on the middle bench seat. Harry was a sincere man of the cloth, though cut from a different piece of fabric than most ministers.
Everyone knew at least one Harry Simpkins story. Once, at the annual church picnic at Turnbill Lake, Harry put on a spectacle of a show. Evidently, he fashioned himself quite the expert water skier. So with hundreds of the First Church members picnicking on the beach, Harry wanted to show off his skiing prowess. He’d made arrangements with the deacon driving the boat for a big finish. On the last pass, the deacon was supposed to bring the boat in close to the shore. Harry would let go of the rope and ski right up on the sandy beach to thunderous applause from the adoring church crowd.
When the time came for the big ending and Harry was to let go of the rope, the plan went awry. Fearing the lake was becoming too shallow for his boat, the deacon quickly accelerated toward deeper water. Harry was whipped forward way too fast, hitting the beach at rocket speed. To the delight, then horror, of the hundreds watching, Harry cartwheeled head over foot five or six times before landing on top of the Chairman of the Deacons’ sunbathing teenage daughter. She escaped with only disturbed tan lines, but Harry ended up with a broken leg and a concussion for his showboating efforts.
Harry turned toward us. “Hey, either of you guys snore? The rooms at this place sleep three, so we’re supposed to buddy-up with two other staff members for the night. Every year on this retreat I get stuck with Stevens and Snooker, and they battle all night long to see who snores the loudest.”
Ordained Irreverence Page 7
