Ordained Irreverence

by McMillian Moody

  Night, night.

  Sleep time is fast time. I awoke at 9:30 that evening with a profound question at the forefront of my mind. Where did the idea for all-nighters come from in the first place? I envisioned a group of rational adults in some sort of meeting as they planned their youth calendar. Then the resident moron jumps in, “Why don’t we have all the kids come down to the church and spend the whole night running around crazy and screaming and destroying the furniture? Yeah! Yeah, that would be fun.” And then the idea spreads like the Ebola virus, maiming and killing adult chaperones from one end of the country to the other, eventually finding its way to my doorstep. I would like to meet this moron and lay hands on him. For prayer, of course.

  Arriving at the church at 10:00, I was already tired. A throng of middle schoolers had assembled in the Youth Room on the third floor. Estimating about seventy-five kids in all, I counted only six chaperones. It looked to be a long night.

  “Hey, Thurm!” I shouted above the racket. “Where do I pick up my body armor?”

  “Elmo! You made it! I had my doubts.”

  “So did I. Where do you want me?”

  “Just hang around the back of the room and look forbidding. We’ll be playing some group games for a couple of hours, then the pizza arrives at midnight. If you need any help, just ask one of the other chaperones. They’ve all done this before. And Elmo, thanks for doing this. It means a lot to me that you’re here.”

  They’ve all done this before. Great. I’m stuck all night with a bunch of masochists. Finding a padded chair in the back of the room, I kicked my feet up and tried not to fall asleep. By the time the pizza arrived, fatigue had overwhelmed me, but the kids were just getting cranked up. Two caffeine-enriched Cokes later with a slice of pepperoni pizza, and I was back in top form. But then the movie started. Some Disney drivel with dancing and singing animals sent the sleep fairy my way for an up-close-and-personal-visit.

  When the movie ended, Thurm herded all of us up to the rooftop recreation area. There was a full-length basketball court, some ping pong tables, and other assorted game areas. A six-foot retaining wall topped by a three-foot chain-link fence surrounded the entire roof. The chaperones were instructed to make sure the kids didn’t do anything stupid. They might as well have asked us to solve world hunger.

  “Let them run and play hard,” Thurm said. “Just don’t let it get out of control.”

  “Sure, whatever you say,” I responded. “By the way, where are the chaperone’s tasers stored?”

  “Funny,” Thurm yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared down the stairwell.

  I had a sneaking suspicion he was stealing away for a thirty minute nap somewhere hidden and quiet. I didn’t blame him.

  One of the other chaperones organized a game of dodge ball and the evening took a sudden turn for the better. I mean, where else can a young adult man throw a rubber ball as hard as he can against the stomach of a bratty thirteen-year-old middle school boy and get cheered for doing it? It was the modern-day version of the Roman Coliseum. Now I knew why these other adults were repeat chaperones. Let the games begin!

  Twenty minutes into the game, I was still having fun when I realized that even the chaperones were taking a turn in the middle as the target. Meaning, these little punks were going to get a chance to exact their revenge on me. Yikes! When my turn came, I figured that dodging the weak efforts of these prepubescent rug rats would be no problem for an agile, fleet-footed gazelle like me. Who knew these 4’10” crumb-crunchers all had arms like Peyton Manning?

  I nimbly dodged their first several throws until a small, quiet boy nicknamed Cujo chose to bypass my stomach, rifling a rocket that reached light speed just as it impacted my face. SLAM! I could hear the sickening sound of rubber slapping flesh. I saw stars . . . and noticed everyone stopping dead in their tracks. The place got quiet, but only for a moment as the ball bounced right back to Cujo. He caught it, bounced it a couple of times, and gleefully taunted, “Who’s your daddy now?”

  The game resumed as I staggered over to a folding chair and sat down. Since my vision was still a bit blurred and my ears were ringing, I didn’t notice who was occupying the seat next to me. Eddie Hughes must have slipped in late during the dodge ball game. After a few moments, he blurted out, “Elmo—man, you took that one right in the chops! Bet that stings.”

  I recognized his voice immediately. “Eddie, what a surprise. Hey, it’s a Friday night. I would’ve guessed you’d be out on the town with some hot lady.” I held an unopened can of Coke from the ice chest against the bridge of my nose. It didn’t help.

  “Well, I made a few calls, but you know the Shriners are in town this weekend. Everyone was already tied up.”

  “Really?” I bet he made a few calls. In fact, I bet he’d been making calls all week long.

  Eddie handed me a dish towel wrapped around some ice. “So when nothing panned out, I decided to come over and give Thurm a hand with his all-nighter. It’s hard to pass up free pizza.”

  “You’ve worked these things before?”

  “What can I say? I’m a regular. It’s a whole lot better than sitting at home alone, watching M.A.S.H. reruns and eating a chicken pot pie.”

  “Eddie, you’re one of a kind.”

  Adolescent screams cut our conversation short. Glancing up, I saw two middle school boys standing on top of the retaining wall. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Hey! Get down from there!” I yelled, still aching from my dodge ball smackdown.

  I recognized one of the boys as Cujo. “Hurry!” he cried out. “Somebody help! Scotty’s falling off the building!”

  Both Eddie and I sprung to our feet and raced toward the wall where the boys stood. Halfway across the basketball court, I realized a third boy was up there—hanging from the outside of the chain-link fence topping the wall. Hanging on for dear life.

  Cujo was now in full-blown panic. “I told him not to do it! I told him not to do it! He’s gonna fall, he’s gonna fall! Quick, somebody help! He’s gonna fall!”

  The other boy up there was bent over the fence holding onto Scotty’s shirt with all of his might.

  “Eddie, quick—give me a step up!” I shouted. Eddie bent over, interlocking his fingers together and forming a toe hold for me. I stepped into his hands and reached up as Eddie boosted me higher until I was able to get both my hands on the top crossbar of the chain-link fence. Using the momentum of Eddie’s lift, I pulled myself up onto the wall and quickly handed Cujo down to the other adults below.

  It was a precarious perch as the wall was only four or five inches wide from the base of the fence to the edge. There wasn’t much room to stand or maneuver.

  Scotty was hanging onto the crossbar with both hands, his feet dangling down the outside wall of the building six floors above the street below.

  “Son,” I spoke to the boy holding Scotty’s shirt. “What’s your name?”

  “Chris, sir.”

  “Chris, I’m going to lean over the fence and grab Scotty by his belt, then pull him back over the fence. As soon as I get hold of his belt, I want you to let go of his shirt and turn around and jump back onto the basketball court. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I spread my feet apart and dug my shoes up under the bottom of the fence.

  “Eddie, you and a couple of the other guys grab onto my ankles and don’t let go for nothing!”

  “Got it, Elmo.”

  Fortunately, Scotty wasn’t a very big kid. As soon as I felt the guys hands grip onto my ankles, I leaned over the fence. The crossbar caught me right at my waist. I grabbed his belt with both hands—my heart pumping full force.

  “Okay, Chris, you can let go. Now get outta here!”

  He released his grip on Scotty’s shirt, wheeled around, and someone helped him down off the wall.

  I silently prayed for strength. “Okay, Scotty, we’re gonna get you back over the fence, but you’ve got to trust me and help. Okay?”

/>   “Okay.”

  “Scotty, on the count of three, I‘m gonna pull you up. I’ll need you to pull up too, then I’ll swing you over the fence and some folks on the other side will be there to catch you. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Here we go!” I yelled to Eddie and the others. “Get ready for him!”

  “I’m scared!” Scotty croaked.

  “So am I, but we can do this if we work together. One, two, three!” And I pulled him up with every ounce of my strength. Either Scotty was lighter than I’d estimated, or I was super jacked-up on adrenaline, because he came up and over the fence more quickly and easily than I’d expected. I released him in mid-air and the chaperones safely caught him. However, my twisting move threw me off balance, and with my feet pinned down by Eddie, I fell backward toward the basketball court headfirst.

  Then everything went black.

  The next thing I knew, two EMTs were strapping me to a stretcher. As they secured me, I looked up at the retaining wall and realized I’d just pulled Scotty over the exact spot where that big hole had been patched. Man that’s just too weird.

  Then I drifted off into unconsciousness.

  In my dream, I had this huge, heavy boulder lying on my head. I couldn’t move, and it started to really hurt. So I opened my eyes and found Bonnie staring at me.

  “Whoa, what’s going on here?” I asked.

  She smiled. “What, no eye patch?”

  “Huh?”

  “Elmo,” she said, gently pushing my hair off my forehead. “You’re in St. Michael’s Hospital. You fell off the retaining wall last night and hit your head on the court. You’ve been unconscious for the last fifteen hours.”

  “Man, do I have some headache.”

  “The doctors say you have a mild concussion. You’re lucky. From what I understand, it could’ve been a lot worse. Eddie Hughes broke your fall and his arm while doing it. He checked out this morning. He’ll have to wear a cast for a few months, but he wasn’t too upset about it. He mumbled something about ‘sympathy dates.’ From what I heard, you are both heroes.”

  Looking around the room, I noticed several bouquets of flowers, some balloons, and even a couple of gifts. “What’s with all the flowers and stuff?”

  “You’ve had quite a few visitors. They all got to see you drool in your sleep. I even have video.”

  “Great,” I said under my breath. “What visitors? Like from the funeral home?”

  “No, you big lug. Let’s see. The big bouquet over there is from Scotty Lichen’s mother, the kid you pulled back over the fence. She also brought you some restaurant gift cards, which we can certainly use at a later date. She was very, very grateful for what you did. She’s also grounded Scotty—I believe she said for the next decade.

  “The balloon bouquet is from church staff. Several of them have come by to check on you—Tom Applebee, Fred Snooker, Juliann, Louis, and of course, Thurm. He left the gift bag.”

  “What’s in it?”

  Bonnie picked up the green and blue bag and went through it. “Looks like a bag of assorted Jelly Bellies, a get well card, and a copy of The Catcher in the Rye.”

  “Do you mind reading the card to me? My vision is still a little blurry.”

  “Sure.” She opened the card.

  Dear Elmo,

  I’m so sorry about last night and you getting hurt and all. But you’re now officially my hero. Your quick action most likely saved Scotty Lichen’s life. You are indeed a modern-day Holden Caulfield, so I got you your very own copy of The Catcher in the Rye. You’re also a modern-day Daniel, my friend. I’ve gained a new respect for the prophetic nature of your dreams. As a matter of fact, I recently had a dream about winning the lottery, and I’d like to discuss it with you when you get a minute.

  Get well.

  —Thurm

  P.S. Enjoy the jelly beans!

  Bonnie closed the card. “What was that all about?”

  “Oh, just some Elmo/Thurm esoterica.” I did a redirect. “When do I get out of this joint?”

  “The doc was just waiting for you to wake up so he could examine you once more. And then, unless you’re hemorrhaging from the ears, we should be able to get out of here. He did tell me you should avoid cliff diving, bungee jumping, mud wrestling, and of course, no driving of heavy machinery. At least for the first week or so.”

  I pretended to be indignant. “Then what am I supposed to do with my time?”

  “For starters, sit back and let me feed you your dinner. We’ll start with these tasty puréed green beans and corn. Open wide.” Bonnie gave me a wicked Nurse Ratchet smile as she jammed the greenish concoction into my mouth.

  Yum.

  The Cold Shoulder

  It felt good to get back to the safe confines of my apartment. Thanks to several healthy doses of Tylenol 3, I was lights-out for the rest of Saturday and slept in Sunday morning—with Tom Applebee’s blessing of course. My goal was to limp into our first skit meeting at 4:00 Sunday afternoon. After all, we only had a week to pull this thing together. And I theorized the Tylenol 3 would make it easier to tolerate some of the goofy singles I knew would show up for the skit practice. And goofy they were.

  Eddie showed up cast and all, and of course wanted to be in the skit. What could I say? The guy may have saved me from serious injury or even death. I figured, what the heck, and gave him one of the non-speaking parts.

  Since we would only have ten minutes for the skit, we had to edit it down to one scene. The rest of the story would be filled in with narration which I would do. In addition to the narration, we had four main speaking parts; two guys and two girls. The other eight players only had a few lines, if any. They would be basically be just moving props.

  The afternoon’s tasks included assigning the different parts, handing out scripts, discussing set props, and setting a rehearsal schedule.

  To pick the players, I assessed those in attendance and chose Debbie Jesper (the state Scrabble champion) and Charlise Maldune (an English teacher) for the female leads. For the guys, I selected Bob Druthers and Bob Rickets. In hindsight this was a stupid mistake on my part. Later, during rehearsals I would call for “Bob,” and both guys would answer at the same time, causing endless confusion and time loss. I selected the other eight players, including a part for Bonnie, then handed out scripts. We decided to practice both Friday and Saturday evenings back here at the church. Eddie would head up a team to find campground props for our skit, and we all agreed on the type of clothes to wear.

  After practice, Bonnie and I headed toward the parking lot. All in all, the meeting had gone pretty well. At least, I thought so. We had a good script, and we were on track to put on a good performance. But when we got into my car to go get a bite to eat, I realized there was a problem. Bonnie didn’t say a word. This usually meant she was upset about something.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I know better, now come on. Out with it,” I said impatiently.

  “You know, Elmo, you can be a real jerk at times.”

  “Excuse me? What are you talking about?” I was hungry, my head still hurt, and I honestly had no idea what her problem was. But I could tell she was really angry.

  “You just blew me off with the skit assignments. I helped you pick out the skit and rewrite it, I volunteered to help you pull this thing off in one week, and I get assigned a part with one line, which states—and I quote—“the toilet paper is too rough.”

  My defenses went up. “Hey, I was just trying to give everyone who came a chance to participate. If you wanted one of the main roles, you should have said something about it before the meeting. It’s not fair to bust my chops over it now.”

  Then I got The Bonnie Look—or stare or whatever it was—with the always accompanying sarcasm. “Okay, Mr. Coppola, you’re on your own with this one.” She got out of my car, slammed the door, and stormed off.

  “Whoa . . .” I said, channeling Keanu Reeves.

/>   It was all I could think of to say.

  Bonnie wouldn’t answer her phone, so on Monday morning I dropped by the Singles office to see her. What did I get for my extra effort? An ice-cold shoulder. Figuring life was just too short for this kind of crap, I decided to let her stew on it for a while. I had bigger fish to fry. Still, it bugged me.

  After lunch, I dutifully stopped by St. Michael’s Hospital for a follow-up examination, where I learned that my brain was still intact. The doctor quipped that my hat size might be one or two sizes larger from the swelling. I promised to postpone any fitted hat purchases indefinitely. Noticing that the good doctor sported an Echelon Country Club wristband, I figured he had a collection of fitted hats.

  After parking my car in the church staff lot, I noticed a man digging around in the dumpster behind the Education Building. As I approached him, I called out, “Excuse me, sir, are you looking for anything in particular?”

  He stopped foraging for a moment and flashed a grimy smile. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” He resumed rummaging around. His right arm boasted a large “Sid” tattoo in murky blue-green Old English letters. He clutched several half-empty bags of chips in his dirty hands.

  “My name is Elmo, and I work here at the church. How about you hop out of there and I’ll take you inside and get you a plate of food. They serve lunch every day for our volunteers. We can even set you up with a fresh set of clothes if you like.

  “No, son, you just go on ‘bout your business. I’m not interested in goin’ into your church, and I’m not interested in hearin’ ‘bout your religion.”

  “But—”

  “I said not interested,” he snapped, cutting me off. “Comprendo?”

  As I climbed the stairs up to my office, I couldn’t shake the image of Sid clinging to his scraps of garbage, turning down the invitation to a plate of real food. It painted such a vivid picture of the church in today’s world—holding out the Bread of Life and being dismissed by people violently clutching their “trash” while rejecting God’s love.