Boomtown

by Nowen N. Particular

  The applause faded, but I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do. Jonny saved me by waving and saying, “C’mon, Dad. Preach for us.”

  That’s all I needed. I thanked everyone for their kindness and hospitality, especially those who had helped move us in. I nodded to Gramma Edna, Ingrid, Matthieu and Pauline La Pierre, Ed Gamelli, and all the other people we’d met that morning. All of them sat quietly, eagerly anticipating the message. I have to admit that in spite of the distinct possibility that I would die in some tragic accident, I could still taste the flavor of excitement that I only felt when standing in the pulpit. There wasn’t anything I enjoyed more than preaching to an eager audience.

  I commented briefly on the hopes and aspirations I had for the congregation over the next few years (the more the better), and then I opened to the passage for that morning. All over town, similar gatherings were taking place. In Boomtown, Sunday worship was a mainstay and the pews were always filled. There were three congregations from which to choose. Those of Scandinavian descent tended to gravitate toward First Presbyterian. Germans were most comfortable at St. Bernard’s Lutheran. That left Boomtown Church for the denominationally unaffiliated.

  I soon learned that in Boomtown one’s religious affiliation never interfered with the more important duty of working closely with fellow citizens. Every person regarded himself as an essential part of Boomtown community life. There were no outsiders in Boomtown.

  Time flew by as I preached. It seemed like I’d only started when just as quickly I’d reached the conclusion of my message—and that’s when it happened. All of a sudden, an older woman who was sitting near the back jumped up from her seat. She’d shuffled down the aisle using a walker to steady herself. Her back was bent and her legs were thin and shaky, but now they seemed to be on fire. She launched from her seat like one of Han-wu’s rockets.

  “Ahhhhhh!” she squealed, leaping over the pew.

  “Ahhhhhhhhh!”

  All eyes swung around to see what was happening. Everyone there, of course, knew Mrs. Beedle, a woman who for the last ten years had been unable to stand on her own without help. Now for some odd reason she was leaping and jumping and praising God, at least, that’s the way it appeared.

  “Ooooh,” she squirmed. “Eeeee!” she squeaked.

  “Woooohoo!” she squawked.

  Corine Beedle was a woman who had visited every doc-tor in town (there was only one) and every other doctor in the county (there were only three). They all told her exactly the same thing. She was perfectly fine. Nothing was wrong with her at all. It was completely in her imagination. But she knew better.

  “They’re all quacks!” she’d insist. “Charlatans, counterfeits, con men, cheats, swindlers, phonies, humbugs, flimflam artists!”

  No matter what they told her, she was absolutely convinced that she suffered from an unidentified disorder. She had contracted some sort of exotic tropical disease. She was dying from a mysterious ailment. Her joints ached, her muscles hurt, her back was out, her feet were swollen, her eyes were blurry—even her hair was sore.

  “No, no, no!” she persisted. “Something is wrong with me! Something is terribly, dreadfully, incurably wrong!”

  But now, for some inexplicable reason, she was standing. She wasn’t just standing; she was wiggling around. She wasn’t just wiggling around; she was turning, gyrating, hop-ping, jerking, jumping, leaping, twisting, and twitching. She spun to the left. She spun to the right. She grabbed her legs and back and sides. She hooted and howled and yelped and yammered.

  “It’s a miracle!” someone shouted. “Mrs. Beedle has been cured!”

  Everyone started talking and pointing all at once, but Mrs. Beedle was too busy to notice. She ran up and down the aisle squeaking and squawking and squirming. She jumped up and down like popcorn on a hot plate. She spun like a windmill in a tornado. She screamed like a boiling teapot on a hot stove.

  Manfred Heinzmann stared. Vera sang. The Widow Feeny blocked the door. Matthieu and Pauline LaPierre chased their laughing children. Everyone else just stood there wondering what it all meant until someone finally shouted, “I know what it is! I know what’s happened! She’s got the Spirit! Old Mrs. Beedle has finally got the Spirit!”

  Everyone gasped and fell silent, gaping in awe at the miracle happening in their very midst. Then they turned and looked at me, their new minister, the instrument of the Almighty, the one who had drawn Mrs. Beedle up out of the pit of disease and turned her into a shooting star. Somehow I had done it; I was responsible; it was the only possible explanation.

  In the silence that followed, other than Mrs. Beedle swinging from the chandelier, I heard the distinct sound of Sarah, up in the balcony, laughing her silly head off. Oh no, I thought. Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me that Sarah didn’t have anything to do with this!

  “Sarah!” I shouted. “This isn’t funny! This is serious!”

  Janice agreed with me for once. “Sarah, honey, Mrs. Beedle has got the Spirit. That’s not something to laugh about.”

  Sarah leaned over the railing and tried to catch her breath. In between giggles, she finally managed to say, “Mrs. Beedle hasn’t got the Spirit! She’s got Whiskers!”

  Whiskers? What? Mrs. Beedle had a dark shadow over her lip. I guess it sort of looked like a mustache; but you could hardly call it “whiskers.” A waxing would help, a little concealer perhaps, maybe a light shave. That didn’t explain why she was twitching so much.

  Sarah banged on the railing and laughed and laughed. “Not whiskers on her face! Whiskers up her dress! Katrina’s gerbil! He got away, and Mrs. Beedle found him!”

  Just then, Mrs. Beedle jumped down from the chandelier. When she landed, Whiskers the gerbil finally popped loose. He must have climbed down the stairs and made his way under the pews until he found a warm, dark spot where he could hide. Unfortunately, it happened to be under the folds of Mrs. Beedle’s skirt.

  Now that she was free from the furry little rodent, Corine Beedle made a hasty exit. She grabbed her purse and straight-armed her way past the Widow Feeny at the door. She left in such a hurry that she even forgot her walker.

  “Wait!” I called after her. “We’re so sorry! Don’t leave!”

  But she was gone, and it felt like she took the Spirit with her. At least, that’s what I thought. All I could think was that in the seventy-five years that Boomtown Church had been going, with twenty-four ministers who had been crushed and burned and drowned and blown up, every last one of them died with their boots on. To be buried in an avalanche—that’s something I could accept! To be carried off by a pack of ravenous wolves—okay, fair enough. To be trampled by a herd of angry goats, stung by killer bees, drowned in my own bath-tub, or choke on a peanut! Fine! I could deal with any of that! But to have my ministry come to a bitter end after only one day because of a gerbil? It was humiliating!

  But this was Boomtown, I kept forgetting. Never in my wildest dreams could I have predicted the reaction of the members. I was suddenly surrounded by people who pounded me on the back, slapped me on the shoulders, and insisted on shaking my hand.

  “Good job, preacher!”

  “Excellent! ”

  “Outstanding!”

  “Inspirational! ”

  “How you gonna top it next week?”

  In the middle of it all was Sarah, like a shining star, carrying Whiskers (who seemed to be none the worse for wear). She was the perfect center of attention, being treated like the queen of the Nile. All the other little girls wanted to stand next to her. Most of them wanted to be her.

  “Wow!” they said. “You burned down a building and you healed an old lady. What else can you do?”

  I don’t think I wanted to find out. For my part, I stood at the door of the church sheepishly shaking everyone’s hand as they exited. Without exception, they each said it was the best church service they’d ever attended. I thought it was the worst disaster I’d ever seen—worse even than the whole burning-down-the-research-l
ab disaster from two days before. But the members of Boomtown Church thought it was the greatest thing since the day they put fire into fire-crackers. What had I gotten myself into?

  When the sanctuary was nearly empty, a fellow stopped at the door to make his acquaintance. The man’s name was Terence Krebbs. He told me it was the very first time his family had visited the church.

  “We haven’t been to church in more than fifteen years. But when we heard that the new preacher in town had blown up the fireworks factory, we wanted to come by and check things out. I just want to say that we have never had so much fun in church in our entire lives! We’re coming back next Sunday—and we’re gonna bring some friends. We can’t wait to see what happens next.”

  They went out the double doors, chatting happily as they went. Janice stood next to me, patting my hand. Ruth and Jonny grinned from ear to ear. And then there was Sarah, holding Whiskers up to her face, kissing his head and whispering in his tiny ear.

  “You see that, Dad? It’s just like you always say.”

  “What do I always say?”

  “‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’ I hear you say it all the time.”

  I looked down at my younger daughter and tried to be upset with her, but I couldn’t seem to manage it. I laughed and reached out my hand and ruffled her hair.

  “There’s no mystery here. You’re my lucky penny, that’s what you are. You somehow manage to land heads-up every time.”

  “Yep!” she agreed, beaming with pride. “I’ll never be Sorry about that!”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Stickville Slugs

  Two weeks passed following that fateful first Sunday, as we settled into our new home and ministry. The leaves began to change as September arrived, signaling the single most important event in our little corner of the world—the start of football season.

  In Boomtown, high school football was the first and foremost obsession (other than fireworks). Everyone—and I mean everyone, including the mayor’s three-legged dog—was fanatically, fantastically, firmly, and forever committed to the Stickville Slugs. As far as anyone was concerned, they were the only game in town. Whenever the team played an away game, a huge caravan of fans would faithfully follow them wherever they went. You knew when it was game night. Boomtown turned into a ghost town.

  Everywhere you looked there were signs: Go Slugs! Slime Time! Stick with the Slugs! My personal favorite: We May Be Slow, but That’s because We’re Slugs! Local chapters of the Hug-a-Slug Booster Clubs held regular meetings and printed flyers with the team schedule so no one would miss a game. The local radio station, KSLG, interviewed the coach of Stickville High School. He promised another exciting season for all the faithful fans.

  Jonny came home one day from school wearing his new Slugs sweatshirt bearing the team colors: muddy brown and slime green with a silver slime trail running down both sleeves. He told me what the hullabaloo was all about.

  “The Slugs are famous, Dad; did you know that?”

  “Famous for what?”

  “For losing! Busy was telling me about a game last year against the East Wallop Hogs—62 to nothing—the Slugs got squished flat!”

  “They lost?”

  “Sure they lost! They always lose! They played nine games last year and lost every single one. They didn’t even score a field goal.”

  “In nine solid games, they didn’t even score one point? Not even by accident?”

  “Nope. That’s why they’re so famous. The Stickville Slugs haven’t won a single game in over forty years!”

  So you can imagine my surprise when Ruth registered for high school in Stickville and immediately went out for the cheerleading squad. She was very excited about it. She came home after the first week of school wearing her new uniform, a solid brown skirt with green stockings, a silver stripe down the middle of her back, the letter “S” sewn in green felt on the front of her sweater, and bright silver pom-poms.

  She gathered the family in the living room and showed us one of her cheers:

  “Give me an S! S!

  Give me an L! L!

  Give me a U-G-S! U-G-S!

  What does that spell? SLUGS!

  What does it spell? SLUGS!

  What does it mean?

  Slime time! Yeeeeaaah! ”

  At the end of the cheer, Ruth threw her pom-poms into the air, fell on the floor, and wiggled around. She said, “It’s supposed to look like a slug with salt on its back. You know—a slug dying a horrible death. That’s what the Slugs do every time they play.”

  It was gross. It was strange. It was tradition.

  The day of the big opening game approached, and excitement around town continued to build. I decided to use the occasion as an illustration for a sermon I was preparing for the Sunday after the game. The sermon was called “Playing for a Winning Team,” and it was about working for the church. God is our coach; he calls the plays from the sidelines; we go out into the field and fight the good fight. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but I found out later that every other preacher in Boomtown preached the same exact sermon every single year. Nonetheless, in preparation for the sermon, Jonny filled me in on the history of the Stickville Slugs.

  “The school has lost every single game it’s played since 1909. They don’t just lose; they get smashed! ”

  “For example?”

  “Busy told me about the worst game ever played—it was about fifteen years ago, I think he said. Slugs lost by a score of 138 to 3! They only got the three points by accident when the quarterback passed the ball and it bounced off some-one’s helmet and went through the goalpost.”

  “That’s not really a field goal, is it?”

  “Nah. But the referees felt so sorry for the Slugs they gave it to ’em anyway. Then there was this other game where the quarterback came down with the flu, and since they didn’t have a backup quarterback, the placekicker had to take his place. He didn’t know how to throw the ball, so he spent the whole game kicking it around the field. The Slugs lost that game 97 to 0.”

  “I can’t believe it. That’s awful!”

  “You think that’s bad? There was this one game where the Slugs scored three touchdowns for the opposite team ’cause they kept running the wrong way.”

  Fumbles, broken plays, penalties, bad calls, bad passes—you name it, in some inexplicable manner, the Slugs figured out new ways to mess up on the field. But that didn’t keep the entire town of Boomtown from showing up the night before the big game for a huge rally on the Stickville High School football field. They danced around the bonfire and shot off firecrackers and rockets. They shouted and laughed and told stories about the games they’d seen over the years. They were absolutely convinced that this year was the year the Slugs would finally win a game.

  As the new minister in town, I was asked to say a prayer for the Stickville Slugs. This is what I prayed: “Dear Lord, I don’t know if you’re a Slug fan—I don’t know if you’re a foot-ball fan—but these people most certainly are. Lord, for their sakes I’m praying for a miracle. That’s what it’s going to take for this team to win. So I’m asking that if it lies within the scope of your infinite mercy that you would intervene on behalf of this team and for once—just once—let them win! Or maybe score a touchdown. Or lose by less than fifty points. Whatever you can manage, that would be fine. Amen.”

  Afterward, everyone said it was a very nice prayer. Nothing could dampen their spirits. Not even the tremendous rainstorm that blew through town during the night, one of the worst in Boomtown history. I’d never seen such rain! We’d spent the last fourteen years in Southern California, where it rained maybe ten or twenty times a year and even then, not so much. But in Washington, they had more than one hundred words just to describe all the different ways it rained. Jonny showed me his spelling homework one night just to prove it.

  “See this? ‘Blowing, blustery, cloudy, damp, dark, drenching, droplets, drizzly, gusty, humid, hurricane, misting, moist, overcast, patte
ring, pouring, precipitous, raging, rainy, roaring, showery, spitting, spattering, sprinkling, squally, steamy, stormy, tempestuous, tornado, watery, wet, wild, windy.’ That isn’t even half of ’em!”

  That night before the game, it came down in buckets. It rained cats and dogs. It rained cows and horses. It was Noah’s ark weather. The gutters on the street filled up, and once those were full the roads turned into streams. Yards turned into ponds, and fields turned into lakes. We stood on the porch and watched as Gramma Edna’s lawn furniture floated by, followed by Matthieu’s flock of plastic pink flamingos, a watering trough, a picnic table, and a family of plastic lawn gnomes. Last, we saw Fred Cotton’s pickup truck as it sailed past our front door and disappeared down the road.

  Sunday’s paper reported that it was probably washed into the river, but later on it was blamed on the person (or per-sons) who had stolen my lawn mower. It turned out to be the same person who took advantage of the storm by removing one hundred feet of Lazy Gunderson’s fence and grabbing the blades off of Tom O’Grady’s thresher. None of this was known at the time because we were too busy to notice. We were bailing out our basements and trying to keep our cars from floating away. Ed Gamelli came around in a rowboat, faithfully delivering the mail and giving reports as he rowed from door to door. Just as night was falling, I saw a chicken coop sail by with its owner standing on the roof waving to everyone as he went. And still it continued to rain.