At my first apartment, my next-door neighbors were a down-on-their-luck husband and wife. They were starting over after a tenure in Las Vegas, where they'd worked as a Hank Williams Jr. impersonator and exotic dancer, respectively. The wife got home from work each night the same time I did, always carrying a fresh case of Natural Ice into their apartment. Once they started drinking the spirit was strong in them. They often wandered down to the laundry room to tell anyone folding their whites about their friend, Christ the Redeemer.Alas, the typist is unable to recognize fascism even when it's staring her in the face, gets mopey about not being one of the sheep
I ended up going out with a few other guys who referred to themselves as "good Christians." One of them called the day after our date to say he felt guilty about the lust we'd acted on. I wondered if he was confusing me with another girl. All we had done was kiss for a few minutes while he'd rested his hand on the small of my back. I was flattered that our PG date had stirred such emotions, but his enthusiasm did me little good. His so-called contract with Jesus rendered his lustful feelings void where prohibited, which was outside of marriage. Though he did offer to take me to church if I ever wanted to improve my relationship with the man upstairs.
I didn't feel the spirit that day, but I did feel jealous. I'd come to equate religious certainty with belonging in this city where I felt so out of place. I wondered, briefly, if I could pretend to believe for a while. I would make friends more easily. There would be no more Saturday nights in my apartment straining to hear the television I'd turned down low because I didn't want my neighbors to know I was staying in alone.& flees to Los Angeles, where everyone's cool.
Wouldn't a normal person get angry at these shit-heels, not have the slightest desire to be any part of their cultish world, ever, condemn them roundly for their hypocrisy & then become a flaming atheist? We certainly would, not that we wish to conflate ourself w/ whatever passes for "normal," but you know.
4 comments:
where they'd worked as a Hank Williams Jr. impersonator and exotic dancer, respectively
This being Las Vegas, that sometimes needs to be specified.
This is why I refuse refuse REFUSE to move to Tennessee, despite how much I love my mother and my southern friends who are trying to convince me to go there. I mean, my friend and I were stared at and mocked for wearing dresses to Dollywood. (I guess mom shorts and Crocs are de rigeur there). It's not that I think everyone is a backwards hick, or that I couldn't make friends, and it's not that there aren't nice parts of it (really--it's quite beautiful), but I just. cannot. deal.
"There would be no more Saturday nights in my apartment straining to hear the television I'd turned down low because I didn't want my neighbors to know I was staying in alone."
That's much, much more pathetic than watching TV alone on a Saturday night, lady. I'm sure my neighbors think I'm a crazy person who not only doesn't have a TV, but randomly cackles for no apparent reason and is always running her dehumidifier and yelling at her cat. Fucking OWN that shit.
It actually sounds like a lot of fun for the argumentative types.
From Our "Live it, or Live w/ It!" Editor:
It just sank into the editorial skull that it's JUNIOR (AWK!!!) being impersonated. Even lower than a disc jockey, 'though still not as bad as a terminal leper.
There are libraries in Tenn.?
[Half-hearted rim-shot, audience groans]
And aren't you a little young for "cackling?" (If not, Substance wants a sample.)
Too much arguing can lead to the stake.
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