Give me that old time religion
Going nowhere in a nowhere town. That’d go nicely on my tombstone. My life summed up in one sentence.
The car ride always gets me.
I stumble out of the cab and up to the door, fumbling for my keys. I wave the driver on so I can search for them without his judgement and the headlight’s glare.
My head’s spinning, churning up my half-digested dinner, and I have my doubts I’ll make it to the toilet in time. I sped past my tolerance level miles ago.
Why do I keep doing this to myself? What the fuck’s wrong with me?
Jamming the key in, I throw the door open barely making it to the bathroom before the contents of my stomach come up in frothy torrents. I come to in the embrace of the porcelain bowl a few hours later.
Somehow finding the strength to stand to my feet, I shut and lock the front door, and retreat to my bedroom for some much-needed rest.
Nestled among the rolling hills of western Kentucky, this nowhere town sits on the muddy banks of the Ohio river, which carries the distinction of being the most polluted body of water in the U.S. It’s the third largest city in the state with a population of just under 60,000. It considers itself, without qualification, the “Barbeque Capital of the World.” It is also smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt, so there is a certain mentality that permeates the place. One that I grew up around my entire life, but that I’ve been fighting against for as long as I can remember.
Old money runs a place like this, and believe me, they have deep pockets. Generation after generation of the same handful of last names having the final word on most every decision made. They don’t want things to change, and they’ll pay whatever it costs to make sure it doesn’t.
A few years back, a sports bar specializing in hot wings and greasy pub food where the servers and bartenders wear low-cut shirts
with short shorts, came to town. Protesters showed up with homemade signs and picketed the place for weeks after it opened.
We did get a new state-of-the-art movie theater though, and by the way people reacted, you would’ve thought we had been transported to New York City, middle of Time-fucking-Square.
We can’t seem to get anything but restaurants and churches built here. If you’re looking for either, this town is full of them. There’s one on every corner. Nothing but a bunch of Bible thumpers if you ask me. ‘Give me that old time religion’ might as well be blared from loudspeakers in the streets. At least if they handled venomous snakes or spiders in the pulpit it’d be somewhat entertaining.
If you do go to church, and on any given Sunday find yourself disagreeing with the interpretation of some obscure scripture verse, the preacher’s haircut, or heaven forbid don’t like the color of the ceramic tile the deacon laid in the foyer entrance over the weekend, by all means find a new one. Better yet, start your own. More has been done over less.
Pretty soon large groups of patrons will follow suit, migrating to this newly minted house of worship. But just wait, it won’t be long before something’s said or done that offends, so off they go to the next place.
Now when the freshly forgiven get done worshiping at their air- conditioned altars, to their white, Conservative, Americanized version of Jesus, having kept their sinful nature in check for two long hours, they’re famished, and more than willing to add gluttony back to the list.
The same people worshipping God an hour ago are complaining that the teenager who makes shit wages isn’t breaking their back bending over backwards to make sure the slightest of inconveniences isn’t incurred. Then have the nerve to invite you to visit their church next Sunday, while you count the loose change they left you as a tip.
Evangelicals and Pentecostals are the worst offenders when it comes to this. Ask anyone who’s ever worked in the service industry, and they’ll tell you the same.
I say all this from experience, having grown up around them my entire life. From Sunday school and Vacation Bible school to tent- revivals, I’ve been to them all and come to this conclusion: Most if not all churches are just a social club full of hypocrites.
So, there’s not much to do around here unless you are religious, have a filthy habit, or recovering from one. It’s really no wonder people resort to drugs and alcohol.
If you do use drugs, there’s Narcotics Anonymous, more commonly known by its acronym-N.A., while people struggling with alcohol have A.A. Both are twelve step programs set up to help you kick your nasty habit and enjoy a happy, sober life.
These programs often partner with religious organizations, such as churches, and the recovering addicts will most certainly join the congregation as a result.
Welcome to the club!
So, where does one go to escape from the hypocrisy of organized religion, when you live in the middle of ‘east Jesus nowhere?’
The bar.
Chapter 2
Drinking Buddies
After my separation and subsequent divorce, I started frequenting a little hole in the wall called the Sand Dollar. It’s one block away from the hood and about two steps away from being a biker bar on most nights. At any rate it had gotten me through some lonely times, so I felt a bit of loyalty to the place.
As was custom on a Saturday night, cold drinks were being served and good music was being played, so I was here.
“What’ll it be Jimbo?” Tara, a petite brunette with a goth predilection sets a coaster down on the bar in front of me.
“I’ll take a beer. How about a Flying Dog.”
“Sure.”
She catches me checking her ass out as she reaches into the cooler and winks.
As she hands me the bottle, Dalton walks out from the back of the house. He’s the bouncer/barback/short order fucking chef of the place. When he sees me, he stops mid-stride, middle of the dancefloor, bends down and strikes a pose while flexing his bicep.
We have this thing we do.
I’m not sure how or even when it started, but I’ll be damned if I don’t continue the tradition. I’m not about to let this bouncer of men, this backer of bars, this cooker of delicious late-night cuisine throw down the gauntlet and it go unanswered.
So, beer in hand, I take a knee and flex my muscle for him and the rest of the bar to see. He shakes his head in mock defeat and carries on.
I sit at the bar with a few of the regulars talking amongst themselves and take a long look around the room. Both pool tables have games going, the high-top tables lining the wall beside them full of spectators waiting their turn.
There are a couple of forever 21s testing their moves out on the dancefloor, shy friends cheering on from the safety of their seats. They’ll join them soon enough.
Not a bad turnout for a Saturday night.
…Cause I see some ladies tonight, that should be having my baby. Baby…
I need another beer.
Before long, my buddy Mike shows up. If you’re asking him its “Big Mike.” Also, if you’re asking him, it has more to do with the length and girth of his dick than his six-foot stature or his three hundred fifteen pounds of freckled, redheaded meat.
“How the hell are ya, Jimbo!” he says wrapping his arms around me, completely picking me up off the barstool.
“Fuck man,” I protest uselessly, “put me down.” He obliges as Tara walks over to greet him. “Bourbon and Mt. Dew, please.”
“What you been up to Jimmy?” “Hard at it man. You?” “Living the dream, my friend.”
“Someone’s dream,” I say, and we both cheer to that.
We met at work, but we became fast friends after realizing we were dating a set of twin sisters. I’d just started talking to this girl I met from way back when we were teenagers in youth group.
Turns out, Mike was hooking up with her sister. We showed up at her apartment one day as he was leaving, and the rest is as they say, “bourbon under the bridge.”
Mike loves what he does for a living, but I can’t stand it. I kind of fell into it all, as I tend to do with most things in my life. Before I knew it, I had completed a five-year apprenticeship and was handed a company truck, a phone, and a set of blueprints. I started running work here and there as a foreman.
I don’t know why it is, but people look down on construction workers. Like we’re second-class citizens. The thing you should realize is its hard work, whatever craft you’re in. Whether you’re a carpenter, plumber, block layer, or in my case, electrician, it can be brutal. Blazing hot in the summer, freezing in the winter; dirty, muddy, dusty, and just overall shitty conditions to work in.
Most days, you take breaks and eat your lunch sitting on a five- gallon bucket right there in your workspace. Occasionally there’s a job trailer, but you’re spending half the time waiting in line to heat your food up because there’s only one microwave.
It does pay well, so it’s not all bad. You can make real money if you work steady. It’s not uncommon to earn six-figures out on the road.
Some of the guys go on the road chasing the big jobs. Tramping, they call it. That’s a lifestyle alright, just not one I want.
The city finally got the financing to build a new hospital, so that was the job everyone was on at the time. It was a huge project. At its peak, the jobsite had over a thousand workers. The conditions were bad for a while, bordering on subhuman.
Along with the logistics of getting up to the top floors with materials and tools, without the use of working elevators, the site was a swamp.
With all the workers onsite, they couldn’t keep the Porta Johns empty either. You’d wait in line, and when it was your turn to do your business, it’d be so full, shit was mounded up past the toilet seat.
Later, when we finally did get working restrooms on each floor, it wasn’t much better. Someone kept throwing used paper on the floor instead of flushing it down. Others would forego the paper entirely, wiping their shit all over the walls. We had our suspicions on who the culprits were, but never did find out for sure. I put my money on the army of drywallers piling in and out of the company vans at the beginning and end of each shift.
A mix of white, Black, and Hispanic, most were either on some type of work release program, or immigrants. The ex-convicts weren’t
going anywhere no matter how bad the conditions got. Only the foremen spoke any English at all.
On any given day of the week, you step onto any floor of that structure, all you’ll hear is a confusing symphony of drywall saws, screw guns, and Mariachi music. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear you crossed the Border.
Eventually someone had enough and called Immigration. When they showed up onsite, the guys took off running in every direction, out through the fields and into the woods. You should’ve seen them scatter. Some of them never did come back. They had to shut the job down for a few days while the authorities sorted it all out. I felt bad for the workers. It wasn’t their fault; they were just trying to provide for themselves and their families like anyone else. At any rate, after that the shit-smearing stopped.
“You guys coming to Ladies’ Night?” Tara asks setting down new drinks for us.
“First I’ve heard of it. What’s that?” I say.
“Yeah, when is Ladies’ Night, cause this sure as shit isn’t it,” Mike says downing his concoction, “present company excluded of course.”
I shrug and nod my head in agreement.
“Hmmmm…It’s the first Thursday night of the month. There are drink specials for the ladies, and they get in free. We have a DJ and everything. There’s usually a really good turnout.
“Y’all should come, it’ll be a lot of fun,” Tara says. “Consider us intrigued,’’ I say.
“Consider us there,” Mike counters, and at that we all take a
shot.
