the darndest things

Boy vs. Girls

I hit a girl with my bike when I was in the 3^rd grade.

From the time I was in the 1^st to 8^th grade a girl lived behind my house, her name was Melissa Carson. We went to school together and we were in the same grade. Many nights my young curious eyes would look across my yard and her pool, over our shared fence, the window on the left was hers. I did not hit her with my bike.

Her parents hosted a slumber party every year for her birthday. All of the attendees were in the same grade and classes as we were, and of course they were all female. They were the girls I would see everyday at school. As I grew up, these were the girls I would wonder about.

What were girls? Why did they smell so heavenly, and when they smelled bad why did it make me sick? When one would change her hair, why could I not stop sweating around her? When one of them had a boyfriend why was I so angry? Why did I want to touch them, even if it was a shove, or a kickball to the butt I had shattered a hard glass and left adolescence?

Some of them were pretty, some of them I would have defined as dumb girls. Hell, outside of the classroom and right over the fence they were all mysteriously enchanting. Though I hadn’t concluded this logic, something in me gave me great confidence because I was the only guy from class around. At school I had Omar Davila and Joe Nicoletto to compete with, but tonight on Foothill Dr., I was the only one boy to compete for their attention.

I treated the evening like a gang war- Boy vs. Girls. I drew up plans with machine guns, knives, axes, and blood spattered girls. It may sound a bit disturbing, but I was a child with magic markers making pictures of me looking like Rambo. Frankly, I was in love with every one of these strange creatures. Melissa’s birthday was my birthday.

I hung the pictures in my room and walked around pointing at every one of them hatching each and every plan like General Patton, while my little brother sat on the bed.

Axes and guns became 3 water balloons. The damn things just kept exploding in the bathroom sink, leaving rubber rings around the faucet that I couldn’t get off. All that work gave me 2 very small balloons and a single giant, wobbly wet ball, it would be the atomic bomb. However, it was too big and slippery and wouldn’t make it passed the tricky porch door.

I peered through the cracks in the tall fence, I saw them laughing and talking while Melissa sat in a pool chair with an obvious air of dominance. It was her party, they were there for her.

I launched the first balloon, my heart beating and a boyish giggle came out of my heart when I heard them squeal. I couldn’t wait and quickly hurled the second one. After the squeals came the insults, hurled like my balloons without view of the target just words that meant to hurt but instead I was thrilled with our interaction.

I crouched down just to spy through the crack, all of the girls stood in front of the fence and yelled. Roxanna tossed the rest of her cake over the fence, the others joined in. Mrs. C. came out in a huff, I ran. I could hear her yell at the girls and then at me, I was in the house talking loudly to my Dad so he wouldn’t hear her.

I ran to my room, feeling victorious. I opened my window and waved, my devilish grin was only part antagonistic as this would be the first time they saw me. I had on a t-shirt I found quite radical and my hair was combed nicely (I checked it out in the bathroom before I opened the window). They screamed and yelled at me. Heather was grinning at me, she is the one I hit with my bike.

In Mrs. Rawls 2^nd grade class Heather had told many people, including my mother, she liked me. Though I was flattered I couldn’t take the harassment of the rest of the class, so I had decided to let her like me and I would make fun of her new haircut. Her sister was Hollie, they were twins, she had no feelings for me that I knew of.

There were two other sets of twins at the party, Gina and Pattie Martin, and the other 2 I don’t remember their names. What are the odds? I don’t know, but I thought it interesting enough to mention.

I told my brother of the successful bombing, he said cool, and I told him my plans to get closer. He made machine gun noises, and I was motivated.

My bikes name was Fast Freckles, that’s right. Though I felt it was an incredibly cool bike, it wasn’t big enough, so I grabbed my Dad’s 10 speed, I believe I had a plan to be extra fast in front of them. Fast Freckles had one speed, me, Dad’s had 10 and I would exhaust them all.

I took the bike to the top of Dewey Rose Ct. the street where Melissa lived. I began with speed one, it was tough, I quickly clicked to a more comfortable speed. I was flying, as I made a pass by her house again and again until they came out. They stood in the lawn yelling at me, Heather and Hollie, Melissa, Gina and Pattie, Maria Garcia, the other twins. I took my bike to the sidewalk and began to ride as hard as I could, the girls stood in the middle of the sidewalk as if to stop me.

If they wanted me to stop, what would we do? What do I talk to girls about, what do I say? How does a guy talk to girls? How do I laugh with them, how do I smile with them, how do I hit on them, all I knew was this and somehow this seemed the best way to be close to them? That’s what I wanted, I wanted to be closer to girls.

I was so much closer to them, and it was exciting. Some of them wore something I hadn’t seen before. As I rode closer to them I recognized their angry faces and admired their hair. I loved them.

As they all jumped out of the way, Heather dared to leap out at me at the last second. I would see Heather be the daring girl many times again in the future. She would be the one to make or laugh at off color jokes in the lunchline, like a guy would. She made out with Chris Lucas in front of everyone in the 7^th grade, a known burnout with an earring and a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. She would date Seniors when we were only sophmores. One night at a party I threw when the folks were out of town, she had hopped in a truck with a guy named Derek, they drove ON the golf course my parents lived on causing great damage. She drank to some pretty memorable ‘I Never’s’. She dipped with me when we drove to Hillsborough Community College together, we even took a picture with our fat lips. Smoked a pack of cigarettes in rebellion after a fight with her boyfriend. At the Methodist Camp we worked at until we were 24 years-old, she was the girl who wouldn’t let the boys keep her out of Ultimate Frisbee.

Heather’s timing failed her and my father’s bike knocked her to the ground, as it did me.

I hit her.

In my scurry to hop back on the oversized bike and ride away I caught a glimpse of the wound, the blood and the skin where the screw from the front wheel made contact.

I hit her, and I hurt her.

I was scared, and sad, and humiliated. She was crying, and yelling, making an awful sound I wished would stop. The girls were yelling and making such loud noises, but all I could hear was Heather.

I rode off with the wind whipping the tears off of my face. I pulled the bike in the garage, and I could still hear them. They hated me now.

I walked to a spot where I could be hidden and watched as her dad carried her into the car. The party was over, and it was all because of me. Heather was hurt and it was all because of me. There was no more mystery, I had gotten close enough and I hurt them all. Especially, the girl who would smile at me while everyone yelled at me.

I went to my room and gathered the plans, tearing them into tiny pieces both to conceal the evidence and my shame. I drew a new picture that day, one of me giving flowers to Heather. I never gave it to her.

20 plus years later, I am distant friends with these girls and our history is rich with more stories and better times. Melissa and Maria shared my bus stop, we hung out after school and talked about their boyfriends. Gina, Pattie, Hollie, Heather and I threw a huge graduation party together. We camped together, partied together, tee-peed houses, worshipped God together. I sang in both Hollie and Heather’s wedding.

Today I am close to a girl. At times I give her flowers, and at times my mind sketches plans of attack. In time those things will equal stories that make our history long and fulfilling. Most of my actions remain the same as they were when an 8 year-old boy rides his bike in a crowd of girls, I just want something and I don’t always know how to get it.

Here’s to history.

How do so many men sit and listen to some man yell at them in front of their spouses and children? It wouldn’t happen in any other situation, what man would tolerate another man doing something like this, voluntarily?

Pastor Dawson was now in the last part of his message. His formula for Living the Christian Life was almost complete and clear enough for everyone to walk out with a feeling of guilt and motivation, driving each of them to the nearest steak house buffet for lunch and gossip.

The formula was very simple:
• Read Scripture- God-breathed, holy inspired word.
• Then Pray- Prepare hearts for guilt, ‘God, make their hearts open to see you, SPEAK to them!’ That along with long pauses and occasionally dramatic crescendo’s and diminuendo’s.
• Add Funny Anecdote- These are imperative, it makes you think it might be a fun message, but it’s a trick to make you listen and get NAILED by the WORD of God, breathed from his lipsAH!
• His Explanation of the Passage- Err on the side of caution rather than accuracy, that’s God-Breathed I’m sure.
• Scolding, Evoking Guilt- Pointing and yelling, lots of pointing and yelling.
• Illustration to Cause more Guilt and making sure the message really sticks to your conscience- You can’t play around with God’s breath.
• Altar Call- otherwise known as the get saved and confess or be on the outs of everyone else in house, also there is Hell you have to spend eternity in.
Once we were at the fits of screaming, scolding, you knew the end was near. The listing of sins was effective, surely there was one sin you could feel guilty about, the mention of your dirty little sin caused you to pay more attention. Pastor Richard Dawson’s voice became more powerful, adding a boisterous and loud staccato pattern that could make someone feel it’s ok to stand and confess your sin to hundreds of well-dressed Christians whose judgement and opinions you usually fear. This convincing voice resembled Jack Blades from Damn Yankees, or Ted Neely in Jesus Christ Superstar. It also served in waking all of those who stopped listening long before and began considering lunch plans.
Once the uncomfortable tingle of guilt made you fear God, or the Pastor (either way, the message was effective) – the lights will dim, the music will play softly.
‘RAISE YOUR HAND, with every eye closed and every head bowed admit you’re wrong (while no one is looking) and that you need Jesus (or me, either way)’ The Pastor’s eyes are closed in a wincing manner, like he is waiting for a booster shot, his arm’s are bent at the elbow and his fingers are wagging like spirit fingers on a cheer leader except at waste level.
‘Every eye is closed, folks, this is between you and the Lord just raise up that hand.’
He really sells this. Apparently Jesus needs to see hands raised. What’s worse is he sells you on showing Jesus your hands, but his next pitch is convincing you to walk down the aisle and show everyone that Jesus saw your hand.

It’s going to be an extra difficult sell this Sabbath, the sermon was on sexual sins. Apparently, Noah or someone spilled their seed on the ground and that was bad. Basically, this was the closest bible story for him to drag out everyone’s sexual sins. This caused Pastor Dawson to take long times loudly saying words like, FORNICATION! HOMO-EEEEE-ROTICA! MASTER……BATION! It would be funny if there weren’t so many people groaning in approval to his words. Oddly we are discouraged by the pastor from going to rated R films, but you can always come to church to hear a man scream and grind words into a microphone like- INTERNET POWWRN, MEN HAVING SEX WITH MMMAYN (men), A….BOM….INATION! and all of those in the sanctuary just grunt and nod.
I’ve always wondered what visitors who come in to our service late think when a 60 year-old stocky gray haired man leaning on the pulpit in exhaustion and wiping his mouth with a white handkerchief shouting with slow intentional pauses and enunciations ‘SEX WITH HOMOSEXUALS’, especially as the congregation reacted with agreement and praise. Sadly, some of them probably thought they were in the right place for once, and were then called abominations and no longer felt welcome.
Sunday night services are usually a wash in terms of attendance, but tonight’s service my father would play a short free concert. My father is a real hero around here.
Born Buster Chozenski. Once saved, by Jesus, he changed his name to B. Chozen, my father the walking Christian bumper sticker that contradicts itself. Dad is currently one of the highest selling contemporary Christian recording artist’s since there ever was such an atrocity as contemporary Christian music. He is as well known as Michel W. Smith, Geoff Moore and the Distance, Steven Curtis Chapman, and of course Ray Boltz. In fact, Ray credits my father with the concept for his song ‘Thank You for Giving to the Lord.’

When I was young, I never understood what it meant to be contemporary music. Why wasn’t there contemporary country or contemporary rap? My father’s long-time manager, Andrea, explained to me that it had more to do with the music being hip and cool, and not hymns. It was way for these musicians to convince people this music was not your typical church music, these songs sounded just like your favorite pop radio station but with more positive lyrics and words like holy, Jesus, give me more of your spirit.

‘Christians can rock, too! Jesus loves that conga beat!’ Andrea would say while doing a little air guitar in her over-sized yellow blazer with shoulder pads made for a linebacker.

Pastor Dawson was knee deep in the dry ice that started to flow from the smoke machines already set for my father’s concert. The stage was a tacky display of flash. A giant banner with B. Chozen’s face on it, pastel colors framing it. Pastor Dawson loved the extra effects, daring to veer out onto the catwalk shaped like a cross to hit his message home and bring the sinners to justice.

The 7,000 seat sanctuary was filled with fans. Many of which were wearing shirts from Dad’s past concert tours. The Tomorrow Tour came from his hit album of the same name. The album exposed him to the world and the tour proved very successful. His first hit was a little song called “Tomorrow”. It was a song about the after-life, which was the big selling point. We have Canon in D for Weddings, but there needed to be a simple and tasteful song for funerals, I have yet to attend one without this song being played. ‘Tomorrow, Tomorrow, Tomorrow, you’ll be there, Tomorrow, it’s the very next day!!’ You may notice the song seems remarkably like a little orphan Annie number, with a few changes in the notes. Funny thing is, not a lot of other people picked up on this. My father has a habit of getting a chorus stuck in his head, turning it into a song, and calling it his. This is a very pleasant surprise to Christians who have sworn off secular music. The song seems remarkably catchy and familiar, being a ‘Christian Song’ they feel it is immoral not to support it. Unknowingly, my father rips off the catchier secular tunes and makes them ‘sacred’. How does he hear it? Mostly from T.V. commercials, my room, and his unsaved hairdresser who he has been ‘witnessing’ to from her chair for the last 10 years. My father is not purposely dishonest, he has every good intention in the world. My father is also very incapable of seeing the flaw in his own ways, and not because he doesn’t want to, he really just has no clue. To his credit the verses are completely different, they aren’t as catchy. Here are a few other examples. He wrote a very popular song about the devil’s influence called ‘He speaks in Lies’ which sounds remarkably like Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’. The truly disturbing song about Noah floating by in the Ark while the locals drown called ‘Hi there Dove’. It’s a slower, less soulful version of ‘Bye bye Love’ by Ray Charles. ‘Hi there Dove, Hi there happiness, Good bye loneliness, everyone else has died.’ I don’t see how this song was such a hit, nor do I understand why my father would write a song about something so unsettling.

There is a strange mentality in the church to overlook the awful and just chalk it up to God’s word and will.

A very large woman next to me is getting very emotional. It would be a real shame is if she was struggling with some of these sexual sins. Though she is shaking in a shirt from Dad’s sad attempt at a hip-hop album, ‘Raise the Truth’. I was in junior high when this came out. The song came with motions, too. Both palms facing upwards and lifted to resemble raising something. It soon became the answer to problems for most Christians in our church, if ever you had a problem with something you just need to ‘raise the truth’ and the hand motion would follow. They would always do it with a ‘oh well’ kind of smirk. This is sometimes still taught from this very pulpit. In the secular world ‘Raising the Roof’ had been around for at least a year and was starting to lose its flavor. So, those outside of the church just mocked them mercilessly. This caused even more ‘raising the truth’ motions as people felt persecuted, you’d think they would have seen it in a sporting event but it was done very differently by a huge number of mostly white middle-class protestants that take lessons from men in their late 50’s with feathered hair. I blame it on Andrea, my father’s manager, who was always a couple steps behind what was popular in culture. Dad took her advice on everything, which caused him to have a mullet when the side spike came in, and a side spike when the fade gained popularity. If a man like this sells 14 million cd’s and some 7 million Dvd’s of various concerts, how many churches and people is he also leading to a fashion disaster? I assure you, plenty. My father is now sporting a gold hoop earring in his left ear. She informed us that in his right ear it would imply he was gay.

Pastor Dawson just tapped his tongue with that minty breath stuff, its altar call time. Once the pastor offers the invitation, the song begins, and staff members come forward, manipulative genius. While you consider going forward it seems many others are moving and have made the bold move for them. They are counselors, planning to meet you at the front and guide you to a decision. Imagine the surprise when the person they are following, seemingly a fellow new convert, turns to them and asks, and why have you come forward today? How do they sleep at night? My father is playing the altar call song. This is a great song. This time he took a lot of familiar words but to a tune that sounds more like an old time hymn.

Come As You Are, child. Come As You Are. As he wants you to be near. As his friend. Don’t take your time, hurry. Leave your memories. The choice is yours, come now don’t be late. And then chorus ‘Here I come, Jesus. Here I come, Jesus. Hello, hello, hello, Hello!’ I enjoy watching people my age in the crowd look up listening to these lyrics and wonder where they heard them before, or why they seemed so familiar. Some of them tend to get it during the chorus. The big lady wants to get through to go forward. She is ready to confess all of her dirty secrets. I don’t think she is small enough to scoot on by. This is terrible. Pews are so inconvenient for larger people. She probably shouldn’t have sat in the middle. The church probably shouldn’t buy pews that are 25 yards long. Now I have to scoot the whole family out, which will bring a lot of attention on her. ’Nic, we have to move out and let her through.’ I am trying to be really quiet to bring as little attention to the large female fornicator being called to Christ through Nirvana and Pastor Axl Rose. ’What, just let her scoot be you. What’s the big deal? Just scoot. ‘My brother chose to make this difficult. He was difficult, and right now I hated him. And the continuous use of the word scoot didn’t offer me any more direction than I had before I asked him to move. I didn’t want to bring attention to the fact she was too big to merely scoot by. Just move, Nic, she really wants to go forward. And I am suddenly shoved into the pew by Nic. The belly, boobs, perspiration, and tears of this guilty woman pressed against me. I couldn’t help but wince and hoped she couldn’t see, which she certainly could not with her large boob covering my face like an oversize pillow. Her mammoth leg fat had pierced mine and began to fold over my knee. There was some scooting and grunting, and once she passed I saw my brother, his wife Mercy, and my nephew Christian in the aisle. They moved so that she could scoot, while I was smothered by every part of her. I hated my brother, right then. My nephew found it really funny, while my brother gave me a really disappointed eye for making a fuss. I hate my brother. Big lady made it forward. I said a prayer for the woman who was about to hear the unfortunate confession, and for the big lady. This was my first prayer of the day. It was sincere.

After the new sheep were shipped off to be tagged and dunked in the baptismal placed high above the stage, the show was about to begin. Pastor Dawson introduced my father, the crowd went wild. Good evening CHURCH! My father emphasized the last word when he wanted to get the crowd worked up, and it worked every time. Man he could work a crowd. Y’all ready to get busy for JESUS!? and the crowd roared. Strange choice of words after that sermon. Let me introduce you to some people before we begin tonight’s CELEBRATION! That was our cue. This is where the family does a light jog to the stage, and our father introduces us, his family. His “Chozen Ones”, and laughter ensues.