It is 1966 and my best friend is a gay guy named Sammy. (no we don't say gay; we don't say or even think anything.) Sammy and I go to the Garret players in a garret in a nearby town. They rehearse sultry Tennessee Williams plays in the sweltering New England heat. We drag chairs and rugs across the dusty floor. We watch. Afterwards we always stop at Howdy Beefburger. Sometimes our friend Lacy is with us; we call her "Two Two and One" because she always orders two burgers, two fries, one coke, large.
Sammy has the car. It is his father's. One day many many years later, Sammy will return to this small town from San Francisco, with his lover, because the house is his and his father dead. His father is fun to be around, not like the other fathers. He jokes with us kids and is like a big kid himself, running Cy's produce stand out on the road in front of the house. Across the street is the Merrimack River and I watch it float by with visions of Thoreau.
Because I have no Thespian ability, I always return to the church, for the pageantry, the weird primitive ritualistic quality. The St. George Primitive Methodist Church. Who are these primitive Methodists, I wonder. Our pastor is a blind guitar playing fire and brimstone preacher of the old school. His wife is plain as a board. I am here for the drama. It is why I stand up on youth day and proclaim Jesus as my personal saviour along with all the other kids
What a crazy notion, that some long dead guy can save you! But we get talked into being crazy and thinking it is normal. At least it does not interfere in our messy gropings on the back stoop, mine and Bobby's. If I can't get out of this town soon I will go all the way nuts, I am sure, and it has nothing to do with Jesus.
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