Everyone got their cars repaired at Scottie’s. The first naked women I’d seen were at his garage. The walls were covered with calendars showing cuties in see-through robes and topless bikinis. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them. Still, even though I was only seven, I understood they were(more) about things that existed only in dreams -- like mountain ranges made of whipped cream, with spoons falling from the sky like manna.
When Scottie lost a son in Vietnam, he draped flags all over the garage -- deeply sad, yet proud his son had given his life to defeat Communism.
But when his second son was killed there, he was broken. He’d take days to do repairs that used to take an hour, sometimes closing for weeks at a time to hide out in his apartment behind the garage.
One night we heard there was a fire at Scottie’s. Half the neighborhood turned out. There he was, standing in front of a flaming garbage can, yelling at the top of his voice.
“I was wicked. We’re all wicked.”
He held an American flag over the barrel and dropped it in. “I put my country before God,” he said as it burned. “And I’ve been punished.”
He tossed some car-repair manuals into the fire.
“I put my work before God, and I was punished!”
Then he waved a girlie calendar over the flames.
“I put my desires before God, and I was punished!” he said. “I pray that He forgives me. I pray that He forgives us all!”
I held my father's hand tightly, watching the calendar catch fire. It showed a picture of a woman in a doctor's office, covered by nothing but her health insurance.
They danced for hours. Their bodies were dripping with sweat as the rocked on each other's hips to the beat of the poison. It roared through their veins and flashed with brilliant neon colors in their blind eyes. The whole giddy mob moved like a swirling tornado and where the ecstasy of(more) sex became too unbearable, cold water climaxed forth to splash upon the boiling sea of limbs. They were the dancing petals of the devil's flower, too amazed of their unsure power, stomping through the forbidden hour in an angelic rage of beauty.
People always look at me funny when I tepl them about the fact that I've been doing a church tour. "Trying to find a new religion?" they like to ask me. Is it such a bad thing that I'm interested in how different people live their lives?
(more) Religion is oddly a very good way to get a sense of how a person lives. Especially when you're like me and are very observant of how people act based on where they are. So for me, going to a place of worship is an excellent way to see how people may be affected by their backgrounds.
Now let's be honest. Holy rollers are a bit odd. But it's really only because of how we look at them. If we went in to their lives without bias, we'd be damn impressed with their levels of devotion and praise.
I suppose the point to this is to look at people through the eyes of a newborn child. You'll appreciate who they are a thousand fold more.(less)
Hidden under her own heavily coated lashes, Trix's eyes flicked to follow my gaze. We were secret agent men, but women--seeing everything at the mall and being seen by no one.
Trix snap-turned a page of *Sassy*. "Promise Number Four Hundred Sixty-Seven: when w(more)e get whatever age that woman is, we still have enough self-respect to actually take the curlers out of our hair, put on actual pants--like, they have to have at least a zipper or pockets--and care. We will still"--snap--"care."
"Mmmhmm ..." I'd moved on, me and my soda-slurp cover-up now discreetly watching Toby, who, I suddenly felt bubbling deep in my stomach, was watching us. French-fry cover, from the other side of the food court.
"Hallelujah, you shall have enough self-esteem that you do not go out into the world wearing baby spit-up and shoes without buckles or laces!"
I heard Trix putting on her preacher's voice. We loved watching those people on TV--the men's sloppy, sticky earnestness; their wives' cotton-candy bouffants and cracked pink lips.
I slurped. Toby chewed, open mouthed. Trix exalted. The woman with a head of plastic jaws clamped tight round her thin blond hair walked past us, plastic bag swinging. (less)
I am Pit! The lone Angel. Sent by the Goddess Paultena to save the Earthly beings from the evil reign of Medusa! I'm ready to fight the Underworld Army and I have a vast array of weapons and equipment on my side!
Including Holy Roller Blades! Aren't they(more) cool? What? Stop looking at me like that! What do you mean that isn't awesome?...
(But seriously, wouldn't it be cool if in Kid Icarus Uprising you could use Holy Roller Blades?)(less)
I jumped the wheel of the carriage, another missile dodged. She stared at me blankly. I thought it would impress her but of course my jeans fit too tightly in her opinion. Her fists held so firmly you could see her knuckles turning white from a mile away. I trudged(more) up to the sandbox where our memories lay together, peaceful as they once were. She became blind in one eye though, as much as I want her to see. She turned away of course, her hair whipping the air that was filling the space she once occupied. As the sand runs through my calloused fingers I long to touch her flushed cheeks, although they scream anger. Another bullet I must avoid until the knuckles turn red with life. (less)
“Isn’t that a church full of holy rollers?” Grandma asked as we sat at the table. I couldn’t help it. Every time I heard that term the image that came to mind was church in a roller skating rink. Maybe that’s because I like roller skating better than shouting(more) and dancing like people full of the twitches.
“I promised my friend I would go.” I replied and Grandma stayed silent. Most people would get a kick out of a Catholic in a church “full of holy rollers”. In fact, that is exactly what my “friend” was after. In truth he was a fellow member of a club that I was in (not exactly one of the members I would usually call a friend) who issued a challenge in the hopes of a laugh. I’m a sucker for challenges, so I was going to church with him.
When I got back I set my keys on the counter. Grandma called out and I answered, our test to make sure the house was invaded by me and not an alien.
“How was church?” She asked.
“It would have been better with roller skates.” I answered and went to my room for an after-church nap. (less)
Mind numbing speed, dexterity...a flash of motion from the corner of the eye. Beard and long hair whipping back and forth. Robes of simple cloth almost but not quite being caught in the wheels as he speeds down the back-roads of his youth. Taking some time to have a little thrill while(more) visiting his homeland, Christ skates by.(less)
My mama always taught me to respect my elders but every time some old fart spat out his wad of thick, dark, juicy tobacco onto my sitting corner, I want to scream. I would sit on the metal bench outside the old hardware store, and watch the old me(more)n spit out their tobacco. I want to scream HOLY SHIT but I remember my mama. So I think holy rollers. Whenever my mama wanted to swear but knew us kids were listening she would yell out her version of a cuss word: holy roller! I still remember the time she dropped the whole pot of boiling potato water on her bare feet, she yelled holy rollers so loud the whole house shook. I don't know where she came up with that cooky phrase or why I say it now myself. But it works. A man just spat a giant wad of chewed up tobacco on my foot and I just smile to myself and cuss " holy rollers."(less)