life for the better. He interspersed Top 40 songs in with his presentation to keep us interested. He was an ex-jock, just turned twenty, who had turned his back on the four S’s—“Stroh’s, Smoking, Sex, and Satan.” He played “I Won’t Back Down” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and “Calling on You” by the Christian rock band Stryper. Seriously, fucking Stryper? All the girls thought he was deep. I wanted to punch him in the face, or else buy him a beer.
What I don’t tell my mother is how on the first night in the dorms we stole the Gatorade cooler out of the rec room, spiked it with vodka, and hid it in a broom closet. Or how after we ran out of dirty jokes, I read from the Book of Leviticus.
With all due respect to Orthodox Jews, the Book of Leviticus is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever read, an inane list of do and do nots that reads like a long practical joke from God:
“When a man has an emission of seed, he shall bathe his whole body in water and be unclean until evening.” (By my rough calculations, I’ve been unclean since the invasion of Grenada.)
“You shall not disgrace your father by having intercourse with your mother.” (Don’t fuck your mom. Good advice.)
“If a man has carnal relations with a female slave who has already been living with another man but has not yet been redeemed or given her freedom, they shall be punished but not put to death, because she is not free.” (As always in the Bible, slavery is cool. Got it.)
“If a man commits adultery with his neighbor’s wife, both the adulterer and the adulteress shall be put to death.” (Yeah, but have they seen my neighbor’s wife?)
“If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed…” (Love your neighbor as yourself, but kill him if he’s a goddamn homo. Understood.)
“A man or a woman who acts as a medium or fortune-teller shall be put to death by stoning…” (I’ll have my pile of rocks at the ready next Halloween when some six-year-old dressed as the Wicked Witch of the West comes to my door and tries to get her satanic paws on my Reese’s Pieces. “Trick or treat,” she’ll say, with that cute, sugar-edgy voice. “Happy Halloween,” I’ll reply in kind, only to raise my rock-filled fists of vengeance, shouting, “Death to the infidels!”)
The Book of Leviticus’s sage advice notwithstanding, I still thought about Laura.
Our group leaders woke us up at dawn on the last day of the retreat, April Fool’s Day. Most of us had less than four hours of sleep under our belts. They were still pushing us nineteen hours later.
After midnight, they separated us into our small groups, sending each group into a private classroom in the old Latin School building. Our classroom was illuminated by a small circle of candles, with a crucifix in the middle of the circle. Our group leader asked everyone to take turns holding the crucifix and talking to Jesus. Slap happy and defenseless, we coughed up some serious shit.
The girl across the circle had a bad experience when she lost her virginity and had sworn to give up sex forever. Given that she was hot, I thought this was a rash decision. The guy to my left buried his infant brother two days before he got there, and this made me cry because I thought about Mom’s miscarriages.
I was fucking exhausted. They broke me. I devolved into a lovesick pussy pining away for Laura. None of the guys in the room liked me for the rest of the night, while I was certain all the girls wanted to fuck me.
We had an extended farewell Mass the following morning, which pissed me off because Saturday morning was too early to count as Sunday service. Two priests, three guitars, and a triangle—they pulled out all the stops. We were each given a medal—a cheap chain that ended in a medallion resembling a German Iron Cross—and an American Bible Society mass market paperback edition of the New Testament entitled Good News New Testament: Today’s English Version. We all signed each other’s New Testaments, like a yearbook, adding a cliché sentiment or two.
There was the requisite exclamation point overkill:
Hank,
You know you’re such a special person! I say that because you opened up to total strangers! That takes guts, and I admire you! Stay as special as I know you are!
Love! Leanne
The not-even-close-to-subtle flirting:
Hank,
You’re such a charmer and sooooo cute. I only wish this wasn’t the only time we could hang out. Good luck in whatever it is you do. Keep that charming personality.
Peace & lots of Enjoyment, Samantha
The lone person with perspective:
Hank,
What’s up, dude? Whew, glad we’re done with this. I hope we’ll go party together because I think it will be a unique experience. I need your phone number.
Friends, Pete
And then of course the big-breasted girl who read way too much into something I said to her during last night’s séance because it afforded me multiple hugs and therefore multiple exposures to her enormous rack:
Hank,
I’m really glad I got an opportunity to get to know you because you’re one heck of a person. If you ever need someone, I’m here and I hope we can keep a friendship going even after we leave here. It helped to know that you were going through the same thing with your girlfriend that I am with my boyfriend. We both obviously love them very much and I’m glad I didn’t have to go through that by myself. Thanks a lot for being yourself.
Love, Theresa
P.S. I need to get something cleared up with you as soon as possible, OK? OK.
Yeah, about that. After the séance, Theresa and I may have snuck into Holy Rosary and made out in an empty confessional booth. And I may have gotten her top off and fondled her breasts for a solid half hour.
“Sounds like you had a good time despite yourself, Hank.”
I hover over Mom’s shoulder, peering down at the breakfast spread. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Good,” Mom says. “How does ham and eggs sound?”
“My favorite.”
“I know.”
I notice Mom is using leftover grilled ham steak, from last night’s supper, no doubt. The ham harbors a distinct pineapple odor from the marinade. For me this is usually, to borrow some recently reacquired Vatican parlance, victus non grata. I don’t mix my salts and sweets, ever. I make it a point to eat all my bacon or sausage before I put syrup on my pancakes, so as not to get syrup on the meat. I consider things like grapes in chicken salad and salt on watermelon affronts to my existence.
But I don’t mind the pineapple flavored ham in my eggs, at least not today.
I watch as Mom cuts the ham into little squares and drops it in a skillet with a couple tablespoons of butter. She pauses every so often to stretch her back and give a slow, mournful rub to her belly. She thinks no one notices.
While the ham is sautéing, I beat three eggs and a quarter-cup of milk together.
