Tim's Tales from the Road
Tim's Tales from the Road
I sat in the car and tapped my feet together. It was a nervous gesture. Movement and constant fidgeting. Behavior that was more prone to be seen in a three year old on their way to the dentist than by 20 year old on their way to an exorcist.
I wasn't sure what to expect. I'd never been to an exorcist before. I had no idea what they would look like. But I figured that they would have to be old. Their eyes would be wise and full of insight. They would be courageous and strong. They would see right through my goody two shoes ‘Perfect Preacher Kid’ act and see all the wickedness and deviousness that hid inside just waiting for the time when no one was looking. These men of God saw. They saw everything.
In my mind, I saw robes and crosses and lots of Bibles. I saw years of confessing sins. I saw how repulsed they would be when the demons finally let me confess everything I had ever done. Or thought about doing. Or hadn't even gotten around yet to thinking about doing. God would be there too. The demons that were inside of me would be no match for Him. Demons hate exorcists. They hate God even more.
My mother told me that evil spirits don't like anyone that they can't trick, decieve or blackmail. The spirits are lazy and they go for the easy kill. They won't party with the fierce men of God who have no weaknesses in their lives. These holy men who were the opposite of me. I knew that I was holy but more in the area of defenses. All of mine had gigantic holes in them.
I figure that I'd had "company", as Cheryl called the demons, for a long time. They probably dropped in when I was ten and I stole ten dollars from Mrs. Psalms, the next door neighbor. I'd gotten caught and didn't get to go to the fair and did get to mow her lawn until forever and I swore I was sorry and that I'd never do it again. But I must have missed the money more than I'd been sorry. That was their opportunity. The big moment. Sin and regret and then the desire for more sin. So, the demons just invited themselves in, had some coffee and encouraged me. It was they who schooled me in all the various torture methods which would best help me, even the 17 year old, score with my little brother. Locking him in the horse trailer. Hiding his Barbie Dolls. Telling everyone who would listen that he was adopted. These were all great solutions that I now know had come not from my mind but the sinister recommendations of the demons. Much later I could trace my fascination with the Village People and all things involving the nearly naked men from Flipper to the same influences.
It was so easy being the definition of weakness, I didn't even have to try. I always had so much room in my mind for trouble and so little ability in the steadfast, lead me not into temptation, department.
I was such a pitiful non obstacle to them that when the demons took me over they never even introduced themselves. Surely most people that are possessed get to meet their demons. They get to pretend to fight them, scream a little and moan. Not mine. When my 'company' came I didn't even know they were there. Again, I figured most people get a little courtesy, sort of a 'how do you do my name is Damien Lucifer Omen Scream Quick Little Kid the Third. I'll be stayin' awhile here kid. I like my fights dirty, my lies believable and my landlord to take the blame for everything. Got it? Play by my rules and we'll get along just fine. Cross me and I'll make sure that you’re the subject of a Stephen King Novel.'
Nope, mine never even introduced themselves. Somehow they just snuck in and, although on a couple of occassions I had asked them to talk to me and let me know their names or what they wanted me to do next or if they could get me a date with so and so in exchange for this act or that terror, they stayed silent. The way I figured it, I somehow got stuck with the Strong Silent Type of Demons. The ones who don't need Oprah and who are disgusted by acts encouraged and set up by those white trash demons who are always to be found lurking in the minds of the guests of Jerry Springer and Ricky Lake.
It was my luck that I had to get the uppity silent type demons. The kind who don't do "scenes". The kind who don't like to limit themselves to provoking a series of little crises. They want the big time. They wanted me listening to Barbara Streisand in the dark with a box a kleenex by my side instead of George Strait in a pick up truck. They encouraged me to collect crystal instead of Hot Wheels. They wanted me to bring attention to themselves and their power through my lack of it. Leave a lasting impression. Something that folks wouldn't forget. Something that would forever damage my father's ministry. Instead of loaves and fishes it would be kiwifruit and pesto. I would be the Preacher's Gay Kid. Worse than a drug user, worse than getting the choir director's daughter pregnant, worse than becoming the lead singer of Judas Priest. Worse than worse. Awful. The kind of scheme only strong silent demons can conjure up.
And, they were on their way to complete victory until Cheryl thought she spied one of them one night at a prayer and praise service. I'm not sure exactly how she caught on. Was it my inability to stay on tune during "How Great Thou Art" or the fact I peeked during prayer. Maybe it was that I took seconds and thirds of communion wine during the communion part of the Passover Feast or that the nursery duty that I was always volunteering for had nothing to do with a love for two month old babies crying, pooping, and pooping, and pooping. I didn't change diapers during the eleven o'clock service because it was my call. She must have understood I did it to get out of the call of the altar call. Lutheran Style.
Demons. It explained everything. It explained why I could do the "Church Lady" better than anyone. It explained why four years of Bible College hadn't changed me. Neither had Homosexuals Anonymous. It was all out of my control. But we could fix it. An exorcism was in order.
The trip was taking forever and my mother and her friend Cheryl seemed to be quite content to take their sweet time. In another hour, I'm sure they both believed that I would be free from all things Liberace. I would be transformed. The demons would be gone and I would be straight. I would marry. I would have kids. I would become good at diaper changing. I would actually like it. The smell of poop would bring fulfillment and the smell of babywipes would provide a sense of accomplishment. Pride through clean Pampers. I would multiply and not be so fruitful.
We arrived at the exorcist. He met us at the door and his name was Tom. Not Father Tom. Not Monk Tom. Not Pastor Tom. Just Tom. He looked cute. He was kinda hip and butch and he had lots of hair on his forearms and he was in great shape and I thought to myself 'You stupid idiot, you ARE possessed! You are getting a crush on your exorcist'.
The demons made me do it.
Everyone sat down in a circle and we began to talk. We talked about school and about being almost 21 and acting about 12. We spoke of my desire to be straight and that I had prayed forever about it and nothing happened. I could speak in tongues and I had gone to Homosexuals Anonymous and I knew John 3:16 by heart. Tom listened to me and studied me quietly. I looked around the room and I didn't see anything that was out of the ordinary. There wasn't any holy water, no crosses and only one Bible. I saw hopeful looks in Cheryl's eyes and in my mother's, I saw pure faith that this was the ticket. We were 'on' to something now and why hadn't we tried this before?
I listened in my head. Surely the demons were scared now. They would stir. They would panic. We were going to the chapel and we weren't going to get married.
Nothing. They still said nothing. I listened closer. Surely the demons in my head would talk amongst themselves. Form a plan. Call for reinforcements. Maybe a few fallen angels and some of the boys from down under. I tried to think what their plan would be. How would they defend their place against this? A hip, totally cool, totally gorgeous, totally understanding exorcist named Tom.
Whatever it would be, it would be awful. I imagined in the middle of some prayer my body would be taken over. It would get dark outside. The wind would howl. My pupils would turn black. The voices would speak through me. First it would be the dreaded Church Lady. Then Gomar Pile. Next Paul Lynde. Finally Julia Child. They would sing show tunes in the same horrible harmony that our church choir sang "Be Thou My Vision". Ravens would perch in the window. Thunder would roar and lightening would crash across the sky.
I prayed. I really, really, prayed. "Dear Jesus, please let this work." I was open for anything. If I thought that I was a terrible straight act, I was even worse as a gay man. I couldn't cook. I couldn't dress right. I liked 4x4s and not Miatas. My sister, who hadn't even gone through puberty yet, had a bigger chest than I did. I hated the Wizard of Oz.
We began to pray. We all held hands. I was surrounded by Cheryl and mom. They got to hold Tom's hand. I wrapped my feet around the chair legs and held on. I knew that at any moment it would start. The convulsions. The foaming at the mouth. I would lose it. I mean really really lose it. Demons have a sick sense of humor and against my will they would propel me out of my chair and across the floor towards my mother. My hips would jerk. I would become Tom Jones. Then Elvis. Then the Village People. I would be lap dancing with my mother as "Macho macho man" spilled out of my lips followed by "In the Navy" and the 12 inch version of "YMCA." It would be the most horrible moment of my life. And my mother’s.
We prayed. I thought about all the sinful moments I had had. I remembered all the erections that came without warning just before I went up for communion. The dread and embarrassment. They never came during convenient times. Times where no one would see. Times like cleaning stalls, mowing the lawn or painting three railed white fence. No, it had to be during communion or when I ushered. It was the demons who would stare up from the golden offering plate I passed from uncomfortable wooden pew to uncomfortable wooden pew filled with farmers and bankers and the town mayor. I asked my friend Chris what I should do to stop the unwanted signs of sexual awareness and hormones gone stark raving mad.
"Think about something really bad; something that will make you cry," he said.
I tried it. The next Sunday when we had communion an erection started. Halfway through communion and just before our pew was motioned forward, I thought about my grandmother dying. It worked. I was almost in tears when I knelt down at the rail. I loved my grandmother. I was very upset. My father gave me a strange look as he bent down with the communal cup. Forget about swallowing the wafer. The wine was out of question. I was too choked up. Mom thought it was the Holy Spirit. Sometimes you just leave things be. I was just happy that I finally had control of my life again.
Two weeks later during p.e. I thought of my grandmother and got an erection in the showers. I called Chris and thanked him for the wonderful advice. I wasn't the only one with "company".
Tom was calling the Demons forth and I opened my eyes and looked around. I felt slightly light headed. My mom and Cheryl still had their eyes closed tightly and they were praying for all that they were worth. My hands were wet with sweat and they periodically squeezed them with conviction. I looked out the window and wondered where the storms were. The darkness. The voices. And the ravens. There had to be ravens. Where were those big black ominous ravens? The demons were still silent. Too silent. Why wouldn't they speak? Put up a fight? Try possessing my mother? Then it happened.
IT started as a trickle. A story came rushing from the recesses of my mind. In the stillness of muttered words and callings out, the memory overtook the voices. The greatest story never told. A story that should have been told. A memory that was quiet except to the two souls involved. One of them was me. The other was Cheryl's son, Tad.
It was my exorcism and I could cry if I wanted to. Facing a very unpleasant recollection that made the current concerns trivial, I shuddered. A vivid journey into bad judgement and cover up and metal meeting metal. A story that was so compelling, so real, and so relevant to the people in that room that I cringed as I thought of it. If there were demons truly inside of me, I knew that they would use the story to divert attention from the purpose of our little circle. Their exodus would be halted. Cheryl and my mother would be shocked into silence. I would be the sermon example of the century. I would be gay forever. I waited for the story to be exposed. The story of the red American Motors Ambassador Station Wagon with the fake wood grain sides, the three seats (one facing backwards) and the summer hot, winter cool, vinyl. The wagon which my high school friends had once referred to as Das Boot. The Boat. You know, the one that sank.
Tad and I were several years apart. He was younger than I but he was also very mature for his age. We were broke that summer and I had recently got my drivers license. He was fourteen. I should have known better.
During that hot summer we discovered a career path that we found challenging and which utilized most of our more refined skills. Accomplished at our job and somewhat respected by our peers, our original introduction into our chosen field of work was challenging. Although, we were dealt several setbacks during our initiation, we did not give up. We felt that in spite of these challenges there was money to be made and we were up to the challenge. We were proud. We were motivated. We were strawberry pickers. Paid by the flat. The only white boys in a sea of migrant, seasonal workers.
We thought we were indispensable. Truth is, we were slow, we ate the best berries and within weeks the farmer, who for some reason pitied us enough to keep us on, had moved us into the children's field where it was only through tremendous dedication that we were able to keep up with the pace set by the other children. Most of whom were ten years younger than us. The work was tedious. The sun merciless. Each flat took forever to fill and the results couldn't be forced, cheated, or exaggerated. We tried picking only the biggest berries so that the flats would fill faster. The farmer started weighing the flats. We tried stealing from the other kids what they had picked but we got more stolen from us then we got from them. We tried working hard and not talking and not throwing berries at each other but that was boring.
Having just been voted 'most creative' of my class, I struggled to find meaning in the experience. I believe it was as a result of the demons' inspiration that I found a purpose in all those strawberry fields. I decided it was my calling that summer to teach a fourteen year old member of my fathers' church the feeling of joy, independence, and manhood that could only be achieved from behind the wheel of a red, wood grained station wagon. In the intense June heat and covered in red strawberry stains, I decided I would teach Tad how to drive that very afternoon. We would be discreet. And safe. He would learn to drive Das Boot on abandoned country roads just as soon as we finished picking. Somewhere above us on a tall oak tree branch a raven was watching all of this. Cawing and beating forth wings of inspiration, bad judgement and the soon to be rising insurance rates of an innocent country preacher.
Tad sat behind the wheel and studied the machine that purred under him. His first time behind the wheel and it was to be in an Ambassador. The hood stretched out in front of us. It was long and sleek. A car with attitude. One that could find its way to Luther League conventions in spite of deep Willamette winter fogs and lost parents. Tad seemed lost behind the wheel and when we pulled out onto the back country roads it was anything but smooth.
I would like to say that the incident in question happened long into Tad's training. That he was accomplished and competent and had natural undiscovered talent. I would like to cling to this but I can't. My instruction and my first pupil’s drive only lasted a short time. Not long enough to get over 20 mph. Not long enough for me to give critical advice. Not long enough for me to reassure him and tell him that it was ok and that someday he WOULD be a good driver.
But long enough to see him take his first corner and gently peel off the entire right side of the station wagon. It happened in slow motion. We were at a railroad crossing with a guard rail that protected the crossing gates from collisions with red AMC station wagons driven by 14 year olds. He went too far to the right. We heard this sound. Crunchhhhhhhhhhhhhh, Scrrrrrrraapppppee. "Hmmm. How odd I thought. That sounds disturbingly like its our car making that sound."
The station wagon never made that sound before. It wasn't a happy sound. We seemed to be stuck. Hung up. The car was finding resistance and so Tad punched it. We lurched forward and it was my troubling discovery to find that the precious woodgrained siding was now nothing more than a memory. As was the passenger door. The right mirror. The fender. And the rest of the day’s lessons. Tad would not be receiving a passing grade. He hadn't even signaled.
Because I couldn't get out of the passenger door I was forced in humiliation to examine my father’s car from the now permanently frozen sliding window of the rear seat that faced backwards. I hung precariously out the back tailgate of the wagon and peered around the corner. It was a shocking sight. Shrapnel on four wheels. Meanwhile, Tad was frozen in the driver’s seat. Slowly letting the enormity of what had just happened sink in. He had wrecked his pastor's car, he didn't have a license and it could be very possible that if they didn't get the car unstuck soon it would be hit by the next train. His salvation was just a memory. The pastor's kid from hell had just purchased his one way ticket to the dark side. It was way too much information to consider at 14. Ferris Bueller didn't have anything on him.
As I looked at the car and looked at Tad and looked back at the car I was stunned. How could such gracious behavior on my part be rewarded with such disregard. Surely this was a mistake. A bad dream. A vision that would disappear. No, THIS was what remained of my father’s only car that could transport confirmation kids to class. The enormity of it all was way too much to consider.
We drove to Corvallis and I reassured Tad that this was just a simple mistake and that surely there would be an explanation that my father would see as adequate, logical and most importantly, one that would explain how a fourteen year parishioner came to find himself behind the wheel of his pastor's car. Tad reassured himself over and over with the simple phrase that he was going to hell.
We drove to Corvallis and talked to the young adult who was in charge of the church youth. We told him everything. About Tad's untapped talent just waiting to be put to use driving, how the car came to bond with the guardrail and the dilemma we currently faced of how to explain it all to our parents. The young adult felt that honesty was the best policy. We should come clean. Tell the truth. Confess the whole story, admit our lack of judgement, and offer to make restitution. We choose instead to go to a movie.
The movie theatre is where our pathway to salvation became obvious. It was a single screen theatre in Corvallis where all the vehicles parked at 45* angles to the sidewalk. Someone pulling in alongside the right side of the car could have hit ours if they weren't paying attention. Another vehicle could have done the damage. We could have been the victims of a hit and run. We could have been innocent. The story could be told to my father in such a way that I wouldn't be grounded for the rest of my life and Cheryl would not have to look up from those hard wooden pews and face the pastor up in the pulpit whose car her son had wrecked. Tad would live to see another sunrise, I would not have to explain to my father that another car in my possession at the time had been wrecked. Tad and I discussed our options. Truth. Or distorted truth.
It was, after all, sort of a hit and run. We did hit the guardrail. We did run. Why trouble our parents with all this messiness? Why let them worry about the sons they had raised? Why not just let the whole thing be blamed on some irresponsible stranger who didn't even have the courtesy to leave a note at the scene of the accident? Why not?
My grandfather and I once discussed his theory of how one ends up in hell. He was of the opinion that the pathway to hell is not one big decision but rather a series of little ones that just keep adding up. Eventually its just too late. A person's frequent flier miles are accumulated and you're on the hot seat flight to that awful place. It was Grandpa's studied opinion that very few people actually intend to go to hell, but that a lot of people end up there just the same. Probably wondering what and how it happened. They sit there smoldering, desperately trying to put their finger on the exact decision that sealed their fate.
We told my father the hit and run story. He surveyed the car and shook his head. His faith in humanity once again shaken. I considered that the consequences to this misstep would have to be made up to God. Tad considered becoming a Baptist. Whatever we did though, we knew that this would be an awful secret that we would take to the grave with us. I swore that I would never tell another lie as long as I lived and I went out into the pasture to watch the foals frolicking and see my horse. As I approached him, he turned away from me. His mane and forelock hid his eyes. But underneath all that gray dappled Arabness he studied me. His tail swished and slapped me in the face. It stung. Obviously he knew. He was disgusted with me. I was being read by my horse. Nothing could be worse.
Tom seemed to be praying with more intensity. I still felt nothing. Just the strawberry fields forever and red station wagon's sad image. But no demons. No evil spirits making demands. No evil thrashing and foaming at the mouth. All there was was just the same old me sitting there hoping against hope that this exorcism worked and that I'd be straight and get all of this desire out of my system once an for all.
I opened my eyes again as Tom made a final demand for the spirits to make themselves known. Cheryl's lips were tightly clenched. It was as if she was trying to stifle saying something. I imagined that whatever she was thinking it must be really outrageous. Cheryl prayed hard. I knew it was for my soul. Yet, I also knew that she still loved me even if I did have "Company". It took a lot of guts to pray for me instead of just burning me at the stake.
I know I was supposed to keep my eyes closed but as I watched her pray and her lips moved silently in unspoken words I considered all of it. What did her prayers sound like? Did she ask God for everything or just the big stuff? Did she pray for double off coupons on Special K at Albertsons or did she only ask God for grand healings, for the choir to please finish singing before the sanctuary windows cracked and for a Republican president? My mother was more subdued. She had this look of constipated worry buried under all the hope and faith. This absolutely had to work. We had tried everything else.
If there were demons hiding it would prove once and for all that it wasn't my fault. It wasn't her's. Or dad's. It was the demons that did it. Again I wondered what it would be like to be straight. A house in the hills, a wife named Maggie, 2.5 kids and one dog and a minivan. Whoa. A mini van? I shuddered. I thought to myself, "I can't drive a mini van. No way."
Tom ended the exorcism and informed our happy little circle that I was definitely not possessed. Everyone looked up and they all looked at me. I wondered if I looked any different. I was overwhelmed with the realization that all of my missteps were now actually mine. I had to take responsibility for them. 'Ownership of your sin' as Cheryl called it. I had a lot of holdings if that was true. I was the J.R. Ewing of the sinner set.
My mother was very disappointed. I found this interesting. I was probably the first child that a parent actually hoped was possessed. Now, we were back to square one. Cheryl squeezed my hand and I sat back in the chair and pondered the reality that this was it. I was gay. Not possessed by the spirit of some evil dude from the real down under. This was Tim, just as I was. The Full Timothy. I felt naked and exposed. I wondered what God was thinking about me.
We left the exorcism and the drive home was very quiet. I'm sure mom was considering her options. Another call to the 700 Club for advice or maybe a faith healing. I was thinking about the exorcism and wondering what it would have been like if I had been possessed. Would I have gotten to see the ravens? Would the spirits have been violent? Would Cheryl and my mother have learned to break dance demonic style?
When we got home, I silently went out to the pasture and sat down next to one of our mares who was nursing a foal. The baby sucked and tugged at her mother's udder pulling at the bags which held necessary nourishment. It was a rough little endeavor and occasionally it caused the mare great discomfort. Every once in a while, the mare would turn her head and watch us. Gently and with out alarm she stood sentinel over us. Me, sitting silently on the ground and her baby by her side making mince meat out of tits.
Once the foal stopped sucking and looked up at me. Its delicate muzzle frosted with white milk and beads of the stuff dripping off of small whiskers. Small ears perched forward and big round eyes full of wonder documented the human witness present. Everything seemed to reassure me of the purpose of existence. The foal studied me and I studied it. It seemed that as the foal and I looked into each others’ eyes that the variety of nature was worthwhile. I accepted that each was entirely different from the other. From species to species. From person to person. It was the way it was meant to be. The magic of diversity and the fingerprint of the divine. No carbon copies, no two the same.
The foal bopped her head up and down and stretched out her muzzle to brush my face and touch skin. Small puffs of warm foal breath caressed my cheek. Then the foal returned to its meal and I laid down in the tall green spring grass. I watched the sky and listened to the soundprints of the animals around me. The snorts and sneezes. The occasional nicker between foal and mother. I thought about being gay. There have always been gay people. There always would be. I wasn't sure how it happened but I knew I wasn't an accident. I was meant to be just as the foal and her mother. It was the order of things. Diversity and individuality display the Creator in all His glory. I reckon I'd pretty much pursued every avenue of change and it wasn't happening. Maybe it was just the way it was supposed to be. The order of something larger than I. Something I couldn't understand. Buried in DNA and flesh and tissue and the matter of cells and soul. I accepted it. I would do my best to honor God the best I could with whatever I was given to work with. I would never try to change again.
Epilogue
Sometime over that summer a raven must have visited Tad. In a moment of temporary possession he was compelled to confess to my little brother the events surrounding the station wagon. It was very useful information. My little brother had recently driven the Das Boot without adding any oil. In fact he had driven the car until it seized up on I 5. Suddenly his sin paled in comparison to ours. There was no offer of extortion to which I would have gladly succumbed. He went directly to my parents. They went to Tads parents. We considered going to Jamaica.
Happy Pride 1998
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