[Church Boy] by Daniel Porter

Even as a little kid the omniscient feeling
of my fate was there. I was a very sensible
kid I guess. I kinda could always tell what
people around me were thinking. It was the
subtle things that gave them away. Well I'm
not here to discuss body language, or any of
that.

My story started on a Wednesday night. At a
youth church event, right across the street
from the liquor store my Dad owned. Now I'm
no church boy or anything, and well neither
is my Dad. I was invited by Elizabeth
Peterkin, a rosey cheeked brunette.

Yes, if it wasn't for her school girl charm,
I wouldn't have been speaking in tongue
right then. To some obese man, named Pastor
John. On June 6th 1993, I was a saved boy.
Blessed with the holy spirit, I was another
Irish-German, callow mess of a kid. In the
eyes of a small southern town, I was golden.

You should have seen the eyes of Mrs.
Peterkin, when she saw me praying with
Pastor John. You would have thought she
anointed me herself. Mrs. Kirtrich Peterkin,
was Elizabeth's grandmother, a frail old
woman with puffy white hair. Who was
sporting her latest sweater right out of the
Bells winter catalog. She was a sweet lady,
who gave large donations to the church every
few months. Her husband was a rich man, and
my Dad's biggest customer. After the service
Mrs. Peterkin pulled me aside and said:
"Miles, I am so happy to see you here, I
haven't seen you here since you were a boy.
Oh how you look just like your Mother. I
just hope you don't act like your Dad. I
hope to see you back next Wednesday."  I
smiled and said: "Yes Mrs. Peterkin, I'll
be back. Will Elizabeth be here next
Wednesday?"  She then chuckled and said,
"Im afraid not, she has a personal prayer
group to attend to. But you will still be
here despite that, right?" then choking on
my own grief I smiled and said, "Yes, of
course." I was happy my night of frolicking
with the holy ghost was over. That night in
bed my mind raced with the thought of
Elizabeth. I didn't think of Pastor John
or Mrs. Peterkin. Nor did I replay in my
mind the intolerable excuse for music known
as "Christian Rock."  I only dreamed of
seeing Elizabeth Peterkin one more time.