The Devil Wears Khaki Pants

I woke this morning to the peal of church bells in the distance, a sound that was my only familiarity with the traditional house of God. What God? I couldn’t say. For all I knew it could’ve been in worship to the International House of Pancakes. But I assumed it was nothing that intense or interesting. The area was old-white-money-Catholic, so I surmised it was probably a Catholic Church. Occasionally, in the heart of autumn, when all the fallen leaves left the trees bare skeletons of their former beauty, I could see the small church off Route 156 on my way to work in the morning. It looked like the stereotypical American church with a bit of stone and a whole lot of white; and yet, I would always look away, finding an excuse to change the dial on my radio, or memorize the license plate on the car in front of me. It made me uncomfortable in all I couldn’t understand. It was a stranger that practically lurked in my backyard under the guise of savior.
And yet, on this particular morning, those bells cried to me. They wailed with a passion and fervor I couldn’t remember feeling, and perhaps, had never felt. It was a war cry for the battle of my soul, and one which I’d thought had already been lost long ago.
With more than a little hesitation, I rolled over and shut my alarm clock off, groaning at 8:35 flashing in red neon light.
So early I thought so early.
It was a Sunday, and Sundays were never supposed to start before eleven, at the earliest. But there I was, partially erect, more than a little tired with a slight hangover kicking around the back of my skull like a persistent school teacher reminding me to do my homework, but in this case, the assignment, which I failed, was to take two aspirin and a bottle of water before I passed out still fully clothed. The only plus was that I woke up alone. It would’ve been hard to explain to a random somebody, and hopefully one that looked good enough naked in the morning light to have a sober repeat performance of whatever occurred the night before, that I was leaving her to attend a church I neither belonged to nor ever visited.
That would’ve been fun. I chuckled and my throat sounded hoarse and alien like it ought to have belonged to someone else, and someone much older than a soon-to-be twenty-six-year-old. I was always the first one to preach the sermon on the horrors of smoking. I’d assert my opinion to anyone whether they wanted to hear it or not about the harmful effects of secondhand smoke, and how I wanted cigarettes made illegal. But such is the case of a man who lives an utter contradiction, as soon as I’d get drunk, I’d bum cigarettes off everyone and anyone (the true Jekyll and Hyde wearing khaki pants). Judging by the soreness in my throat, it’d been a long night.
Worse, the bathroom seemed impossibly, agonizingly far to walk to, even though it was only about ten, maybe twelve feet from my bed. Legs that felt more like rubber carried me unsteadily to the toilet, all the while wondering why I did this to myself. And it was standing over my own white salvation, pissing out the sins from the night before (“my own little church, of sorts” I often joked until the joke was no longer funny, but continued to say it anyway), that I scrutinized my image in the mirror above.
Bloodshot eyes were sunken into my head in a very unhealthy purplish way that screamed “rehab.” Coarse stubble on my cheeks had the makings of a beard, and I vaguely wondered whether I would be turned away from the church before I stepped through the door.
Maybe I’ll burst into flames. No laughter was forthcoming at this absurd thought because somewhere inside, I knew it to be partially true. Churches were made to keep people like me out. They were designed to separate the wolves from the flock. They wanted everyone to see those that stalked outside their God’s good graces, preying on the weak and vulnerable with every casual wink and devilish smile. They wanted the masses to stay away from the sins wearing khaki pants.
People can change, I half-pleaded, half-thought with a desperation that wasn’t at all like me. Confidence is as good to evil as insecurity is detrimental. I heard the bells again in the distance, only they felt farther away. Time was running out.
With as much gusto as I could muster for a Sunday morning, I brushed my teeth, found a pair of sneakers, donned a hat, and thought for a quick second about whether hats were allowed in churches. I seemed to remember a memory from childhood that said you weren’t allowed to wear a hat in church, some kind of disrespect. I looked myself over in the mirror once more without the hat, noting my outrageous hair, still caked with gel from the night before, sticking up all over as if I’d been electrocuted, and decided it was more of a disrespect to go to church without a hat.
I glanced down at my watch and saw it was five to nine. Nothing worse than being late to an appointment with an omnipotent entity I thought while scouring my house for the car keys. And then like a true vision from above, I seemed to remember stumbling into the house under the groggiest of conditions. There, in the front door lock, were my keys, just waiting for any burglar to let himself right in.
I’m such an idiot. This time no visions assailed my sense of self with a reassuring voice that I wasn’t. Apparently, all the powers that be whole-heartedly agreed with that thought. I even said it aloud once more for emphasis “I am an idiot.”
The car started up and I flew off in the direction of the unknown, only to find I couldn’t do it…
I drove there, fought for a parking spot like I was visiting the hottest attraction in all of New England, walked to the door, and stopped. I couldn’t do it. It was impossible to pinpoint any specific reason. There was no great tragedy of the past that kept me from reaching out. Rather, it was a culmination of feelings ranging from guilt at having not attended a church for the better part of a decade, all the way to alienation, as if everyone would know I was an imposter.
And maybe, at least a little, I had to admit that at the end of the day, we are what we are. At the end of the day, in the words of Billy Joel, “I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints…”
Amen.

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church, fiction, god and religious