11:35 a.m. - 2005-06-24
Sundays Rant
On Sundays, I usually accompanied Robbie to see the preacher with the cigar. I wasn't sure why, but that man completely intrigued me. I listened with rapt attention as he spoke about hanging your body on just one of God's promises. Never having actually owned a Bible, I didn't understand alot of what he said, especially about the Old Testament. I couldn't have articulated even one of God's promises. In fact, I was openly suspicious of the whole thing and routinely mocked Robbie for his gullibilty. Still, I returned week after week to hear this man barking to his ravenous and n'eer do well disciples that faith was a verb. I honestly don't know if it was out of some perverse curiosity or if God indeed had me by the scruff of my butt, there on those hard bleachers. I just knew that, come Sunday, you could count on my being there, staring straight into those alarming blue eyes in spite of myself. Oh, I continued to consult my daily horoscope, much to Robbie's chagrin. I was known to make important decisions with a pewter pendulum. I knew that hematite deflected negative energy and amethyst generated love. I had absorbed the wisdom of dolphins as channelled by women in flowing skirts with salt and pepper hair. My kundalini was copasetic. My chakras were spinning according to plan. But there was something in the words I heard spoken with gruff authority that caught my attention, planted a fresh seed in ground fertile with desperation and hope. After church, Robbie and I would plan Knock Gin back at my place. We would argue between rounds about God and destiny and mermaids and just about everything. Robbie could outtalk anyone on any subject, just by virtue of his accent alone. He was cocky and humble at the same time. Difficult to pin down in ordinary words. A grudge was an impossible concept for Robbie. "Oh, Precious!," he would say when I had said something particularly stupid that should have hurt his feelings. He was cute and ugly at the same time, too. "Coo Coo for Coco Puffs" is how he described himself. I could see myself sitting on some ricety porch in Mesquite complete with Blue Tic Hound snoring in the sun, playing cards and arguing. I could almost envision growing old with Robbie, but we never quite fit in terms of the present. And so we drank our Dr. Peppers and turned around our philosophies over pizza there in my bent willow palace. For a season. He was the kind of person that was never really gone, though. Just the skin was gone. He was always available on the other end of a phone to respond to my pleas from parts unknown. Sobbing I would hear my voice as though it were someone else's, begging softly "Robbie, talk to me about God". And patiently, he would answer all my questions with this infuriating surety that made me both ashamed and magnetized. I couldn't be with Robbie, not for real. But I was never without him for long either, not for real.
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