At the time my stepfather died in 1997, he owned two video stores. A mall one three blocks away from our house and a larger one in the next town over. During summers while I was in college, I worked at the larger one. The commute was worth it, since I would have more responsibility and thus make more money. But during high school, I was stuck in the smaller one.
The store only had about 1,000 movies to rent, which may sound large, but is not a great selection. Nevertheless, when you have access to tons of free movies, you will suddenly have oodles and oodles of friends. More than you ever knew you had. Or wanted to have, for that matter.
One day in the spring of 1995, one of my close friends, Benji, did show up. We’d been friends since the Third Grade and were virtually inseparable up until the Seventh Grade, when he decided he’d had enough of that Old Time Religion and went to public school.
He was a bold soul. He worked at a country club and did a comedy routine on every open mike night. The applause went to his head, so he eventually dropped out of school and tried to join an improv group in Atlanta. When that fell through, he got a GED and tried culinary school. He finally wound up working at a video poker casino and traveling with a Civil War reenactment troupe. Confederate, of course.
He showed up at the store in the middle of the week, which happens to be the slowest time. He knew I was about to leave for the University of South Carolina in a few weeks and wasn’t particularly likely to be back.
“We’ve both got to do something monstrous before we die!” which exactly translated meant before we have to grow up. He eyed the poker machine in the corner of the store.
Now, I hate gambling. I think it is an incredibly foolish thing to do. Either wealthy people waste money gambling or poor people, who can least afford it, have to do without because they’ve wasted needed money on their habit. It’s not something I’ve ever had much urge to engage in. Naturally, Benji would consider it a personal victory to get me to flip that switch.
Benji always had this skill to loosen up and do things my natural fuddy-dudness won’t allow. I figured that no one was around, so what if I splurge a bit? I’m about to head off into the big city without ever taken any big risks in life.
I pulled out an Andrew Jackson and put it in the slot. Benji grinned like he’d just discovered photos of Bill Gates with a fourteen-year-old hooker as I slid unto the stool. I pushed the hit button and the lights blared and the buzzers sounded as the display started rolling.
One cherry. My eyes widened.
Two cherries. His did, too.
Three cherries. I had doubled my money.
Benji whooped and hollered. “I knew you’d like it! Smelling that green! You’re a river boat gambler at heart.”
I got off the stool, without saying a word. I walked behind the counter and filled out a receipt for forty dollars, and flipped the machine off, then on again as you do after a final payout. Benji was flabbergasted.
“What are you doing? You won!” he exclaimed.
“I know, and I’m taking it.” I told him.
“But you were winning.”
“I never tempt Fate. She’s meaner than I am.” I replied.
Nevertheless, Benji had witnessed a crack in the old straitlaced Palmetto and has never let me forget it—or the fact that most people believe I sleep in a necktie (It’s not true, darn it!) I get him back, of course.
How many gamblers do you know who’ve doubled their money and still kept a perfect record?
When I got to the University of South Carolina in the fall of 1995, I was as green as the fairways at Augusta National. Loud music blared everywhere, girls were mini skirts and halter-tops—I was in a whole new world and I didn’t quite know what to make of it. For all my bravado, I was a naïve country boy.
Naturally, I fell in love the second day of classes.
It was an ancient history course in a huge auditorium. I sat right at the back door so I could avoid the huge crowd that would inevitably barrel out as though the end of class went the hounds would be released and hot on everyone’s tail. Shortly before class began, she walked in.
Even though it was late August, she wore a pink turtleneck sweater and a mini skirt that showed off her wonderful legs. But that wasn’t the first thing I noticed as she plopped her books down and smiled across the aisle at the first person she saw—me. No, it was her baby blue eyes. Clear oceans that one could get lost in if he didn’t have an anchor to the real world.
She had a drink with her, and during class she casually sipped on the straw as she turned the pages of her textbook. It was the most erotic thing I had ever seen. We didn’t have stuff like that back on the farm, kiddies.
Not one to give in to silly whims, I said nothing to her. But fate kept putting us in the same place. We’d share an elevator or wind up at the Hamburger Grill at the same time with our entourages. One day she finally said, “You know, we run into each other all the name and I don’t even know your name.”
I thought I would freakin’ die!
So I told her, and she said she would remember it. I had known hers from day one, but that was irrelevant, wasn’t it? Anybody?
I never told her I was infatuated that semester, but when we wound up in the same class again the next semester, I took it as an omen. She didn’t have a boyfriend, or at least she never spoke of one. I thought that Valentine’s Day would be a perfect time to, if nothing else, introduce a closer friendship. If she wasn’t going to get a Valentine’s gift anyway, what was the harm in a friend thinking about you?
Oooooooh booooy!
I had a single rose delivered to her dorm room with a best wishes message and my phone number. She called while I was out, and got my
roommate instead. I wish I had known that before I ran into her, since specifics were a bit hard to come by.
“Did you like the rose?” I asked.
She was happy she had a secret admirer. That made my heart soar. “Yes, but how did you know about it?”
There are times when you can identify the exact moment that your heart shatters. This happened to be one of those times.
“I sent it.” I had never seen so beautiful a flower wilt so fast. She had forgotten my name, I though her admirer was someone else. She tried to be nice anyway.
“Thank you. I was having a bad day, and that cheered me up tremendously.”
Uh huh. I can tell.
“You’re welcome. Anytime I can help you, let me know.” I said, and strolled. She avoided me for a long time there until she realized I didn’t mean to hurt her or place her in an awkward situation.
Eventually, we did become good friends. She ran both of my campaigns for the Student Senate, as well as worked for Governor Beasely’s reelection campaign. She’s now married to a medical student (Did I mention how often i fall or gold diggers? Must have slipped my mind.) and a lawyer in Charleston
I’ve thought about that silly stunt long and hard in the years since then. It’s made me wonder if our friendship would have developed if I hadn’t done something so stupid, or if it would have blossomed into romance had I been I little less Duddly DoRight and more plain old me. Not that i actually learned anything from that, mind you.
My roommate my freshman year of college was a stagehand in the spring semester for the theatre department. He got in free to all the plays that he was required to see as part of a theatre appreciation class, which saved him quite a buck or two.
One night he came back and said he had seated another student who invited my roommate to visit his church. He asked if I wanted to come along. My fish out of water feeling hadn’t yet evaporated, and I thought that some “hellfire and brimstone” preaching might remind me of home, so I agreed to go.
That Sunday, the pews were filled, mostly with young people. I assumed that the church had a large campus outreach program. The hymnals were relatively modern. No Old Rugged Cross or Amazing Grace, like I’m used to, but I knew theology gets a little watered down as you go into bigger towns.
The sermon was so trite and feel good as to be almost New Age. Very little was read from the Bible at all. I felt like the flapdoodle I was observing was better suited for an infomercial than a church service.
My roommate told me they wanted to hold a Bible study in our dorm room the following week. I thought that was a great idea. One on one study can get to the meat of theology. I readily agreed.
Some guys I had never seen before showed up in our room that night to study. They were all friendly and we got along great. The study leader from the church arrived. His name was Royce. Just Royce. Nothing else, he said.
He asked if we all had Bibles. I held up a New Testament only.
“This is only the New Testament,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“That’s okay. You won’t need the Old Testament.” Royce replied.
Royce began to explain his theology. I knew things were fishy, but I didn’t know how badly.
Royce began, “We are all called to be disciples. We cannot be called the Servants of Christ unless we are disciples. He called up bits and pieces of verses, all taken out of context, to support his claim. He laid claim that to have salvation, one must be entirely without sin.”
“That’s completely wrong,” I said. “Romans 3:23 says that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. Are you saying you are without sin?”
“Yes.” came his reply.
“You’re telling us that you are perfect and unless we follow your prescription for salvation, we are not saved?” I asked.
“That’s what the Scripture says.”
“No, that’s the piecemeal version that you’ve strung together. You have no theological training, or math, either.”
“Come again?” he asked.
“You said we are not saved until we become disciples and save another. What happens when the last man is saved? There is no one for him to save, there fore he isn’t saved, either. Nor is the person who witnessed to him. You are teaching a false doctrine.”
Needless to say, he told me I was going to hell and assured the others that if they listened to me, they would, too. It turns out that Royce’s church is an anti-Semitic cult that rejects the Old Testament, orders its members to associate amongst only themselves and drop all connections to their past lives. Campus security has a file on them two feet thick because they prey on incoming freshmen every year. I was fortunate to have the background that I do. It often worried me lying in my bed at night that this scene was repeating somewhere else, and some lonely kid away from home for the first time was about to make a tragic mistake. It chills my soul.
Literally.
