25 February 2007 | Vol. 6, No. 4

Thrift Shop Confessional

by RICHIE DENT

I don't know what was harder to believe, that Pam's mother threw her out of the house or that Gail Tate turned Born Again! I thought most people who get suckered into those kinds of religious cults are sheepish and antisocial… losers. But Gail joins sports and has yearbooks filled with sentiments like, thank you for being you and a girl above the crowd. Don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against Born Agains. It's religion I don't like. I mean if there is a God he/she/it isn't going to punish people for not going to church on Sunday, or eating a piece of meat during the wrong time of the year. God. I could go on for hours about how if everyone would just do his or her part in making the world a better place there wouldn't be religion at all. But nobody is going to listen to a punk like me, and even if they did, it wouldn't solve the problem at hand, which is what to do about Gail.

Actually Jenny and I had heard about Gail and the Born Agains months back from Brian one day after school on the lacrosse field. I knew then that I wanted to do something to save Gail, like flush a crucifix down a toilet in front of her, something dramatic that might make her snap to. I even lifted a cross from the thrift shop that I went to with Pam (she didn't know). I told Jenny and she said that the idea had merit but it would be too hard to get Gail near a toilet. It would be better if we smashed a picture of Christ in front of her, in front of the whole school, kind of like how you might pour out a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of an alcoholic, you know, to prove there is life without Christ.

Jenny should know all about that. She and the rest of her family performed one of those AA interventions on her oldest brother just last week, after several more neighbors complained about him shouting up to God. He gets it into his mind sometime that there is something in him, an evil, some sort of shame that only God can remove. Of course his real problem is much deeper than drinking. The guy should be on meds for depression, ADD, but Jenny's mother doesn't believe in that kind of stuff. She says things like that the Lord can take care of whatever she don't understand, and whatever He can't deal with Christ can handle the rest. Jenny's mom isn't a zealot like a Born Again as much as a simple woman making up rules that seem to cater to what she can and cannot deal with. Of course I told Jenny that I would go along with smashing the picture of Christ in front of everyone, but that was before last night. I'm not saying I instantly understood religion or wanted to be Born Again, only that what had happened had made me think if believing in Christ makes Gail happy, what right do Jenny and me have of getting in the way of that?

Annette had pulled me aside after class and said I have a natural gift for the tango, that she personally would like to help develop. All I could think about was the rose, the one we had exchanged from mouth to mouth. It was something a dude like me, in this neighborhood, would have felt strange just looking at before, now I was somehow more powerful than it, beside myself, validated, as something as beautiful. Annette had taught and danced the tango from Buenos Aires to Paris and had picked me to teach. I have never had anyone that exotic interested in that part of me before. It created something inside of me, something that if someone were to say were wrong, I would shut down, like Gail, or try to make them see things my way.

No. The best that I can do now is to avoid Jenny until she forgets all about the cross. I decide to take a different stairwell to first period—maybe one that might run me into Pam. I never did find out what happened to her the other day after her brother chased us out of the house for filming that movie in there. Did she get in trouble for having people over? Was she still on that gypsy curse kick or not? Suddenly in an interest to focus only on Pam and forget all about Jenny, I carelessly switched back to my old route to first period and boom, ran smack dab into Jenny. She's wearing around forty rubber bracelets and a teal shirt that matches my best guy friend Doodle's shoes.

"What are you two doing together?" The words leap out of my mouth before I can think about them. I'm not territorial with my friends or anything like that, but I know Doodle doesn't want to sleep with Jenny and the only thing I can guess is that they're bonding by talking shit about me.

"We were just coming to get you."

"We?"

Jenny jerks her thumb toward Doodle. "He wants to help us with the plan." Jenny pulls a picture of Christ out of her purse before I can argue or ask how he even found out. "You ready? Gail should be at her locker any minute."

"About that… I was thinking… it might be better to wait."

"Wait? The longer we wait the worse off she'll get!"

"Yeah," Doodle adds, his teeth sparkling like the graffiti lettering across the front of his jacket—Doc Crew.

"You don't even know Gail."

"I'd do her." Doodle begins to laugh and I don't know if I should smack him or laugh along. Ever since we meet I couldn't help but consider him my best friend, the way he loves to laugh at all my stories, how he thinks that everything I do has some sort of significance or is the most important thing in the world. I'd even go as far to say that we are kindred spirits, if I believed in that sort of thing.

"We have to hurry," Jenny pleads.

I look at the picture of Christ in her hand. The long hair and pleading eyes reminds me of her brother, staring up toward the sky, waiting, waiting, waiting to have his pain taken away. Then my eyes drift back to the jacket Doodle is wearing, the Doc Crew lettering. Of course if it were up to Doodle I'd be in already, but there is still Mike and Cupid who need to decide if I'm cool enough to be in. Something like smashing a picture of Christ could be the final push needed to make them approve.

"Come on." I take the picture of Christ and hide it behind my back. "Before I change my mind."

—

What if this was reversed? What if Born Agains bashed into Annette's dance studio and smashed a framed picture of Juan Carlos Copes at my feet? The image of a tango intervention is amusing enough that when I see Gail down the hall, I hold firm inside the sort of triangular formation Doodle, Jenny, and I are in. I come up to Gail's locker, surrounded by other Born Agains, and look her straight in the eye.

"Hi guys!" Gail's eyes light up, a small window into a starry night sky. People don't bother with her ever since the change. She slams her locker shut and throws a book sash over her shoulder. "What's going on?"

"We just wanted to ask you a quick something about Christ."

"Sure! Ask away."

"What do the Born Agains think about other religions that don't believe in Christ?"

Gail turns to the other four girls and they nod at one another as if in a telekinetic conference, but when they turn back to us only Gail speaks. "Christ was sent from God to save everyone. Nonbelievers simply have to choose Christ and they will be forgiven for any past sins."

"Sins meaning belonging to other religions?"

"Yes. Or not believing at all or not enough."

"Well if everything else is wrong why doesn't God just force us to believe in Christ?"

"He wants us to choose him."

"So he's trying to thin out the heard?"

"We don't like to think of it like that."

"How do you like to think of it?"

"You can always choose to be Born Again."

"Let's say that I don't."

"Let's say that you do."

I look over at Jenny and Doodle. I can tell by their expressions that they are just as shocked as I am at Gail's commitment. I know to them it makes Gail and the other Born Agains seem more absurd, but Annette would call anyone willing to defend something they love as passionate, and my doubts about how good of an idea this really is begin to plague me once more. I try to think of another line of argument to stall the intervention, but before I can, Jenny rips the picture of Christ from behind my back and holds it over her head. Gail looks at the picture then back at me in confusion. Several thoughts cross my mind, thoughts too complicated to convey in expression, and I wind up looking menacing. I'm thinking of Jenny's brother and the televangelists on Sunday mornings that just want everyone's money but I'm also thinking of the Gail I once knew, and how she seemed perfectly fine before and now she seems bloated with false hope. Jenny must read my mind because she lets the picture drop as soon as I come to this, the plastic frame shimming like a tossed coin landing Christ-up.

The Born Agains all look down, and before they know what's going to happen next, Jenny jumps into the air. For a moment everything seems frozen: Doodle's grin, Jenny's airborne, teal spiked Blahniks, and the Born Agains' faith running throughout their eyes, about to shatter, like some stain glass window. Jenny lands. The plastic frame smashes, echoing throughout the hallway. Take that you fucking wack jobs.

"Nett!" Jenny laughs. "You people are fucked up."

"Yes!" Doodle cheers.

"Oh God!" One of the Born Agains cries out.

I expect them all to follow suit, but Gail steps forward.

"What on earth do you idiots think you're doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I say.

"No."

"You've been brainwashed. Wake up. We're trying to save you from yourselves."

"I can't believe this," Doodle says.

"Shame on you," Gail says.

"Gail. There is life without Christ," I say.

Gail lets her eyes drift upwards to heaven before letting them fall back down onto the smashed frame. She fishes out the picture and tenderly slides Christ into one of her books. "I'm sorry about this girls," Gail says. "Let's get out of here." The Born Agains slowly pull themselves together and follow Gail down the hall.

"You can't just walk away from this," I call out, but more for the small group of people that had stopped to watch.

"Well hallelujah," Doodle taunts.

"Oh shut up," I say.

"What's wrong with you?"

"This isn't supposed to be funny."

"What's you're problem?" Jenny asks.

I turn accusingly to her.

"Gail hates us now."

"What do you care?"

"She was my friend."

"Was is the key word," Jenny replies casually. "You heard what she said. As far as she's concerned we are all going to hell."

—

"Do you believe in God?" Pam asks. I think the question is a bit heavy considering we're riding on the top of a rubber connection lock, extending from the back of a moving trolley. The Gail thing had ridden me all day and I was just trying to find some peace from it, riding something else, as if this took the weight off my mind. "Because I know there isn't one."

"How do you know a thing like that?"

"I'm living on the streets."

"You're staying at Sheila's."

"For tonight. Then where?" The trolley starts up the steep bridge that crowns the entrance to Taylor Park. My fingertips dig into the metal trim, just under the S.E.P.T.A. logo. I don't know why I bother to do this. I guess I always expect to be blown over the edge, but this never happens. The wind holds us in place, like when Pam maneuvers Victor's BMW behind a semi-truck on the New Jersey turnpike and takes her foot off the gas. The inertia pulls us, an invisible tow, and when Pam returns the car the gas tank is still almost full; he never knows how long or how far we took his car. I think of suggesting Victor's as a place to stay but Pam would rather live in an ATM booth than that pervert's jewelry shop.

"I don't know what you're complaining about. You hate living in that house and you hate your mother. I wish my mother would kick me out."

"Dude, trust me, you don't. The real world sucks. You have to get a job and work all day and pay bills. Think about it—where would you live if you got kicked out?"

"I don't know—Jenny's? Doodle's? Cupid's?"

"See. There is no perfect place that comes to mind," she says.

"Why don't you move into one of those apartments down by Acropolis Pizza?"

"And be a loser like Danny?"

I turn away so Pam doesn't see how this bothers me. Danny isn't a loser. He's one of the most peaceful people I know, and I feel bad knowing what I know about Annette and not saying anything to either one of them about it. You know what Pam's problem is? She's a snob with no money. She also has big dreams but is too much of a chicken shit to do anything about them. Like how she thinks we should move to Hollywood and get jobs being crazy. I guess we could do that. I don't know how that would exactly work. Can you just walk into some studio and ask for your own television show?

"Well would you look at this?"

I crane my neck to see what Pam is looking at as the trolley dives down from the bridge, and spot her backyard neighbor standing at the next platform, holding a shopping bag. I guess we must be on the express because the trolley whisks by without stopping. Pam screams bitch at the top of her lungs and her backyard neighbor lunges around in profound confusion. When she finally spots us, Pam gives her the finger. The woman looks stunned, like the pansies in her backyard we trample every time we cut through to get to Pam's. To her, we must look like those suction-cup things housewives stick on the back windows of their minivans, except instead of panda bears and cats, we are life-sized volatile teenagers.

"That was hilarious!"

"I think she's calling the cops."

"I wouldn't be surprised. She told my mom about the movie."

"How did she know that?"

"She said she saw a girl with a camera running after a boy in a dress across her yard."

"That's not true. Sheila was first and I ran after her in a dress."

The trolley slows down before coming to a complete stop. I don't know this neighborhood and you can't see any landmarks because the street that runs parallel to this is blocked by rows of tall hedges.

Pam looks worried. "Why have we stopped?"

"Relax. They probably have to wait for another trolley to pass. The tracks switch down there."

Pam exhales. "The cops are the last thing I need."

"God, Pam I have never seen you so serious. Everything is going to work out."

"Nothing ever works out."

"You have to believe it will."

"What… so you believe in God now?"

"Not God God, but something, you know, I guess."

"Whatever."

"I'm serious. Sometimes I feel like there is something more to me. I don't know what."

"I feel better knowing there isn't a God."

"Why?"

"Because if there is one he must hate me." Pam's expression jumps from fatigue to shock. I think she's seeing an angel until someone grabs my arm and yanks me off the back of the trolley.

"Oww!"

"Get off him you asshole!"

"Quiet, punk!"

I break free and Pam and me take off, sliding under one of the hedges but the escape tunnel is blocked by someone's back fence. One of the guys grabs Pam by the leg and pulls her back into the loose stones. I consider climbing the fence but after what I did to Gail today, I couldn't abandon Pam. I would be totally evil. I slide out under the hedge and allow myself to be dragged inside the trolley.

"Stand behind the line." The trolley driver hisses. He's the one who grabbed Pam—a husky black man. The accordion doors slam shut and the trolley lurches forward. The driver picks up the walkie-talkie under the long angular window to his left.

"Officer Davis here. Go head. Over."

"I got 'em. Over."

"We'll be at the next stop. Over."

"Oh my God," Pam whispers. "Cops! What do we do?"

I push Pam forward, over the line.

"Hey! Hey!" the trolley driver barks. "Get back there and sit down."

Pam and me walk down the aisle. She is muttering frantically about jail or some shit like that but I have my eyes on the back door and before I can suggest that to Pam the driver speaks over the intercom. "Don't even think of going near that back door!"

I slump melodramatically into the empty operating booth, a duplicate of the one the driver is sitting in for when the trolley reaches the end of the line and needs to go back into the opposite direction. The trolleys do this all day and night, like the tango, the wires above sparking every time the trolleys pass each other.

"What are you doing?" Pam says.

I lean back, further behind the metal slab that would protect the driver. The large angular window is unlocked and I slowly pull it open. I maneuver one leg out, then the other half of my body follows. I lower myself down the outside, holding onto the window ledge, then let go. My feet hit the tracks with a thud but I am able to catch my balance within the loose stones. Pam isn't as lucky; she lands in a painful summersault that sends her backpack of clothes bouncing down the rails. "I can't believe that worked."

"We got to get out of here."

"Let's go back the way we came."

"I have to get to Sheila's."

"But I got to start home."

"We should split up."

"We never split up."

"They'll be looking for the both of us. Now run before they notice we're gone." Something weighs in Pam eyes like in the picture of Christ himself. Either she is trying to push God away or let him in long enough to get us out of this mess. "Call me."

Pam takes off and I head in the other direction, disoriented and scared—wondering how Pam has done it for this long, out here, in the real world, barely seventeen, on her own.

—

I try to concentrate on the story Mike and Eric are telling but my mind is still on Pam. I feel guilty being here knowing that she was supposed to come. The cops could have caught her. I barely made it myself. I had hid under several porches, watching the cop cars glide by from behind wood slates, covered in dirt; you would think they were looking for a terrorist or a serial killer instead of two teenagers on a joy ride.

Doodle lights a joint and passes it around the circle. I look out over the crowd mingling under the floodlights. Most of the girls are dressed as mice or maids, you know, easy outfits that don't compromise the cleavage. If Pam had come to the party she wouldn't have worn anything like that. I look at the more bulky costumes, to see if anyone is dressed like tits (like Jenny and me), but all I see are ghosts and pumpkins, then Sheila dressed as a flight attendant. I stand without thinking, almost ripping our costume in half.

"Hey," Jenny complains. "Watch it."

"Sorry. I keep forgetting we're attached."

"What are you guys anyway?" Cupid asks.

On cue Jenny stands, sending the two tassels taped on the front of the tan garbage bags flipping around in circles. "We're tits."

"Fuck," Cupid replies. Despite his name, Cupid doesn't look anything like the cherub of love; he is long as a reed, barely