nodded. “I know, I know. Couldn’t resist that one, since you walked right into it. You shoulda seen the look on your face.”
The waitress chose that moment to approach our table. “Can I get you boys anything else?”
The Reverend said, “Yes, darling, I think you can. Would you be kind enough to tell me about the soup du jour of the day?”
“Split pea today.”
He grimaced. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide by, it’s split pea soup. What about you, Charlie?”
I shrugged. He turned his attention back to the waitress. “I reckon I’ll just have a slice of that apple pie with a scoop of ice cream on top of it. No, make that two scoops. Charlie?”
“No thanks.”
The waitress smiled at him and then went off to fetch his dessert. He said to me, “It ain’t no wonder you have a depleted sex drive, ol’ son. You don’t eat yourself enough of the finer things.” He said it loud enough for the people at the next table to hear him.
“Just because I don’t screw like a rabbit every chance I get doesn’t mean I have a depleted sex drive.”
“It does in my book. Look at it this way—is there anything in this material life more divine than screwing? I mean, I know good chow comes close, and I always enjoy a fine whiskey, but when it comes right down to it . . . no matter what you’re doing, wouldn’t you rather be screwing?”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t blaspheme. Really, Charlie. Can you think of one thing better?”
I shrugged again. The people at the table behind me had grown quiet, obviously listening to our conversation.
“Well, can you?”
“No, I guess not.”
The waitress came back with his pie. He said, “Thankee, ma’am,” and dug in.
I finished my sandwich while Marty Robbins sang “Don’t Worry ’Bout Me” on the jukebox. The group at the next table snickered.
In a low voice, I said, “Still . . . that doesn’t mean I have a depleted sex drive. It just means you’re hyper-horny.”
The Reverend chuckled, stabbed up a forkful of pie. “That’s a good one. Hyper-horny. Where’d you come up with that one? My point is, Charlie, all of us should be hyper-horny. Sex brings us closer to God. There should be fucking in the streets! Could you imagine that world? Say you’re working your job, presenting the ol’ boss with a proposal, and you get a good stiffie going out of nowhere. You could just say, ‘Pardon me, boss, but I’d like to go and put it to your secretary, if she don’t have no objections.’ And the boss would say, ‘Well, all right, but be quick about it, we got work to get to today. And while you’re doing that, I‘ll just sit in here and grease the axle.’ ”
He laughed out loud, and the silence from the table behind me had taken on a sort of nervous edge. I decided to let that particular line of conversation alone.
“Okay,” I said. “Right. I’m a sexual loser. A dickless wonder. That’s me.”
He finished up his pie, wiped his mouth. “Don’t let it worry ya, Charlie. Stick with me, I’ll make sure you’re cured of that particular ailment. Now what say we get on down to Cuba Landing?”
“Right,” I said.
I left the money on the table, and we started out. At the door I stopped, said, “Whoops. Forgot the tip. Go on, I‘ll meet you in the car.”
He went outside and I went back to our table, digging in my pockets for change. The folks at the next table—two young men and a pretty teenage girl—watched me with open curiosity. The girl said, “Excuse me. Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“That man you’re with . . . is he a priest? We saw the collar and just kinda wondered.”
I said, “He’s a preacher. A reverend, like.”
“Wow,” the girl said. “What do I have to do to join his church?” They all laughed.
“Just stay put,” I said. “If he needs you, he’ll find you.”
The sign read “Welcome to Cuba Landing! Stay a Spell!” in big cheerful orange letters. Beyond the sign, the endless cotton fields gave way once
The waitress chose that moment to approach our table. “Can I get you boys anything else?”
The Reverend said, “Yes, darling, I think you can. Would you be kind enough to tell me about the soup du jour of the day?”
“Split pea today.”
He grimaced. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide by, it’s split pea soup. What about you, Charlie?”
I shrugged. He turned his attention back to the waitress. “I reckon I’ll just have a slice of that apple pie with a scoop of ice cream on top of it. No, make that two scoops. Charlie?”
“No thanks.”
The waitress smiled at him and then went off to fetch his dessert. He said to me, “It ain’t no wonder you have a depleted sex drive, ol’ son. You don’t eat yourself enough of the finer things.” He said it loud enough for the people at the next table to hear him.
“Just because I don’t screw like a rabbit every chance I get doesn’t mean I have a depleted sex drive.”
“It does in my book. Look at it this way—is there anything in this material life more divine than screwing? I mean, I know good chow comes close, and I always enjoy a fine whiskey, but when it comes right down to it . . . no matter what you’re doing, wouldn’t you rather be screwing?”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t blaspheme. Really, Charlie. Can you think of one thing better?”
I shrugged again. The people at the table behind me had grown quiet, obviously listening to our conversation.
“Well, can you?”
“No, I guess not.”
The waitress came back with his pie. He said, “Thankee, ma’am,” and dug in.
I finished my sandwich while Marty Robbins sang “Don’t Worry ’Bout Me” on the jukebox. The group at the next table snickered.
In a low voice, I said, “Still . . . that doesn’t mean I have a depleted sex drive. It just means you’re hyper-horny.”
The Reverend chuckled, stabbed up a forkful of pie. “That’s a good one. Hyper-horny. Where’d you come up with that one? My point is, Charlie, all of us should be hyper-horny. Sex brings us closer to God. There should be fucking in the streets! Could you imagine that world? Say you’re working your job, presenting the ol’ boss with a proposal, and you get a good stiffie going out of nowhere. You could just say, ‘Pardon me, boss, but I’d like to go and put it to your secretary, if she don’t have no objections.’ And the boss would say, ‘Well, all right, but be quick about it, we got work to get to today. And while you’re doing that, I‘ll just sit in here and grease the axle.’ ”
He laughed out loud, and the silence from the table behind me had taken on a sort of nervous edge. I decided to let that particular line of conversation alone.
“Okay,” I said. “Right. I’m a sexual loser. A dickless wonder. That’s me.”
He finished up his pie, wiped his mouth. “Don’t let it worry ya, Charlie. Stick with me, I’ll make sure you’re cured of that particular ailment. Now what say we get on down to Cuba Landing?”
“Right,” I said.
I left the money on the table, and we started out. At the door I stopped, said, “Whoops. Forgot the tip. Go on, I‘ll meet you in the car.”
He went outside and I went back to our table, digging in my pockets for change. The folks at the next table—two young men and a pretty teenage girl—watched me with open curiosity. The girl said, “Excuse me. Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“That man you’re with . . . is he a priest? We saw the collar and just kinda wondered.”
I said, “He’s a preacher. A reverend, like.”
“Wow,” the girl said. “What do I have to do to join his church?” They all laughed.
“Just stay put,” I said. “If he needs you, he’ll find you.”
The sign read “Welcome to Cuba Landing! Stay a Spell!” in big cheerful orange letters. Beyond the sign, the endless cotton fields gave way once
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