"Inflation" & "Hallelujah"

Inflation, Gale Acuff In church today when the collection plate was handed around and at last came to me it was all I could do to let fall my quarter, my parents' quarter really, they don't go to church themselves but send me for the morals, they say, and sleep late, still in their robes when I get home for lunch, which is a breakfast really, scrambled eggs and Tang. And coffee and cigarettes, which I can't have but just wait until I'm older and then watch my smoke. I hold onto it 'til the last little tick of a second, the quarter I mean, since it signifies two comic books at twelve cents apiece plus the leftover penny for Georgia tax, or five candy bars or a hamburger and fries at the Dairy Drool or maybe twenty-four pieces of bubble gum and twenty-five if I don't buy them all at once and then lose a piece to the government. Thou shalt not steal, that comes from the Bible and Miss Hooker, my Sunday School teacher, who was talking about it and the other Commandments. Ten there are, as I recall, but I can't remember the rest, something about adultery, though I'm not sure what that is, and don't covet thy neighbor's wife, which sounds dirty but I don't know why and I was halfway into a yawn when Miss Hooker gave the definition so I missed that, what covet means, I mean. I know that covey means some quail and Willie McCovey hits a lot of homers for the Giants. Oh, yeah: Honor thy father and thy mother. I try. They send me here to the church, and if I wanted to be a pissant about it I could say that they're trying to bribe God for not coming themselves. Still, a quarter is a quarter though not what it used to be, sighs Father. No, it sure isn't, Mother agrees. I don't know, I'm only 10 and they grew up during the Great Depression but they need to get modern, it's 1966 for Christ's sake. When I'm their age I hope I'm dead so I don't bother my own kids with stories about my pain in the past. If the plate came back around anyway I might pinch my quarter back, or at least take some change for it, a dime and a nickel, say. That would still be a sin but less of one. I take that back—it would still be a sin and even though God is two-bits richer I'll still go to Hell for being greedy even when I swapped out greed for silver. If Miss Hooker's right and one day Jesus is coming back it can't be too soon for a wicked little sinner like myself. Still, last month's Batman was the first part of a two-parter but it looks like I'll miss out on what happens although I think he'll live but I want to know how he'll live, how he escapes, how he does it—that's real living. But that's why they call it sacrifice and I guess that's why God had Jesus dangle on the Cross until He gave up the ghost, Jesus I mean, not God—or is it both?— so that I don't miss anything in life or at least I don't notice or if I do I won't care. I wish Reverend Horlock would shut the Hell up and just cue the choir for one last song so we can all go home. At least I'm sitting behind Miss Hooker. She's got freckles on her neck. I wonder if her freckles glow in the dark—I'd pay to see that. Her red hair just above her collar looks as soft as the fur on a mouse's belly or the down on a chick or the fuzz on a peach. I'm so hungry I could eat her. Hallelujah, Gale Acuff I'm walking my Sunday School teacher to her car. I don't want to go to Hell and she's as close to God as I've gotten so far, except for Preacher, and he scares me, jumping and shouting, sliding and howling, even crying and begging for us to come forward and give our lives to Jesus, but I'm afraid Jesus would throw mine back— I would, if I was Him. Or is that I were Him? Or I were He? I can't even speak good. Or is that well? So how the heck can I be saved in Heaven if I can't save myself, at least a little, down here? Being close to Miss Hooker might rub off on me, which is what I want, ditto her red hair and green eyes and mole on her nose and dimple in her chin—a crater's what it is, God bless her. And all those freckles, like little stars, or Mars in multiple, maybe infinity if she has more under her clothes. If she married me, then I'd know—we'd go on our honeymoon and see each other naked and when night falls I guess our eyes would adjust. We stop at her little Ford and I open her door for her, it's not locked, God wouldn't let anyone steal it, no way. I'd like to see what she's got in her glove compartment but that's none of my business and probably another kind of sin. And if I asked to peek inside she might say no and then I'd feel younger than my 10 and even farther away from her 25, and fifteen years is too much distance between us anyway, I mean that distance folks call time. Why, thank you, Gale, she says as she climbs in and I don't look at her knees as she swivels on her hams. You're quite a gentleman. Yes ma'am, I say, but I mean that she's welcome and not that I'm a gentleman. I guess I haven't made it plain how humble I am. I close the door for her and she grips the steering wheel with her left hand and turns the key with her right and fires up her little Falcon and I stand clear for her takeoff. She rolls away and I step into the center of her empty parking space and watch her going—home, I guess. I wave but I'm not sure if she sees me, if she's looking in her rearview mirror. She turns right and soon she's gone but I can't move, I'm still looking but I'm not sure for what, something in my heart or mind, I guess. No, that's not right—it's in my soul, or is my soul, that's all that's left, because she's taken my heart for a ride, and as for my mind it isn't too sharp so all I'm left with now is me, who I am. If I dropped dead of a heart attack right now they'd haul my body away but God would beat them to my soul and send it to the Good Place or the Bad Place. No more Miss Hooker, unless I get to Heaven where I can wait for her 'til she dies—she won't go to Hell, that's for sure, not if there's a God. As for Preacher, I won't judge him— if I'm in Heaven and have to share it with him then I'll try to get along, but if we're in Hell together then we might as well be alive for all that torture's worth. When I can finally move, I start for home. It's not far. I hear the church-bell ring coming and going—I'd like to get lost going back, but I never lose my way, find Mother and Father at the table. They make me go but never go themselves. That must be what it means to be grown up.