Be My Guest / Spreading The Love / Week 3 / Day 2
Sound shared by: jw wilcox
Say Anything - For Sale… EP - Slumming it with Johnny
[ sanctimonious ]
Original words, by Danielle Lewis Wilcox -
“WHAT A GREAT SERMON,” Bob hollered from our pew. We were in the back row and the people praying in front of us turned around with concerned looks. “I REALLY LIKE WHAT PASTOR MIKE DID WITH THE SCRIPTURE. VERY UNSENTIMENTAL.”
“Bob,” I whispered, “what are you doing? Keep your voice -,” Bob shook his head and covered my mouth with his hand. It smelled like hand sanitizer. “IT’S BAD LUCK TO WHISPER IN THE MORNING,” he said. Bob was my new friend. Only friend. I met him through AA and we’d become acquainted enough to lose our anonymity. He flipped over the service leaflet and started writing on the blank page. “HERE,” he said, and took a pen from out of his pocket. This is what he wrote. It’s bad luck to whisper in the morning, Ted. I’m very superstitious. Superstitions are important to me. I’m surprised you didn’t know that about me yet. I’ve been talking at a conversational volume in church my whole life. My mother refused to let us whisper before noon. Once, a woman whispered to her while passing a collection plate. I thought my mom was going to empty it out right there on the church floor and womp her on the head with it. Later that day, when we were driving home from church, she hit a black cat with the front of her car. A black cat, Ted. Did you know black cats are also bad luck? I nodded my head yes to him. His eyes were big and sincere, like he’d just witnessed the cat getting hit all over again. I thought the story was over. He’d filled the leaflet with words, but he pulled my leaflet out of the hymnal on my lap and continued his story on the back of it. Just checking. You wouldn’t believe how many people don’t know about the black cat thing. Never assume anything, Ted. Anyway. A year ago I took Kendra, my ex, to a matinee. She started whispering something to me during the previews. I stopped her before she said too much, but it was too late. That night, when I got home, I drank almost a fifth of Calico Jack while she was asleep. I relapsed, Ted. All because she whispered. Bob put his pen down and looked at me with hope. Pastor Mike was reciting the prayers of the people, the part of the service where he prayed for our president and then for the dying friends and family members of the people sitting around us. I was glad to be there, even if it was with crazy Bob, and even if the people around me had loved ones dying. It was better than being alone. Bob started scribbling with his pen again. Do you believe me? Is that okay, that I don’t whisper? “IT’S FINE, BOB,” I said, loudly. He clicked his pen and shoved it back into his pocket.