The swingset where Lingbom and Patterson got in a fight in third grade was gone, and so was the church that had been their elementary school.
Lingbom couldn’t remember exactly how they became best friends, but they did.
Some hippie “nu-faith” had taken over St. Mark’s, and they didn’t have a school, so it made sense that the swingset was gone.
But it pissed Lingbom off, because he was planning on stealing it and taking it to Advanced Recycle on Ryan, right near that shitty seafood joint.
F&G?
F&H?
F& overpriced cod that was all batter.
Lingbom cut through the hole in the fence at the hippie church twice after the swingset was removed and the second time he decided to steal and scrap the modern cross on the side of the building.
Patterson agreed to help when he was really high, which was almost always now that Patterson’s mom was gone and he could eat all her dilaudid.
The night they planned to steal the cross, Patterson got all freezy and jittery, but Lingbom talked him into it between pointing out how foggy it was, and a right fist cocked a foot away from Patterson’s face, attached to a skinny, sinewy junkie arm.
They took two ladders over to St. Mark’s, which was now known as “Bestship.”
Lingbom thought it was a stupid name, even after Patterson explained the play on words.
Patterson was saying “we gotta hustle” before they even put the ladders up, Lingbom nervous too but wishing Patterson would shut up.
They had two pry bars, a small acetylene torch Lingbom stole from his cousin Deuce, and some channel locks.
Wasn’t like they were gonna sell it to another church, they could mangle the thing.
When they got on the ladders, Lingbom realized Patterson was higher than he thought, swaying too much to be on a porch, much less a ladder.
“Let me pry first,” Lingbom said. “I’ll loosen it, then you can help me after that. I don’t want you fallin.’”
Patterson, stoned, just nodded, staring at his pry bar like he didn’t know how it got in his hand.
Lingbom slipped the pry bar behind the stainless steel cross and took a deep breath, part nerves, part warmup for what he thought might be a few minutes of exertion.
The torch in his old gym bag would be a last resort.
Patterson looked at the cross.
The thought struck him that they might not get as much for it as Bommer thought they would. But they were up here now, so-
The horizontal arm of the cross struck Patterson in the forehead and he fell from the ladder, landing on his feet first, before his ankles snapped and he fell backward, hitting his head on the lush, but not soft enough lawn.
After a pause, he moaned.
Lingbom looked down.
“Sorry bro,” he said, before the excited realization that the cross hadn’t been anchored properly in the wall.
Patterson moaned again.
Lingbom lifted the now loose cross and realized that it was later than he had guessed.
Much lighter.
Scrapyard would give him 5 bucks for it if he was lucky.
Patterson sat up.
From the ladder Lingbom could tell that Patterson’s ankle was broken.
Patterson pulled an Altoids tin from the breast pocket of his coat and ate a pill from his trembling hand.
Lingbom tested the weight of the cross once more, then pried it free from the rusting bolts that had probably held St. Mark’s original crucifix.
***
Gil Smythe swore he smelled Lisa’s perfume on him from the one, reluctant hug on the porch.
“Don’t come back, Gil. Ever. This is the last time.”
He promised, and he meant it.
He was gonna end it.
Gil pulled off I-75. There was a playground around here somewhere.
His cell phone was on the passenger seat.
The pistol was in his lap.
It felt warm, somehow, even though it had been sitting in his glove box since his last fender bender had turned into a fistfight.
He could call Lisa one last time and beg.
But the pistol seemed the better choice.
Gil turned off the service drive onto a residential street that had a sign with the international icon for a church.
That’s where the playground was.
He would die on a playground. Not the one where he met Lisa in 7th grade, he was too drunk to drive that far, but she’d get the message.
The pistol felt even warmer in his lap.
It was a sign.
He was meant to do this.
Gil rolled, idling, the church looming in the fog.
In the shadow cast by a light in the parking lot, he could see Jesus climbing down a ladder, holding his cross.
Gil said out loud “Jesus Christ!”
Then the guy in the hoodie stumbled off the ladder.
Gil didn’t know much, but he knew Jesus didn’t wear a Nike hoodie.
Gil started to laugh.
It took about twenty seconds for Gil to realize he was laughing. Really laughing.
The guy with the cross looked back at Gil’s car and took off running, the cross bobbing behind him.
Gil didn’t know much, but he knew you had to be one helluva dope fiend to steal a cross.
He pulled the wheel left and did a U-Turn, feeling almost guilty that he had scared the guy.
He rolled over a curb on his way back the way he came, and looked in the rearview to make sure no cars were behind him.
There was a humanoid figure laying on the lawn of the church.
The thief had taken the metal cross and left the plaster Jesus behind.
Gil shoved the pistol underneath his seat and pulled another hughie, rolling over a curb on the opposite side of the street.
He was going to retrieve the plaster Jesus. Maybe the pastor would give him a reward.
Never underestimate God and claim He does not have a sense of humor!
Here's a crazy story of two junkies stealing a cross, one gets hurt and saves a man from suicide.
This story may be apocryphal, but it's certainly believable.
Another winner, Jimmy!
Another gem of short fiction. This one gave me a weird sense of hope. I know the atrocities of my misspent youth have hurt many. I'd love to think it helped someone. I wish I had a modicum if your talent for this. Each story I read recalls a thousand of my own. It's a little embarrassing to admit on a public forum that a few stories actually made me weep. Way to stir up emotion and get people thinking Jim. The more I read, the more I like and the more I share.