***
Los Angeles, California. 6 September 1963. The Rev. Billy Graham is preaching to a record-breaking crowd of 134,254 in a stadium built to hold 92,516. The entire playing field is covered with folding chairs, except for the stage, which is covered with celebrities. Thanks to me, Harry and I have front-row box seats, but Harry is not listening to one word Billy Graham has to say. Instead, he's looking around for a chick who looks both available, and healthy. None do. He looks for a beer vendor. Can't find one. He gets up and goes to take a pee even though he's had nothing to drink. Comes back. Looks at his watch. Picks at a hangnail. No matter how hard I try to keep him focused, Harry is not paying enough attention to Billy's sermon for the holy Ghost to bring the man's heart "under conviction" (as they say in the best evangelical circles).
By this time I was deeply annoyed with him, and with Beelzebub. This is what always happens with Bubba's stupid pranks: none of them ever works as planned (and I'm not just talking about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints!)
Finally, it was time for the altar call. The organ struck up "Just as I am," the Billy Graham theme song. On cue, the volunteer spiritual counselors stood and began moving out of the stands, out of their folding chairs, and toward the stage up front. Harry looked at his watch. He was itching to split. The only reason we were still there is that he didn't want to lose his chance to sell me the Grand Prix and thereby get out from under the payments.
I had an idea. "Harry," I said, "That is the same grass where the Fearsome Foursome walked! Rosie Grier! Deacon Jones! Merlin Olson! Lamar Lundy! I think the good Lord brought you here tonight for a reason, buddy. When you go forward to accept Christ as your personal Lord and Saviour, you will be standing on hallowed ground, on turf made sacred by the cleated shoes of the Los Angeles Rams!"
Harry suddenly saw the light. "Cool," he said. Without walking around to the aisle, Harry jumped the fence onto the playing field, and almost directly into the arms of a volunteer spiritual counselor, blonde, maybe 18 years old, and cute as a bunny, who took it from there.
Harry E. Dick that night got born again. Plus, by the time we left the stadium, he also had his foot in the door with the blonde spiritual counselor who led him to Christ. Which should prove that there really is a possibility of redemption, even for people like Harry.
Beelzebub had the vision. Lucifer sowed the seed. Billy Graham fertilised the soil. The holy Ghost watered. A rosy-cheeked evangelical blonde reaped the harvest. Together, we made it happen (
1 Cor. 3:6).
Harry and the blonde started dating. Harry joined her church, which was evangelical Baptist. He attended Sunday morning worship, and Sunday School, and Sunday evening worship, and Wednesday night prayer meeting. Though he had been baptized as an infant (by sprinkling), he was baptised again, the right way, by getting dunked in the name of the Father, Son, and holy Ghost. Harry even ordered himself a box of tithe-envelopes, and began giving ten percent of his pre-tax wages to the church. He also began, for the first time in his life, to leave tips at a restaurant – not cash tips, but spiritual ones, a printed copy of the BGEA pamphlet, "Four Steps to Peace with God."
And then, a miracle took place. Harry was suddenly healed of his STD-phobia. It happened in the most surprising way. The assistant minister of that Baptist church was a big Swede, a nice fellow named Rev. Sven Swenson. Pastor Sven helped Harry to understand that his fear of venereal disease was actually displaced anxiety about something else: Harry's real fear, as it turned out, was that he might be gay. And here's the interesting thing, Harry
was gay. Only he hadn't known it, nor had I detected it, and the blonde didn't guess, either. No one really noticed it, not until Pastor Sven helped Harry to discover it, pretty much on his own. And here's the other thing: Pastor Sven was gay, too.
Harry jilted the blonde. He and Sven moved up to San Francisco, where they started a special club for Christian guys who like to watch Monday Night football; and they were very happy together until Harry got drafted and shipped for Vietnam, which is the last I ever saw of him. (
If you're reading this, Harry, put in a good word for me, come Judgment Day, will you?)
– L.
(
Tomorrow: When Harry met Happy! a romantic comedy! also, what a tragedy!)
