The Angel and the Imp

“The Angel and the Imp”

I don’t remember going to church in Fairfield Highlands, but for a long time, mother kept a framed crude crayon drawing of a red choo-choo I made in three-year-old vacation bible school. The next year, we’d moved to Hueytown and I vaguely remember going to vbs at the old Methodist Church on High School Road. Our class included Cheri Waldrop, Chip Vickers, Leigh Ann Bradley, her cousin Lori Jeffreys, the cousins Kim West, Susan Lowery and Phil McMurry, Connie Bishop, David Morton, Kenny Coston, Dolores Putnam, Whit Haley, and the three Lisas; Bryant, Brown and Sligh.

Did I miss anybody?

That church was founded on my grandparents’ front porch in 1925 with the McBees, the McKinneys, the Russells and others in attendance. Rev. Charles Leslie Herring, my great-grandfather, the one who was thrown from the horse, held the first service. He was the bishop of the Methodist Church in Alabama at the time.

I think I inherited some genes from his side of the family somehow. After his wife died, great-grandpa ran off with some floozy to a boarding house in Huntsville. Two weeks later, she split and took what money he had. He went back to the family homestead on Sand Mountain where he sat on the porch and churned butter every day for the rest of his life.

He never spoke another word.

Sometimes, I know how he felt.

Like me, he talked to angels and demons, especially the haloed angel dude sitting on his right shoulder and the demonic imp chick on his left.

Yeah, it’s like that. The angel dude is kinda mellow and laid back, like a patchouli-wearing stoner slacker with wings and long hair. He’s easy to ignore.

The imp chick is a different story. First of all, she’s red-head hot and hot-bodied, and why wouldn’t she be? She was spawned in the depths of Hell!

Second, she dresses sexy and always smells yummy until she gets too close and you get a strong whiff of sulfur and brimstone. Even a kiss on the cheek leaves a blister, though, and her seductive words are a curse seared directly into your brain.

Sometimes, a prod from that little pitchfork will make you jump whether you want to or not!

I thought everybody was like that for a long time.

I was wrong.

In the beginning, they were cartoon characters and they were both dudes and they were too stupid and naïve to be much more than a nuisance buzz in the background. I had momma-guilt and Jesus to keep me on the straight and narrow.

Then puberty hit and all that well-trained goodness leaked out of me, one way or another, literally overnight. The background buzz of consciousness versus conscience now resolved itself into two distinct voices belonging to two very real little beings, the angel and the imp.

My mind reeled. Weird images and thoughts chased each other through my head.

I was in a fog for days. I was 12 and it was May. The sap was rising. Flowers blooming. Birds singing. Dogs were doing it in the middle of the road.

The next weekend we went on a road trip to Corinth Campground in Winston County, on the north side of Smith Lake. We stopped at Stuckey’s in Jasper. I went in the souvenir shop. The whole ride so far had been my parents talking while I daydreamed about girls. I knew I wanted one, though I had no idea what to do with one if I had one.

Then I saw it. The periscope.

“Take it,” the imp whispered in my ear. “You can use it to spy on girls.”

She blew a smoke ring and grinned, showing sharpened, tiny little teeth. I couldn’t look at her but briefly. That black leather mini-skirt and boots and torn black fishnets made her look like a 12-year old hooker, or what I imagined a 12-yr old hooker would look like.

“Not so fast,” said the angel dude. He wore nothing but a simple, unadorned, slightly-dingy white robe belted at the waist with a piece of Manila rope. “You’re mother will ground you for a year if you get busted.”

Yeah, but…

“Don’t listen to him,” scoffed the imp, leather-gloved hands on her hips. “He’s no fun and look at him! You think he’s getting laid? Ha! No way, not even by dirty old men in Hell!”

I was torn. Plots were hatching in my head, then an image of Jesus was looking at me, frowning and shaking His head, and of course my mother, eyes wide and horrified.

“Don’t do it, my son…”

“One-two-three-go!” countered the imp, then her pitchfork stabbed my neck.

I took the telescoping periscope, stuck it in the waistband of my shorts and tried to cover it with my tee shirt.

The imp disappeared in a puff of smoke, her laugh rapidly fading.

I made it out the door, but halfway to the car, the cashier came out and busted me.

Mom was pissed. She grounded me indefinitely.

I was duly chagrined and asked Jesus for forgiveness.

On the last day of school, I was waiting in Mother’s classroom for her to finish up at the end of the day.

Kathy Glass came in the classroom and asked Mother if I could come hang out with her at her house over the summer.

Mother said no. I was grounded.

It was all I could do not to cry. Kathy had boobies, damn it!

It was a long time before I listened to that imp again, but she was a tireless, evil little bitch, and she knew one day she’d catch my undivided attention.

You’ll see what I mean, as the stories unfold.

And pray for me. There are still days when I cave to the imp.