The Great Derangement - Matt Taibbi [99]
“Me too,” he said. “How did you come to this decision?”
“It was either this or The Sopranos,” I offered.
He nodded. “My mother’s making me do this,” he said, ignoring me. “I’m actually a Catholic.”
“Oh,” I said.
“She thinks it will help,” he said.
“With what?”
He stared meaningfully at me.
“My…illness,” he said finally. “I’m anemic.”
“Oh,” I said. So that’s what they call it down here. “What kind of anemia? Iron-deficiency anemia?”
“I don’t know,” he said mysteriously. “It’s some kind of anemia, though.”
He smiled affectionately at me. I almost wished I were gay. I would have asked him out. It seemed like a perfect setup: two closeted Texans, finding true love in line for the fundamentalist baptism that won’t quite be enough to save us from Hell.
“I see,” I said. “Well, I hope this helps.”
He shrugged. “Me too, I guess,” he said.
We went down a few more steps. In front of us, in plain view of the whole congregation, little children bathed in spotlights were reciting their line—“My name is X, and I accept Jesus Christ as my personal savior”—before being plunged into the water by Larry, who unpleasantly was also half-clad in a blue cloak. It was bad effect; he looked like a cross between a druid and Klansman. Anyway, the adults ahead of us in line were all practicing their lines in whispers; so was I, and so was Skinny Man. Once he got it straight, he tapped me on the shoulder again.
“Like I said, this was my mother’s idea. I wonder if that water’s cold.”
I stepped down into the pool. “Not bad, actually.”
I splashed the water a little. This whole scene was like something out of a bad porn movie. I wondered about my new friend’s health and felt sad all of a sudden.
“Well, good luck,” he said finally.
I nodded, stepped forward into the bright light, took one look back, and waved. Now in the pool, I looked out at the congregation. Several thousand good Christian faces stared back at me. I looked for Janine and Laurie but in the end focused for some reason on an old couple in one of the front rows who were staring impatiently at me with eyes like drills, their denture-filled mouths clamped tightly. They had been smiling when the kids were being baptized.
Feeling pressured, I looked down; on the lip of the pool I could see, written on what looked like a piece of tape, a script:
“MY NAME IS_________ AND I ACCEPT JESUS CHRIST AS MY PERSONAL SAVIOR.”
I shrugged and leaned over to the microphone:
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Matthew Collins, and I accept—”
Splash! Larry’s fat virusy hand clasped my forehead and plunged me under the water. Chlorine shot up my nose. I stood up. I was born again. Larry nudged me off to the side. I dried myself, then trudged back to the locker room. Some big fat guy I’d never seen before was also in there getting his street clothes back on. He shook my hand. So did another guy, and another guy. We all changed in silence, and within five minutes I was back on the freeway.
That was that. I celebrated my spiritual rebirth with an order of the worst fish ’n’ chips of all time at a Hooters off Route 281. A huge-titted brunette waitress approached me and started chatting me up. Hmm, I thought, maybe there really is a God. I stopped fighting with my fish husk for a minute and turned the charm on.
“So, listen,” I said, grinning. “My name is—”
“Would you like to buy a Hooters calendar?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at me. “We have a special discount tonight.”
I sighed. Whether you’re after Heaven or pussy in this country, it’s all the same freaking mechanized car wash. When I waved off the waitress, telling her I didn’t need a calendar, she copped an attitude.
“No, honestly, I just want to finish my meal,” I said. “You see, I just got baptized.”
“Okay, whatever, mister,” she snapped. I could hear her orange satin hot pants squeaking as she made her escape. Sawing through the rock-hard wreckage of my last piece of dark-browned fish batter, I thought, At least I’m saved now.
I WAS ZOOMING through the process. It was strange, the way it worked. I had gone