Yet another path to Hell for me was established by my visits to the local fire station on Sundays when I was supposed to be in church, as were most of my less heathen contemporaries. I must explain.
Our municipal complex was located adjacent to the post office in my small North Carolina hometown. My buddy Tom and I both grew up to be lawyers, and we used to go upstairs in the municipal building to conduct imaginary trials in the courtroom when it was not in use. He came by it more authentically than did I because his father was my family’s lawyer.
Anyway, the town fire station was attached to the municipal building, right around the corner from the Episcopal Church, and a fairly long hike away from my Presbyterian Church. The fire station had all the beautiful shiny fire engines and a real pole to slide down on from the dormitory above. Some of us more adventuresome types would try to sneak upstairs to the dormitory because there were pictures of “nekkid” women taped to the walls up there, probably early “Playboy” centerfolds. Absolutely fascinating, especially for a 14-year-old.
One of my Episcopal buddies and I had managed to finagle a deal with our respective parents whereby he and I would meet at the fire station between Sunday School and church and arrange to attend either the Episcopal Church or the Presbyterian Church together, SO LONG AS we attended one or the other each week. It never occurred to us that our parents, being close friends with each other, would find our “regular” church attendance so endearing or worthy of discussion.
At the fire station it was possible to work the vending machines and feast upon a drink and pack of “Nabs” (crackers) for the crippling sum of fifteen cents. Ten cents for the drink and five cents for the “Nabs,” this being the early, stable 1960’s. Being the godless heathen that I was fast becoming, I would sit in the back of the Sunday School classroom barely paying attention to the lesson being drilled into our impressionable skulls, trying to make change of no less than fifteen cents from the quarter or so I was given by my parents to put into the collection envelope so that I could sate my venal, earthly desires at the fire station! By sitting in the back, I could count on the collection envelope having enough change provided by the other, more devout kids to accomplish my task, as well as stay out of the plain view of the pious, humorless teacher at the front.
A fast walk to the fire station right after Sunday School ensured that I could get my drink and Nabs and pow-wow with my buddies (mostly Episcopalians) who were already there before it was time to make a decision and head to one church or the other.
It thus became “obvious” to my friend and me one day that our parents did not really KNOW if we attended one church or the other. It was but a short trip to the conclusion that we REALLY did not need to attend either church as we were SURE that each set of parents would assume that we had attended the other church. Thus, we could kill an hour hanging out at the fire station and trying to sneak upstairs to look at the “nekkid” women if the fire station were skeletally attended, as was usually the case on Sundays. Thus started our downfall.
I was something of a show-off. (Seriously!) I was NOT subject to peer-pressure as a youth—I created it! I, therefore, decided to demonstrate on one of these godless Sundays at the fire station how it was possible to put a whole pack of peanuts into a Pepsi and guzzle the whole thing, peanuts and all, non-stop until the bottle was completely empty, followed by a very loud burp to the cheers and applause of my cohorts who were also playing “hooky” from church. It guaranteed a lot of laughs and mirth.
So, in one of these moments of vain demonstration, I proceeded to perform this amazing trick of derring-do and was just about to swallow the last gulp of peanut-choked Pepsi to the amusement and satisfaction of my friends when I noticed their strange silence! I looked down the barrel of the bottle and saw, to my amazement and dread, my father standing on the concrete apron of the fire station with something less than pleasure or admiration in his eyes. Strangely, he was not impressed with my performance.
Needless to say, that was the end of our church-attendance-choice program. It was also the end of quick trips to the fire station. You-know-what had hit the fan and spattered all over the place. It was really ugly. Mandatory church attendance with my adoring family was now the sole program. I never set foot inside that Episcopal Church (nor the fire station) again.
