the lobby of the evylen hotel on 27th, east of madison: art deco decor, a small coffee shop/focacceria in the front, michelin starred restaurant in the back. i’ve settled on a stiff, supportive sofa with my macbook and a decaf, a middle-aged frenchman--allbirds, white turtleneck, glistening bronzed dome--to my left and an eastern european model--zip-up white sweater, upright-wheeling carry-on, knee-high orange leather boots--to my right, both of them on calls.
i feel out of place, but i fit in well enough. i’ve got a commercial audition around the corner in a couple of hours; the breakdown required i wear a suit.
i decided to come into the city early to write to you. the evylen? sarah asked me on my way out the door. yup, i said.
you know what you’re gonna write about? / well, hoke asked about my upbringing in the church, so... / oh lord, here we go. / i know. i figured i’d start with, this what you want, hoke? you want to hear about how i was speaking in tongues and getting slain in the spirit in the second grade? about how in elementary school i brought my bible to class for daily reading? and that, yes, by the age of eight, i’d read it through twice! this the stuff you want, hoke? this the good shit for you? / wait, you read the bible twice before you were eight? <quote-01>the fuck was wrong with you?<quote-01>
speaking in tongues? check. slain in the spirit? check. all that spiritual warfare stuff? check. because, like, satan is everywhere? double check. stussy symbol spells s-a-t-a-n? obvious check. trinity broadcasting network on every night? check. <quote-02>jeff fenholt<quote-02> t-shirt? check. <quote-10>praying the sinner’s prayer with kids on the playground?<quote-10> check. taking prayer out of schools a violation of our first amendment rights? check. abortion the american holocaust? check.
what about the <quote-03>power team<quote-03>? oh, hell yes check! like, you’d try and bend steel bars in jesus’ name as a little kid and shit? you asking if when no one was around i’d scream out the name of the lord and try to rip the phone book in half?
yes, <quote-04>check<quote-04>.
our church was the word of life, church of god on 6th street between mountain and benson. on sunday mornings there’d usually be a couple other kids my age and a class for us to go to, but attendance was scarce on sunday and wednesday nights. i’d sit in the back of the sanctuary during the adult worship service; i always loved listening to the music. but when the evening’s teacher failed to show up, as she so often did, i was left to wander the building alone: white stuccoed hallways with rows of white doors, each one opening on an empty white room. i sat in each of them, knew them in great detail, perhaps better than anyone. just me--sitting alone in those empty spaces with my thoughts, praying over the stacked folding chairs for the souls of those who’d later occupy them, i wouldn’t wonder.
having not grown up in the church, sarah is always eager to hear about my experiences. <quote-05>the image of this little boy roaming the empty church halls, however, is too much for her<quote-05>. my mother too always regretted that there weren’t more children my age at our church, at times even going so far as to say she wishes we’d sought out another.
anyways.
what i really wanted was to be a part of the youth group, but they didn’t want rebecca’s little brother around. she managed to fit in well enough, but even she--four years my senior--was a little young for the group.
the youth pastor, jim lassiter, was like an evangelical tim taylor from home improvement. he’d show off his homemade potato cannons and water balloon launchers in the church parking lot. i remember one sunday night, i enthusiastically offered myself up as a target, sprinting to the opposite end of the asphalt, thrilled that folks were showing me some attention.
adults like jim started to take notice of me when my skill at the piano began revealing itself. i’d provide the accompaniment for praise and worship, and jim would return the favor by giving me small parts in the plays he wrote for the youth group, those we’d perform in front of the big church. i began to enjoy my role as the kid of the group.
as i got a little older, jim started to hire me on weekends to assist him with construction work. these were mostly finish carpentry gigs, but we did all sorts of stuff: i helped jim re-roof houses, replace electrical (he’d send me into the crawl space under the house to run wires for him; i’d never been so dirty!), build room additions, redo bathrooms and kitchens, anything and everything.
he became a very important figure in my life. i could go to him with stuff i couldn’t bring to my dad. once when i was upset about not having a girlfriend, he pulled the truck over down the block from my house, allowing me time to settle my emotions before going home. you just wait until you’re older, man, chicks are gonna dig you, jim assured me. girls at your age are only interested in the funny dudes, the goofballs, the ones that don’t take anything seriously. you just wait, you’ve got qualities that are gonna prove <quote-06>valuable<quote-06> later on. you’re gonna get so many chicks, you won’t know what to do with them all!
my family left word of life when the head pastor moved on to another congregation. i was in sixth grade. jim left as well. while we looked for another church, i asked my parents not to tell anyone i played piano. not only was i frustrated with adults using me for my abilities, i was beginning to question the narrative of my indoctrination.
i’d stopped attending church entirely when, years later, jim asked if i could help lead a worship service for a youth group he’d started in chino or thereabouts. it was the last thing i wanted to do, but it was for jim; i couldn’t say no. i’d been playing some music with a buddy at the time, and i asked him to come with me. he was active in his own youth group; perhaps i could hide behind his sincerity. we loaded our gear in my <quote-07>red ford ranger<quote-07> and drove south.
the lobby at the evylen, by the way, is starting to fill up for happy hour. the audition went well enough. i came right back after. i ordered a personal pie with pepperoni--puffy, naan-style bread with big circles of meat--and when it hit the table, the elderly couple across from me--she in fur, he with a shock of white hair--joked, you got any friends? they look like they could buy this hotel if they wanted.
the kids at jim’s new church were a disappointment. <quote-08>they were bored, unshowered, and unshorn<quote-08>. they had exactly none of the lustre of the group i idolized at word of life. i felt bad for jim.
i did my best to feign inspiration while leading the group in a handful of worship tunes, but evidently i didn’t do a good enough job, because afterwards, when jim invited folks to recommit their lives to the lord, he came straight for me. he asked the group to surround me with their love--to lay their soiled hands upon me--and before long he was speaking in tongues, pleading for the lord to soften my heart.
this was the end of my relationship with jim lassiter. i saw him again at my sister’s first wedding when i was home from college. we tried to talk, but the conversation went nowhere. i just wasn’t who he wanted me to be, not anymore.
this pizza, on the other hand, is hitting the spot; the pepperoni has a wonderful kick to it. i think i’ll further indulge and order myself a manhattan; i am, after all, sporting a suit. but before i do--you said something over the recent holiday that has stuck with me, hoke; you were holding koontz’s baby outside the in-n-out by murph’s house as we waited for our order. hey konner, that’s a <quote-09>wuck<quote-09>, you said. you ever seen a wuck before? get a good look, there’s not many of them!
as we drove out to paul’s ranch a few days later, i described to sarah the profundity of your haphazard phrasing, how it unwittingly signaled a self-worth i’d never dreamed i’d have.
a wuck.
my group of friends has distilled my essence into a single, loving syllable. a wuck? this i can be. what a wonderful thing it is to feel seen.
<pull-quote>jeff fenholt<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Just googled "Jeff Fenholt."<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Same. Still never seen Jesus Christ Superstar. Looks like Jeff died just last year. Bummer.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>his family went to our church. he wasn't around much, on occasion he'd show up to sing and give testimony or whatever the fuck, but his family was there all the time. i was infatuated with his daughter nissa. i used to draw pictures of her face on the back of the tithing envelopes during service. nissa fenholt. man, christ almighty.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>The pencil masterpieces I made as a kid on those things! My parents thought it was rude of me to not listen to the sermon, but I could point to any detail of those drawings and recall what the pastor was saying at that moment in the service.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>power team<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>You were into the Power Team? I now see MY evangelical childhood was the relatively mellow one. I saw this faux-pentecostal circus and TBN stuff you describe, Wuck, but the Hoke household laughed and changed the channel. My evangelical world was less theatrical and more ideological: more the mean, authoritarian theology expressed in the Focus On the Family parenting revolution.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>oh, the james dobson materials were around the house as well.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>Oh no. You got double-fucked, then.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>That's called an Eiffel Tower.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>check<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Kinda baffled by some of this.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>why baffled? i’d think that would make complete sense to you, knowing me and my upbringing.<p-comment>
<p-comment>it was the equivalent of playing superman: for a moment the boy really thinks he'll fly.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>I guess my image of your youthful religiosity doesn't jive at all with the kind of religiosity that speaks in tongues. I just can't imagine Anthony and Debbie not being made awkward by it.<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>oh, they indulged. my father especially. less so these days. more of a mega church these days. ice skating shows for christmas and all.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>I remain baffled.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>the image of this little boy roaming the empty church halls, however, is too much for her<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Gosh, being alone is the best. This hits me so differently. Please just leave me alone, world. Getting to play hooky from church or school to walk aimlessly? That's the best. I do it still as a teacher, stealing some minutes here and there during group work to take a needless stroll to my mailbox.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>I laughed so loudly at Murph's comment here. Talk about surprise. My heart is breaking the last two pages. This aloneness is so sterile, the rampant small-church kid-neglect so tragic. I'm wanting to DeLorean back in time and run down that hallway to hug skinny little Wuck, not leave his side.<p-comment>
<p-comment>Then Murph's like, "Bro, empty hallways are the best."<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>valuable<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>This sounds not unlike my high school belief that you wouldn't find success as an actor until middle age (just another decade, Wuck!).<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>you used to say 40! why you pulling the date back on me?<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Sorry. The only thing I'm intentionally "pulling" is "for you."<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>red ford ranger<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>(genuflects)<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>they were bored, unshowered, and unshorn<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Like, had you been to Chino before?<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>other than for the biscuits and gravy with dad at flo's near the airport? nah.<p-comment>
<p-comment>i guess the crowd at the restaurant should have tipped me off. my mother's folks had a farm in oklahoma that i'd visit with my cousins as a kid. they looked like folks i'd see there.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>wuck<pull-quote>
<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>So many monikers in that evolution from Nicholas Webber to Wuck: wubble, weck wibb, necklace whisper, wuntub, picklaus waul, wuckald, neck warbler, others I'm certainly forgetting.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>So many variations! I remember, in order: Wicholas Nebber, Wibulous, Wuntubulous, Wib.<p-comment>
<p-comment>The first time I heard someone utter "Wuck," I started using it as often as I could. I'd like to think I helped establish it as the standard.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>Whose was the first "Wuck?" Pat?<p-comment>
<p-comment>"What the wuck, fuck?"<p-comment>
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<avatar-wuck><avatar-wuck><author-name>Wuck<author-name>
<p-comment>miss that guy. after our discussion, murph, over the holidays about happiness vs meaning and the like, i was thinking more seriously about moving back to california than i had in a long time. the desire to be near my family and you and the rest of my friends, as well as the newfound realization that it would be good for sarah in ways that she wouldn’t necessarily be aware of until after the move, was stronger than ever. i mentioned this to pat over a pool game in san clemente and he said, bro, you move back, i’m doing the u-haul drive with you. that trip alone makes me want to pull the trigger.<p-comment>
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<avatar-murph><avatar-murph><author-name>Murph<author-name>
<p-comment>He means it too!<p-comment>
<p-comment>I wonder what kind of hit your dream of becoming an always working actor takes if you move out here? Sarah’s? If the answer is, “not much,” why not move back? It’s not exactly retreating to Lincoln, Nebraska. I mean, people with stars in their eyes move to LA as often as they do to NYC.<p-comment>
<p-comment>It would be wonderful if you lived out here. Tom can start looking for a little bungalow in Atwater Village for you. You can use all of our meticulously preserved baby stuff. Free babysitters abound. I could go on...<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>praying the sinner’s prayer with kids on the playground?<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>I always felt like a coward for not trying this in gradeschool. You got balls, Little Wuck.<p-comment>
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<pull-quote>the fuck was wrong with you?<pull-quote>
<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>I love this. Says so much about your friendship and marriage, how good she is for you.<p-comment>
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<avatar-hoke><avatar-hoke><author-name>Hoke<author-name>
<p-comment>I, the father of an almost-four-year-old, just re-read this. You read through the whole Bible before age eight?? Twice?? The fuck is wrong with you?<p-comment>
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