November 18

I had no car.  I somehow hooked up with a couple who were going to work there for the summer and hitched a ride.  We drove from Lake Worth up Hwy. 287 to Amarillo.  You can smell Amarillo about the time you can see it.  Lots of cattle stockyards.  Lots of cow shit.  Interesting aroma.  From Amarillo we took I-40 west and then turned off to travel through the foothills of the Rocky Mountain range to Glorieta.

The single volunteer staff all stayed in a dorm, with guys and gals wings.  My roommate was Tom, and we are still in touch via email to this day.  Tom was likeable but perhaps a bit socially awkward.  We had different assignments and different schedules so we didn’t spend a lot of time together, but did speak at night frequently.  Tom also had a car.

There were several of us working in the Auditorium crew, or the ‘Aud Squad’ as we dubbed ourselves.  There was John, and then there was little John.  Little John and I spent a lot of time in the elevator.  I’m not sure exactly why or how, but we became rather enchanted by it.  During our breaks (or sometimes while on-duty) we would go down to the basement, which was actually a storage area underneath the stage.  This allowed for a trap door in the stage floor for certain uses during plays, etc.  I suppose it would be usefull for a magician as well.  I’m not sure why the Baptists went to the expense of putting that feature in as I doubt it was ever used.  But in exploring the elevator and the nether regions of the Auditorium we also discovered one other very interesting feature of the elevator — there was a stop button.  It was useful when loading or unloading the elevator so you didn’t have to hold the doors open.  We also discovered something that is normally used only by elevator repairmen.  The next time you are in an elevator, look at the inside of the doors.  See if you can find a small hole, probably near the top of the door.  That hole is big enough to insert a rod or a large screwdriver, and if you do so and move it back and forth you will trip a release lever and the doors will slide open!  It was like magic to us.  And we put it to good use.

On more than one occasion little John and I would stop the elevator, let the other person out, keep the doors open, move the elevator down a bit and then stop the elevator.  The person outside could then crawl on top of the elevator.  This allowed us to explore the previously hidden and mysterious world of the elevator shaft.  The cables were interesting, the inside of the doors were interesting, but the main purpose was to take a piece of chalk and write on the walls and eventually the ceiling of the shaft.  I have always wanted to go back and see if our marks were still there.  Our poor boss, Fernando Perez, would probably have shit a brick if he knew what we were doing.

The late evening shifts did general cleanup after the meetings were over, the morning shifts did all the big jobs, buffing and sweeping the floors, setting up chairs, cleaning toilets and urinals.  It was mundane work, but it helped to take the edge off of it to consider the service aspect, how we were helping people all summer long to experience life-changing spiritual awakenings.  At least that’s what we told ourselves.

The weather was awesome.  I wore a sweater to work on most mornings as it was a bit chilly.  By ten o’clock it was usually warm enough to shed that and afternoons were almost perfect.  I remember watching the evening news in the common room in the middle of the staff dormitory and seeing that the north Texas area back home was in the middle of a record-setting heat wave.  The specific record broken was the number of consecutive days where the temperature reached one hundred or more — sixty-nine days from June to September, with the high being two days in a row in late June when the temperature hit 113.  In addition to this a series of squall line storms swept the midwest.  The final death toll attributed to this heat wave was 1,700.  I missed all of it.

I also missed my parents and my brother taking their brand new car on a summer vacation to Iowa.  I got a postcard.  But I didn’t really miss it that much, I was having a great time.

I was, of course, always on the lookout for love.  There were definitely any number of girls I would have liked to date, but our schedules made it difficult to intersect.  Instead, fate dealt me a hand that I was unable to see for what it was and unable to overcome.  And it started with a piano.

One of our first staff meetings was in a building which was used for many purposes during the year.  It was a small auditorium I guess.  But early on that summer I went looking for a piano and that building had one.  Unfortunately it was closed down and although the lights were all off I managed to find my way to the piano on the platform.  It was a baby grand as I recall.  I’m not sure how long I stayed there but I am pretty sure it was at least a couple of hours, feeling my way around the keyboard, playing and singing different things, and most likely working on some new sappy composition.  What I didn’t know was that at some time during my performance a couple came to the building.  I think they were looking for a piano as well.  The girl was DeeAnne, the guy was Dee.  They were a bit taken aback to enter and hear that the piano was occupied, even more so when they realized that the lights were off.  They moved on and I never knew they were there.

One night in the common room DeeAnne approached me and we talked about something deeply theological, the details of which completely escape me.  We had a mini-bible study but as usual I was unaware that the whole conversation was simply a ruse to get to know me.  I saw her again a few times, usually hanging out with her buddy Dee, but more often after he left and went back home.  The circumstances seemed a bit strange and I never got the details.  But after that she professed her interest in me and I was never able to resist a girl who liked me, unless she was just fat, ugly or weird.  DeeAnne was a bit overweight, but it didn’t take much for her to get outside her ideal weight considering that she was only four foot, ten inches.  She had an olive tint to her complexion and a sort of ‘porcelain doll’ look.  I’m sure I’m not describing her accurately, but that’s the best I can do.  She also had a fair amount of self-esteem issues hidden beneath the surface but I was young and naive and only saw the best in her.  She was very talented at the piano and had an excellent voice as well.

We spent a lot of time together, more and more as the summer wore on.  We would meet on a deck area above the common room and kiss and grope.  Her breast size was a definite plus in my eyes (and hands) and helped to offset any other issues I may have had with her body.  And then one night we borrowed Tom’s car and had a date.  I really don’t remember where we went.  Maybe to Santa Fe for a movie?  I don’t recall.  But when we got back the groping moved to the back seat and then a unique and perhaps defining moment occurred.  I don’t remember why, other than the fact that guys in this sort of situation usually become rather ‘blue-balled,’ but she gave me a blow job and then swallowed.  The good news was that we didn’t have to worry about cleanup.  The bad news was that it was so mind-blowingly amazing for me that I was utterly hooked.  All other factors one might normally consider in a relationship were overridden by what I considered to be a supreme act of self-sacrifice and commitment.  OK, perhaps I am exaggerating a bit but this event had a lasting impact on me, at least long enough for her to get her hooks in me.  That may sound a bit harsh at this point in the story, but in retrospect it is very accurate.

In fact she lived about four hours away from where I lived.  Georgetown, just north of Austin.  By the end of the summer our parents were both feeling a bit nervous about us as we were proclaiming our undying love to one another.  I seem to recall that somewhere in my brain there was at least a thought or two that things might not work out, perhaps a glint of objectivity.  But it was overwhelmed by the hormones and emotions.  It was not the first time, and definitely not the last time, that emotion completely overwhelmed logic and reason in my life.

There were three primary musicians in my life that summer, as far as music that I listened to goes.  One was the surprising discovery that Bob Dylan was now a Christian.  I later learned that part of what brought this about was some correspondence and conversation between him and Keith Green.  The cassette tape I picked up was Dylan’s “Slow Train Coming” which had been released the previous fall.  Unlike much of Christian Music this recording was performed by seasoned music pros and marked a change of heart for one of the premier icons of the rebellious 60’s generation.  And I just flat out liked the songs, the beats, the words.  It was good stuff.  It inspired me.  Another album was from the old southern gospel group The Imperials.  They had a new sound and Russ Taff’s lead vocals were awesome.  Probably not a bad song on the whole album, but I always think of New Mexico when I hear the Eagle Song.  Lots of synthesized strings and mellow goodness, smooth mellow vocals, and the lyrics “I stood and watched an eagle fly, spread his wings and soar across the sky, so gracefully he flew…”  Again, it was an almost perfect match for the majesty of the mountains.

And, of course, there was Keith Green.  I began collecting all of his recordings that I could, and a group of staffers went to see him when he did one of his rare concerts that summer in Albuquerque.  Unfortunately his zeal and passion was so intense that it suppressed all possible logical and rational thought and struck as an arrow to the heart, inflaming emotional responses like the best and worst of histories cult leaders and megalomaniacs.  His sincerity and desire to do the right thing was never in question, his belief that he was doing God’s bidding is a given.  But it set up a war within my soul, and probably within the souls of many other thousands of youth across the country.  He espoused the view that one was called to the mission field by default, and that only upon hearing a definitive opposing calling from the Lord should one do anything else.  Like anything theological one can argue both sides of the issue and find plenty of scripture to back up your position, but his message was compelling.  Of course most left the auditorium that day and never took any serious action toward becoming a missionary, but that doesn’t mean that the thought leaves the mind.  Instead it hangs around the periphery only to pop out with an occasional twang of guilt at appropriate opportunities.  Thus, the war within the soul.

At the end of this otherwise glorious summer Fernando threw a picnic for all of his Aud Squad staffers and we ate Mexican food that was authentica by a cold mountain stream.  Some had come prepared for a bit of swimming, but it was really to cold to enjoy any lounging.  We put six packs of soft drinks in the stream to chill them.  Once the eating began an interesting phenomenon occurred.  One by one each of us gringos began making strange noises accompanied by tears running down our faces.  It was the molé.  Fernando started laughing and scolding his wife for forgetting that she was preparing food for gringos!  I did the logical thing and grabbed a soft drink from the stream.  It was still warm and it just spread the spice around evenly so that my entire mouth, cheeks, palate, tongue and throat were now on fire.  Then I discovered the ultimate solution.  Plain flour tortillas.  Aaahhhhh, much better.
DeeAnne and I parted ways.  She went back to Georgetown, I went back to Lake Worth and then Dallas Baptist for the fall semester.

I spent a lot of time that semester on the phone with DeeAnne.  I remember one phone conversation in particular.  I think I was in the Resident Assistant’s apartment using his phone.  DeeAnne confessed to me that she had been occasionally abused as a child.  On top of the fact that she was adopted.  But when she mentioned a more recent incident I was infuriated at her father.  She claimed that he had been working on something at the kitchen table, some sort of household chore.  When she got home from school he was already upset that her mother had not already fixed dinner and yelled at her to do so.  And supposedly while she was doing so he got mad again and threw the hammer at her hitting her in the back.  Coming from a background where I rarely saw my parents angry at anything, not to mention fight, I could not comprehend this.  I literally cried that night and begged God to take her pain and give it to me.  That is how much I cared for her.  I was sincere if not completely realistic.

I also began at this time what was to be a love/hate affair with buses.  I took the bus from Dallas down to see her.  Unfortunately I did not get the express bus.  We stopped a lot.  It was crowded.  I was almost flat broke and people kept getting on the bus with boxes of fried chicken and it drove me crazy.  We were halfway to Houston before the driver took and exit and began a slow trek from I-45 back over to I-35.  DeeAnne and her mom were waiting for me at the bus station in Austin.  It was one of the longest rides of my life.  I got to meet her mom and dad and spent a couple of nights there.  DeeAnne did something that is in the grand tradition of lovers over the centuries and snuck down the hall to see me in the dark.  We did a little bit of kissing and groping but nothing more.  I was in her dad’s room since they normally did not sleep together.  It was another sign that things just weren’t all okey-dokey in her home life.

Later that fall we had a bit of a crisis.  There was some sort of event, a hayride I think, that a girl invited me too.  I’m not positive that this girl was that interested in me, but the fact that it caused a bit of conflict in my soul tells me that I was probably interested in her.  I mentioned it on the phone to DeeAnne (the invitation, not the interest) but she interpreted it as if I was breaking up with her.