On our last day of freedom, we scrambled to clean up the apartment, get the store in order, and sort our mother’s coupons. Al and Bonnie usually returned worn out from their days in the casinos. We had only to look at our father’s face to determine if he had been successful at the tables. Bonnie would chatter incessantly about her prowess at the slots and proudly show us her blistered hand, proof of the many hours she spent pulling the slot handle.
As with previous years, their homecoming from Las Vegas in the summer of 1978 signaled the return to business as usual. Midnight runs were the norm again and the long days of dealing illegal and legal wares picked up where they left off. In between the fireworks and booze, numbers running, sports book, coupon scam, poker games, and school, Vanessa and I were at first too busy to notice our father’s periodic and unaccounted disappearances. Although his demeanor told us that he was preoccupied with something outside of normal business, we were unprepared for his astounding announcement, which came on a Sunday afternoon. Having been missing in action since early in the morning, our father returned to the store and excitedly announced to everyone in earshot, “I found Jesus!”
Betting on Jesus
Religion, God, and church were a significant part of my preschool years. We regularly attended church and faithfully observed Christian holidays, such as Easter and Christmas. As members of the Antioch branch of Eastern Orthodox Christianity, we celebrated the major Christian holidays according to the Julian calendar, with Christmas falling in January and Easter falling possibly weeks after the Western church’s observances. As a child, I delighted in attending church for the high rituals, icons, and incense. I delighted in the overall sense of awe one encounters in lushly decorated Eastern Orthodox churches.
Bonnie never accompanied us to church, having denounced God as a cruel, misogynistic, and destructive tyrant. She was not an atheist. My mother was an angry theist. God, she believed, had abandoned her when she was an abused and battered child. She saw no reason to visit His house.
My father, on the other hand, having been raised by a devout mother, understood God as a benevolent and loving force. Many Sunday mornings, he set aside his penchant for crime, and escorted his daughters to church. Over the years, our attendance began to decline as my father’s addictions intensified. His dark passengers came to obscure the solace once provided by his caring God. By the time I entered the third grade, our once regular church attendance had dwindled to religious holidays only. Eventually, preoccupation with the family businesses overshadowed the religious importance of Christmas and Easter, and our religious life slowly came to close. So my father’s sudden announcement of “finding Jesus” was a bit of a surprise to the women in his life. For a moment, we were stunned into silence. While my sister and I struggled to find a response to his sudden revelation, my mother stared at him stoically as she puffed on her cigarette.
“Well?” my father inquired. “Did you hear me? I found Jesus.”
Vanessa and I looked to our mother, who again drew heavily on her cigarette and glared at my father. She finally exhaled the blue smoke into the air. “I didn’t know the bastard was lost.”
My mother’s reaction, although it might seem callous at best and blasphemous to many, was born out of years of frustration with God’s perceived abandonment and my father’s chosen criminal path. We were, after all, a family waist deep in crime. Where and how would Jesus fit into our criminal world?
Soon after his excited announcement, my father began to distance himself from all criminal activities—leaving the illegal side of the family business to his wife and daughters. Like a good addict, he embraced his new religious conviction with the same fervor he once reserved for a marathon poker game. According to his new “spiritual advisor,” our family lifestyle was rife with sin and any money made from gambling, fireworks, alcohol, and the numbers business was Satan’s doing. We were sinners who needed saving.
While my father reveled in his newfound religious convictions, my sister and I found ourselves disconcerted with the man responsible for bringing our father back into God’s fold. “Reverend Hellfire” began making regular visits to the store, where he would pray with Al, preach hellfire and brimstone, and pick out merchandise for his needy church. Over the next months, my father delivered truckload after truckload of merchandise and food to Reverend Hellfire’s rural church. It was not lost upon us that, although denouncing our financial gains as sinful, Reverend Hellfire had no problem accepting ill-gotten merchandise. He criticized our family’s actions but willingly profited from that which he denounced. Having been raised with gamblers and con men throughout our lives, we suspected the worst even as we hoped for the best.
Eventually I accompanied Al to Reverend Hellfire’s church for Sunday service and Bible study. I had always loved going to church with my father and looked forward to recapturing the experience. I attended services with an open mind, but left bewildered and disconcerted. The loving God I had encountered in my Eastern Orthodox upbringing was seemingly absent in Reverend Hellfire’s church. Satan was forefront and terrifying. I was baffled but determined to stay by my father’s side. In the following weeks, I returned often, but these visits only added to my sense of confusion. How could two Christian churches be so different?
The events surrounding a subsequent visit would ultimately push my father into a crisis of faith and trigger my lifelong quest to understand what it means to be Christian. After services, while Reverend Hellfire conducted a one-on-one scriptural discussion with my Al, I went off to watch a movie in Bible study class. Little did I know that the movie, or should I say horror film, would end my father’s membership in, though not his affiliation with, Reverend Hellfire’s church.
I do not remember if the movie had a title, but it should have been something like How To Fuck Up Your Kids for Life. The film began with a young man and woman exiting a nightclub. Obviously drunk, they quickly jumped onto a motorcycle and drove off down the road. An accident occurs and both are decapitated. The rest of the movie consisted of flashing images of demonic figures, war, and fire. It showed sadistic scenes of torture featuring the young couple who had died, punctuated by maggots eating “human” flesh. All the while, the narrator quoted from the Book of Revelation and entreated his audience to prepare for the coming apocalypse.
As the grotesque plot played out on the screen, many of the children began crying hysterically in fear. Some vomited. When the lights came up, I jumped from my seat and confronted the Bible study instructor. All hell broke loose (pun intended). After being denounced as “Eve’s daughter and Satan’s handmaiden,” I was taken upstairs to Reverend Hellfire’s office, where my father was informed that I had misbehaved and was no longer welcome in class. I told Al what had occurred and watched as Reverend Hellfire tried to justify the film. After months of following the good reverend’s spiritual advice, my father now found himself doubting his methods. He was more than a little perturbed with the treatment of his youngest daughter.
The meeting went from bad to worse. The Sunday school instructor began to list the crimes I had committed over the last few months. I asked too many questions, challenged the meaning of scripture, insisted that dinosaurs once really existed and were not “tricks” planted by Satan, had refused to wear appropriate dress to church (ankle length skirts and long-sleeved shirts), and so on. As my list of crimes was put before us, I watched my father struggle to maintain control of the temper he usually kept in check. Surprisingly, neither the good reverend nor the instructor was aware of his growing anger until it erupted forth, when suddenly he roared, “That’s enough!”
A hush fell over the room as God’s men realized they had pushed my father too far. Rising up from the chair, Al loomed over the two terrified men. “You owe Heather an apology,” he ordered. Looking at the now frozen men, he motioned to the instructor. “Apologize! You called her Eve’s daughter and Satan’s handmaiden. You will apologize. Now!”
Caught off guard and obviously a bit frighten
ed, the instructor stammered around, finally finding his tongue. Half looking at me while trying to keep an eye on the angry giant in the room, the instructor issued a forced apology. “I spoke hastily. I am sorry to have caused offense. Of course, she is welcome to attend future classes.”
Turning, my father looked quizzically at me and awaited my response. I knew I could speak freely, and did. “No thanks, I won’t be coming back. I need peace in my life, not more crazy shit.”
Picking up my book bag, I told my father I would wait for him in the car. As I walked down the hall towards the front door, I could hear Al’s voice raised in anger. I felt some remorse for being the catalyst of this confrontation, and for disrupting his relationship with Reverend Hellfire. Still, I felt vindicated by my father’s defensive stance. As I have so many times before, I climbed into the car, opened my book, and waited for Al to finish his meeting. About a half hour passed before he opened the door and settled into the seat beside me. “Are you okay?”
“Sure, just a bit disappointed,” I sighed. “Dad, I miss going to church like we used to do in the old days, but this crazy place isn’t for me. I’m thinking about going back to our old church. Or maybe we can try a different church? What do you think?”
“I don’t know what I think right now. I have some soul searching to do.” Then changing the subject, he asked, “So tell me, what all did that idiot instructor say to you?”
I filled my dad in on the whole sordid story during the long drive home. An hour later, as we pulled up in front of the store, I was startled to realize that I was actually happy to be back on Clay Avenue—proof positive that Reverend Hellfire and his church were not food for my soul! Weighing the two, I decided that our crazy criminal life was better than the sick drama I had experienced at church that morning. I shivered just thinking of the morning’s snuff film. And I thought we were fucked up.
While my dad grappled with his religious convictions, I called our family Orthodox priest and asked for a meeting. A few days later, I sat down with Father Habibi and talked to him about my experiences at Reverend Hellfire’s church. What I wanted was an explanation of why the churches were so different. Both were Christian but hardly resembled each other. How was this possible? After listening patiently, Father Habibi’s answer completely turned my naïve understanding of Christianity upside down. “Well, Heather, first you have to understand that there are many different Christianities.”
Christianit-IES? Wow! I was blown away. Until this point, I had understood the different denominations to be based strictly on ethnic background. It had never occurred to me that Catholicism, Eastern Orthodoxy, Lutheranism, and other churches practiced Christianity differently or had different beliefs about Christ. Father Habibi suggested some books for me to read that might guide me through the maze of Christian denominations and beliefs. That was the beginning of my magnificent obsession with religion.
While I struggled with Christian theology, historical schisms, and the incredible diversity of “Protestantism,” my father made the decision to stop attending Reverend Hellfire’s church. Reverend Hellfire periodically stopped by to minister to him, but he had lost his initial controlling influence. The actions of the man he hoped could lead him to God left him wondering about his motives. His mask had slipped and Al did not like what he saw.
Televangelism became my father’s next source of spiritual sustenance. The television, so long blaring with the sporting event of the day, now loudly displayed various televangelists popular in the 1970s. Al was desperate for a relationship with God. His health was failing, his addictions were leading him toward the precipice of financial ruin, and the afterlife loomed in his future. My father responded by trying to create a relationship with God, but in the end he could not escape his demons. For a while, he kept a Bible on the table beside the parlays, betting slips, and numbers book. Between taking bets, he would read the Bible, occasionally blurting out a passage as if asking an invisible force for clarification. My mother easily became exasperated with this strange conduct. She could often be heard mumbling, “God-damn Bible-thumping bookie.” Father Habibi stopped in occasionally but even he could not reach my father’s wounded soul.
Seeing Al so conflicted was difficult for his wife and daughters. His optimism, zest for life, and fearlessness were badly missed. My heart bled for him. I have often reflected on this strange and poignant period of my father’s life and have come to believe that his addictions were at the heart of the matter. His escalating compulsions left him feeling isolated. Yet, he did not know how or where to reach for the help that he so badly needed. As with many addicts, my father was heading toward the abyss, and was desperate to find a lifeline that would pull him from the edge. Like a good gambler, he played the odds—hoping that God could rescue him. Addicts never act from logic. Tragically, they act from desperation.
This religious phase of my father’s life slowly dissipated as his disillusionment with the televangelism grew. Al concluded that con men come in many different disguises. Although he walked away from institutionalized religion, he never lost his faith in Jesus. His religion became a private matter and he would never again trust any man spouting God’s word. Setting aside his fear of the afterlife, my father picked up where he had left off. He jumped back into his crazy, crime-ridden life with gusto, and did so just in time for the Christmas season, which was fast approaching. Al put his Bible away and the two of us jumped into the car and headed to Ohio to pick up a badly needed shipment of alcohol. The Bible-thumping bookie was no more. It was time again for sticking it to the state and the man.
Ten
My Two Giants vs. the Pimpmobile and Skin Runners
“Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.”
Unknown
Big John was virtually a constant presence in our life. Although he left Jeannette for periods to work as a professional bodyguard, circus strongman, and occasional stints as an oilrig hand, he spent many years working in the legitimate side of my father’s business. Big John’s name was accurate, to say the least. He stood about 6 feet 5 inches and weighed more than 500 pounds. With massive shoulders, chest, and arms, his strength was mind-boggling. Never brooding or troublesome, he was a cuddly giant who loved my sister and me as if we were his own children.
Although he had been a presence in my earliest years, my first “remembered” meeting with Big John was disastrous. Somewhere between my fifth and sixth birthday my mother took Vanessa and me to see Mickey and the Beanstalk, where I encountered my first moving images of a mythical giant. While other children sat mesmerized by the tale, I found myself in the throes of terror. Visions of the movie giant left me paralyzed with fear and I cried the whole way home. Bonnie, trying to comfort me, explained that it was just make believe. She assured me that giants did not really exist. “You’re not afraid of your father, are you? He’s a real life giant and yet you don’t fear him.”
This had not occurred to me, and I asked if there were any men bigger than Daddy.
“Of course not,” Bonnie replied. “Your father is the biggest man on earth, a real walking giant.”
Her explanation calmed me and I soon forgot about Jack’s menacing colossus until a few months later when I encountered the impossible—two real-life giants. I encountered these Goliaths while engaged in my favorite pastime: terrorizing pedestrians on Clay Avenue in my Batmobile. When weather permitted, Vanessa and I would drive up and down the Avenue, humming the Batman tune while mischievously aiming for pedestrians, who were forced to hurriedly jump out of the way of the oncoming superheroines flying about the street.
Obsessed with speed, I would often begin my wild ride from atop Seventh Street hill, imagining that I was on my way to vanquish an evildoer on Clay Avenue. Cape flying in the wind, I pedaled furiously, all the while keeping my eye on the upcoming corner. Waiting until the last possible moment, I turned sharply on the wheel, successfully making the corner and barely missing the parking meters that lined the Avenue. Pleased with my
prowess, I came to a stop and contemplated popping into the store for a proper chocolate reward. It was then that I noticed a large pickup truck pull into the bus stop in front of the store. To my utter horror, a blonde man of mammoth proportions exited the vehicle and sauntered around to help his friend out of the back. Horror-struck, I realized that the second man was larger than the first! My fearless Batgirl façade slipped away. I began to scream at the top of my lungs as the two giants came toward me.
At the sound of my screams, my mother and father rushed from the store, fearing I had been struck by a car. Instead, they found their youngest frozen in front of two huge men who were desperately trying to calm me. My mother quickly grabbed her screaming daughter, while my father excitedly embraced the two men in friendship. Big John was working in a nearby traveling circus, and had brought an even larger friend, Bud, to meet my father. The three giants, each over 500 pounds, were a remarkable sight to everyone except the terrified Batgirl. Hushing me, my mother explained that the two men were my father’s friends and not dangerous.
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