The Rapture

"The Rapture"

by Skip Horack

Biz Folsom, that's my new floor boss. You should see the son of a bitch -- pressed Wranglers, George Strait Resistol -- thinks he's a cowboy. He cradles his pie plate of a belt buckle, daring me to push him. "Either pull yourself together," he says, "or get your sweet ass on home."

He's sore at me for refusing a lap dance. "I don't know how y'all did it in New Orleans," he says, "but you don't get to choose your customers here." Fuck this. I don't say nothing, just walk out the door. I didn't make it through the storm to put up with his small-town bullshit.

Outside, a Pentecostal screams at deer hunters from the shoulder of the highway. He calls me a whore. "You're going to burn in hell," he says.

My ride home is back inside swinging on a pole so I holler right back at the Bible-beater. "Give me a lift," I tell him. "Be a good Christian." A logging truck rumbles by and the headlights play across his face. He looks scared to death as I prepare to jump the ditch.

The man's station wagon smells like insect repellant. We pull out onto the highway and his courage returns. "You dance for the devil," he preaches. "The Enemy has made you his servant."

"Take a left here," I say, pointing at my turnoff.

It's a clear, cool evening and deer are moving with the full moon, night feeding in the soybean fields. A doe and two yearlings skitter across the gravel road, eyes phosphorescent. We brake then roll on.

I'm back living with my momma in the same little clapboard where I grew up. The preacher pulls in front of the house and kills the engine. "Will you pray with me?" he asks.

I figure that's the least I can do, seeing as how he gave me a ride and all. I take his hand and listen to him ramble. The prayer drags on and on until finally I realize that he's stalling, doesn't really want to let me loose. I think that's pretty funny so I inch my hand closer to his thigh. My little finger brushes up against his hard-on and his palm goes slippery with sweat. "Sister," he asks, his voice raspy, "is there anything at all that you would like to pray for?"

"I'll finish you off for fifty bucks," I tell him. "Amen."

He gives a little gasp when I say that, pushes my hand away like it's on fire. "Get away from me," he whispers.

I've never turned a trick in my life and don't plan on starting outside my momma's house with this clown. "Relax," I say. "I was only joking."

"Get away from me now," he repeats. "Please don't make me ask you again."

I take my time but do as he says. Coyotes are yipping in the distance and I sit on the porch to have a smoke and listen. I keep waiting for him to crank up his station wagon but the creepy fucker never does. The moonlight's reflecting off his windshield and I wonder what he's doing. He can see me but I can't see him, and since there was a time when I believed what he believes I wonder whether it's finally happened. I wonder if he's gone and disappeared on me. Is it possible that the Tribulation has just now begun?

Copyright (c) 2007 Skip Horack