I
used to be a churchgoer way back when I was a kid. My family was
Presbyterian, and they were the kind of churchgoers that took the
roaming reverends into the guest rooms of their houses. In a town
with a largely Christian population,
it was a very big deal to be the family
that was hosting the preacher. The neighborhood treated you like
saints and commented on your goodwill and generosity for the entire
duration of the preacher's stay.
I'm not a churchgoer anymore. I haven't been since I was sixteen years old, and I haven't hosted a preacher since long before that. In Tanager, the role of hosting the preachers was reserved for those dedicated Good Christians that show up every Sunday and spend the rest of the week attending all of the functions and running the charity drives; people like my parents. These were the same Good Christians who considered anyone who chose not to set foot in a church to be a lost cause. These same Good Christians shook their heads at me and my friends and called us RiffRaff, and every so often some particularly condescending soul would come up to one of us and say, “I'll be praying for you.” For what, existing? For being us?
In Tanager, church is considered a duty rather than an option, and to deny a roving reverend a place to stay while he was oh-so-generously spreading the good word is to open up a place in hell with your name on it. That's all right; I already know I'm going to hell, and I'll meet my buddy Arthur there.
Arthur is the only person in the world who regularly hears my voice, because he's the only person in the world worth talking to. The guy's wild even by RiffRaff standards, and wears the judgement of Others and fellow RiffRaff alike on his sleeve. He's the most interesting guy I know because you never know what the hell he's going to do next; one day he decided it was much better on the roof than it was on the ground, and spent the entire day up there without a shirt on. He got bored and started flinging chunks of slushie at the feet of everybody who passed by, until somebody threatened to call the cops. Another day, he shot off an entire canister of fireworks at ten PM in the middle of September. When I asked him what the occasion was, he said he just felt like blowing things up. He used to walk around with a black Zorro mask on, until a cop pulled him over and told him he had to take it off. “It isn't Halloween, man,” the cop had told him. Now he wears a hood pulled just over his eyes, even in the summer heat.
Arthur is an enigma because he was Arthur, and I’m an enigma because I won’t talk. In Tanager, refusal to speak meant that you thought yourself too good to speak. In reality, I've never really talked except when I couldn't get along without it. The world, I figured, was already full of more than enough mindless noise. It didn't need me adding any more to it. Arthur talked enough for both of us and four additional people. He wouldn't shut up, and when it became apparent that I could let him do the talking for both of us while I absorbed the rest of the world's sound, I knew I had a friend for life.
I'm not a churchgoer anymore. I haven't been since I was sixteen years old, and I haven't hosted a preacher since long before that. In Tanager, the role of hosting the preachers was reserved for those dedicated Good Christians that show up every Sunday and spend the rest of the week attending all of the functions and running the charity drives; people like my parents. These were the same Good Christians who considered anyone who chose not to set foot in a church to be a lost cause. These same Good Christians shook their heads at me and my friends and called us RiffRaff, and every so often some particularly condescending soul would come up to one of us and say, “I'll be praying for you.” For what, existing? For being us?
In Tanager, church is considered a duty rather than an option, and to deny a roving reverend a place to stay while he was oh-so-generously spreading the good word is to open up a place in hell with your name on it. That's all right; I already know I'm going to hell, and I'll meet my buddy Arthur there.
Arthur is the only person in the world who regularly hears my voice, because he's the only person in the world worth talking to. The guy's wild even by RiffRaff standards, and wears the judgement of Others and fellow RiffRaff alike on his sleeve. He's the most interesting guy I know because you never know what the hell he's going to do next; one day he decided it was much better on the roof than it was on the ground, and spent the entire day up there without a shirt on. He got bored and started flinging chunks of slushie at the feet of everybody who passed by, until somebody threatened to call the cops. Another day, he shot off an entire canister of fireworks at ten PM in the middle of September. When I asked him what the occasion was, he said he just felt like blowing things up. He used to walk around with a black Zorro mask on, until a cop pulled him over and told him he had to take it off. “It isn't Halloween, man,” the cop had told him. Now he wears a hood pulled just over his eyes, even in the summer heat.
Arthur is an enigma because he was Arthur, and I’m an enigma because I won’t talk. In Tanager, refusal to speak meant that you thought yourself too good to speak. In reality, I've never really talked except when I couldn't get along without it. The world, I figured, was already full of more than enough mindless noise. It didn't need me adding any more to it. Arthur talked enough for both of us and four additional people. He wouldn't shut up, and when it became apparent that I could let him do the talking for both of us while I absorbed the rest of the world's sound, I knew I had a friend for life.
Reverend
Taylor Applegate is this season's roving preacher. He'll stay till
the second week in August, then go off into the horizon, his purpose
in educating the lost souls of Tanager fulfilled. He's a tall, lofty
dude (Arthur bet me a steak at McEvoy's that they chose a tall one
because he was “closer to heaven”), with corn-yellow hair cropped
close around his head, because longer hair is “sinful” and
“tempting” or something like that. He's got blue eyes like
ninety-five percent of the people in this area, and he wears the
ugliest grey and brown suits because color is “worldly” and black
is “morose.” Outside of church, he wears t-shirts and
button-downs like a normal person, but pairs them with neatly-pressed
khaki pants even in ninety-degree heat. This town treats him like
he's the Angel Gabriel himself. Arthur and I hate the guy.
My first encounter with the preacher was at the cultural festival where he made his grand debut. I'd only even gone to the fest because Arthur would be there with his fire batons (Arthur just loves fire; last year he did ground pyrotechnics and nearly set the stage ablaze). I was walking around in search of a decent food truck. Ramona Reinhart and Paige Maurino were hosting foot races in the grass. To their right, Reverend Taylor Applegate of the Tanager Community Chapel was handing out pamphlets and preaching the good word. He was a young and good-looking guy, and must have been quite flustered by the sight of women in shorts tumbling in the grass beside him. I passed by on my way, and he shouted, “You! Yes, you! God bless you, my good man!”
Good man? Nobody who regularly hung out with Arthur Ratliff was considered a “good man.” I glanced at him, and his smile was so stupid-bright I had to look away before I was blinded. “May the rest of your day be filled with the blessings of the Lord!” he called out as I made a beeline for a barbecue stand. My silence was a shield against people like this.
A few weeks later, I was horrified to learn that he was one of those door-to-door preachers. They were the worst; the ones who thought they had every right to walk up to your door and interrupt you at your own house because their spiel is so much more important than whatever it is you're doing right now. Usually, these guys didn’t take no for an answer, and in Tanager there's very few who would ever say no to a preacher, lest they lose their well-earned Good Christian points. They not only expected you to listen, but came to your door under the hard assumption that you would.
It was nearly five PM on a Saturday. Arthur and I were killing people on Black Ops 4, using the queue times to take bites out of the loaded nachos I had made. Every so often, our hapless opponents were treated to a nacho-crumb-laden stream of obscenities courtesy of my good friend. When he loudly declared that his most recent sniper victim had “Just got F'd in the A by his big, hard D, mothafucka',” I had to bite down on my lip to keep from losing it. Once the game was over and we were out of voice chat, I let it all go. Once I start laughing, it goes out of control, so only Arthur heard the doorbell ring. He continued chanting “F'd in the A by my big, hard D” as he got up to answer it.
I didn't see who it was that Arthur slammed the door on, but whoever it was rang the bell a second time. This time, I got up to answer.
“Don't open it,” Arthur said, but it was too late. There was the preacher, the exalted Reverend Taylor Applegate, standing at my door in one of his ugly grey suits.
“Hey there, my man!” the preacher said, as if we were just the best of friends. “I think I remember you...didn't I see you at the cultural fest not too long ago?”
There was silence except for the game's BGM and Arthur crunching on more nachos.
“I think I did,” Reverend Taylor said. “I remember your face.” This is why Arthur would rather hide his. “Do you mind if I come in for just a moment?”
Arthur started up again: “Y'all got F'd in the A by my big, hard D! My big, hard D in her big, wet V!”
Oh dear god. I think I actually seized in my attempt to suppress that laugh. The preacher took a step back, like I had morphed into a mad dog poised and ready to strike. His eyes darted back and forth like he didn't know what to do with himself. “Yes, well...” He looked up at the awning as if a suitable response was written up there. “I see you're...preoccupied.” He took another step back, off of my porch step. “God bless you, good men.” He turned to leave, and then it happened.
The guy ripped the loudest, wettest fart I had ever heard in my entire life.
The sound sent Arthur running to the door, to verify if it had really happened and the preacher had really, truly let out a legendary fart like that. In that moment, I would've given anything to see what his eyes looked like under that hood. The preacher visibly quickened his pace as he made his way towards the Bagarozzas' place. I closed the door slowly and returned to my spot on the sofa.
And then the two of us laughed until we choked on our own breath.
My first encounter with the preacher was at the cultural festival where he made his grand debut. I'd only even gone to the fest because Arthur would be there with his fire batons (Arthur just loves fire; last year he did ground pyrotechnics and nearly set the stage ablaze). I was walking around in search of a decent food truck. Ramona Reinhart and Paige Maurino were hosting foot races in the grass. To their right, Reverend Taylor Applegate of the Tanager Community Chapel was handing out pamphlets and preaching the good word. He was a young and good-looking guy, and must have been quite flustered by the sight of women in shorts tumbling in the grass beside him. I passed by on my way, and he shouted, “You! Yes, you! God bless you, my good man!”
Good man? Nobody who regularly hung out with Arthur Ratliff was considered a “good man.” I glanced at him, and his smile was so stupid-bright I had to look away before I was blinded. “May the rest of your day be filled with the blessings of the Lord!” he called out as I made a beeline for a barbecue stand. My silence was a shield against people like this.
A few weeks later, I was horrified to learn that he was one of those door-to-door preachers. They were the worst; the ones who thought they had every right to walk up to your door and interrupt you at your own house because their spiel is so much more important than whatever it is you're doing right now. Usually, these guys didn’t take no for an answer, and in Tanager there's very few who would ever say no to a preacher, lest they lose their well-earned Good Christian points. They not only expected you to listen, but came to your door under the hard assumption that you would.
It was nearly five PM on a Saturday. Arthur and I were killing people on Black Ops 4, using the queue times to take bites out of the loaded nachos I had made. Every so often, our hapless opponents were treated to a nacho-crumb-laden stream of obscenities courtesy of my good friend. When he loudly declared that his most recent sniper victim had “Just got F'd in the A by his big, hard D, mothafucka',” I had to bite down on my lip to keep from losing it. Once the game was over and we were out of voice chat, I let it all go. Once I start laughing, it goes out of control, so only Arthur heard the doorbell ring. He continued chanting “F'd in the A by my big, hard D” as he got up to answer it.
I didn't see who it was that Arthur slammed the door on, but whoever it was rang the bell a second time. This time, I got up to answer.
“Don't open it,” Arthur said, but it was too late. There was the preacher, the exalted Reverend Taylor Applegate, standing at my door in one of his ugly grey suits.
“Hey there, my man!” the preacher said, as if we were just the best of friends. “I think I remember you...didn't I see you at the cultural fest not too long ago?”
There was silence except for the game's BGM and Arthur crunching on more nachos.
“I think I did,” Reverend Taylor said. “I remember your face.” This is why Arthur would rather hide his. “Do you mind if I come in for just a moment?”
Arthur started up again: “Y'all got F'd in the A by my big, hard D! My big, hard D in her big, wet V!”
Oh dear god. I think I actually seized in my attempt to suppress that laugh. The preacher took a step back, like I had morphed into a mad dog poised and ready to strike. His eyes darted back and forth like he didn't know what to do with himself. “Yes, well...” He looked up at the awning as if a suitable response was written up there. “I see you're...preoccupied.” He took another step back, off of my porch step. “God bless you, good men.” He turned to leave, and then it happened.
The guy ripped the loudest, wettest fart I had ever heard in my entire life.
The sound sent Arthur running to the door, to verify if it had really happened and the preacher had really, truly let out a legendary fart like that. In that moment, I would've given anything to see what his eyes looked like under that hood. The preacher visibly quickened his pace as he made his way towards the Bagarozzas' place. I closed the door slowly and returned to my spot on the sofa.
And then the two of us laughed until we choked on our own breath.
Sundays
in Tanager were socially-enforced “quiet days.”
Only the stores and the restaurants remained open, and the two with liquor licenses would never sell booze on Sunday. Nobody went out anywhere or left town on Sunday, and to do so opened you up to an entire can of scrutiny and speculation. Of course, people still went to visit friends and neighbors, stopped at the deli for a ham and cheese sub, and occassionally went out of town to visit a sister or a mother or something. Only RiffRaff like us could be found running all over town on a Sunday afternoon, chasing eachother and running around the hills and getting up to some mischief as only RiffRaff do.
Early Sunday mornings were the best because nobody was around—everybody was out at eight AM service at the Tanager Community Church, including many of our fellow RiffRaff. In the summer months, some members of the clergy decided that the good word was better received in God's outdoors, and moved services out to the park underneath the circle of dogwood trees.
At seven in the morning, Arthur showed up at the door with his old hoverboard and said, “Let's go.” He and I were the only ones I knew over the age of thirteen who had hoverboards, and I only had mine because of him. I fished it out of the back of the closet and we hovered down to the park, the world completely silent except for the birds that didn't care it was Sunday. It was a dreamland.
We made our way around the central fountain, where Arthur and his buddy Talia often filched tossed “wish” pennies. We passed by the drinking fountains and the curbside where the hot dog and ice cream trucks set up on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. We hovered down one length of the walking trail and back the other way. Arthur chattered the whole way, first telling me about Franz Fawke's new barbecue grill “which he planned to take advantage of at every opportunity,” then switching over to the subject of Talia's upcoming birthday, and how she told him if he gets her yet another knife she will surely cut his throat with it. She had enough knives to build a Game of Thrones style throne out of them all. When he wasn't talking, he sang: “Little Sally Walker, walkin' down the street. She didn't know what to do so she jumped in front of me...”
After a while we detoured to the corner deli and bought breakfast sandwiches. We sat down on the edge of the fountain to eat them, and then took off our shoes and waded right in. No one was around to tell us not to; after all, it was just about time for eight AM service.
I expected Arthur wanted to clear out before the park got populated at eight AM, but oddly enough, he hopped back on his board and made his way to the dogwood trees. I followed after him, figuring he was planning to meet with Craig or Aaron, who would be at the service.
At eight AM service in the park, you brought your own chair or you sat on the grass. Arthur did the latter, taking a seat right up in the front and propping his hoverboard up beside him. I couldn't believe my eyes! I sat down next to him and asked, “What are you doing, man?”
“You'll see,” Arthur said. Of course he was up to something! Now I was dying to see what it was.
To say that it was shocking to see Arthur at a church service was an understatement. The Good Christians and RiffRaff alike who filed in with their lawn chairs seemed in equal parts alarmed and fascinated by his presence. Mara Tushud said, “Hey, Arthur, you're the last person I'd expect to see here,” while her father, Kane, gave him a look that indicated he'd better be on his best behavior or he'd know the reason why. His pal Aaron said, “I never knew you had it in you, Arthur!” His other buddy, Craig, walked right up to him and asked, “What are you doing here?”
His only response was, “I dunno, what are you doing here?”
The sight of me at a church service was just as rare, but nobody really paid attention to me, and that was how I liked it. My silence allowed me to fade into the background, and going around with someone like Arthur meant that he bore the scrutiny of Others so I didn't have to. People said, “Hi, James,” and “'Sup, James,” and “Never thought I'd see you here, James,” but that was all. Until the reverend stepped up to the pulpit, Arthur had the floor.
Reverend Taylor greeted everyone with one of his characteristic angelic smiles, and then led the opening prayer. Even though I wasn't a Christian man anymore, I hoped Arthur would save his antics for after that; getting up to mischief during a self-indulgent church service was one thing, but I drew the line at interrupting prayer with antics. Thankfully, Arthur remained silent for once in his life. He didn't bow his head to pray, but stayed perfectly still and quiet as the Good Christian prayers commenced all around him.
Reverend Taylor opened up his Bible and began his spiel with a reading from the Book of Leviticus. I had been hoping for Revelations; it had always been my favorite due to the apocalyptic imagery and the sense of urgency in the reading. There was nothing special about Leviticus and my mind went elsewhere. I could have sworn I saw Ramona Reinhart flash a little smile at the reverend. I felt like gagging. She was a real pretty girl, but much too good to be making doll eyes at this clown. Besides, wasn't it a colossal sin to flirt with a preacher during a sermon?
I thought I was going to fall asleep, and I was about to nudge Arthur and ask him if we could go back to my place for Black Ops 4. I poked him, and he turned to me and held up one finger. While the preacher was going on about the many things that made a person unclean, Arthur pursed his lips, cupped both hands over his mouth...
“Pffffffffffffffffffffffffh!”
The entire world stopped what it was doing. It was as if time and space had compressed into a singularity at this very moment, right here in the park under the dogwoods, where Arthur Ratliff was making pooting sounds in the middle of a preacher's passionate speech on the unclean. “Pfffffhpffffhpfffffhpfffffffffffh!” Eagle-eyed Kane gave us both the coldest, sternest old-man look I had ever seen in my life. Sophia Burisov covered her mouth with both hands and looked as if she longed to sink right through the ground. The Others looked at us with some of the most prominent disgust I had ever before seen on human faces. Up on the pulpit, the preacher's awkward attempt to smile it all off was betrayed by his visible discomfort; he shuffled his feet and fiddled with his cuffs, and his eyes were darting around like they had that Saturday at my doorstep. I caught Craig, Paige, and Aaron trying their damnedest not to laugh, and when I felt the laughter brimming up inside of me I bit down so hard on my lip that I tasted blood. But it was no use.
I erupted.
“James!” Ramona cried when the first bellow escaped me. It was followed by another, and another and another, until I was screaming, shaking, and gasping for breath. I slumped all the way down to the ground and wrapped my arms around myself in a desperate attempt to keep the rest of it from coming out, but there was just no stopping me once I started. Tears stung my eyes and my sides were in agony. Beside me, Arthur suffered largely the same afflictions. We screamed, choked on air, and snorted like pigs. I'm pretty sure I farted a few times myself, but between my hysteria and Arthur's, there was no way anybody heard anything.
We kept on laughing as the Others around us slung the words “disgraceful,” “shameful,” and “absolute scene” around. We kept on laughing as an angry old lady confronted us, standing over us with both hands on her hips and looking at us like we were two unruly boys in her fifth grade class. “Both of you need to get your nasty selves up,” she barked, “and get out of here right now!” We kept on laughing as we picked up our hoverboards and stumbled to our feet, rushing down the trail as the Others apologized for our disgusting behavior and assured the preacher that “Those two are nothing good.” I knew our fellow RiffRaff would get them back for it later; they may have been ashamed of us now, but RiffRaff look out for one-another.
It wasn't until we reached the safety of the fountain that we could finally breathe again. When we got there, Talia was wading around in the water and picking up handfuls of coins.
“Where the hell were you two just at?” she asked, flicking pennies at our heads just to show us that she could.
“Church,” Arthur said, but it was only partly true. He neglected to mention that we had just come back from the darkest depths of Hysteria, where twenty-six years of unused sound had escaped all at once, likely never to return again.
On the way back to my place, Arthur snuck up behind me, pursed his lips, and cupped both hands over his mouth. “Pffffffffffffffh!”
I punched him in the face.
Only the stores and the restaurants remained open, and the two with liquor licenses would never sell booze on Sunday. Nobody went out anywhere or left town on Sunday, and to do so opened you up to an entire can of scrutiny and speculation. Of course, people still went to visit friends and neighbors, stopped at the deli for a ham and cheese sub, and occassionally went out of town to visit a sister or a mother or something. Only RiffRaff like us could be found running all over town on a Sunday afternoon, chasing eachother and running around the hills and getting up to some mischief as only RiffRaff do.
Early Sunday mornings were the best because nobody was around—everybody was out at eight AM service at the Tanager Community Church, including many of our fellow RiffRaff. In the summer months, some members of the clergy decided that the good word was better received in God's outdoors, and moved services out to the park underneath the circle of dogwood trees.
At seven in the morning, Arthur showed up at the door with his old hoverboard and said, “Let's go.” He and I were the only ones I knew over the age of thirteen who had hoverboards, and I only had mine because of him. I fished it out of the back of the closet and we hovered down to the park, the world completely silent except for the birds that didn't care it was Sunday. It was a dreamland.
We made our way around the central fountain, where Arthur and his buddy Talia often filched tossed “wish” pennies. We passed by the drinking fountains and the curbside where the hot dog and ice cream trucks set up on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. We hovered down one length of the walking trail and back the other way. Arthur chattered the whole way, first telling me about Franz Fawke's new barbecue grill “which he planned to take advantage of at every opportunity,” then switching over to the subject of Talia's upcoming birthday, and how she told him if he gets her yet another knife she will surely cut his throat with it. She had enough knives to build a Game of Thrones style throne out of them all. When he wasn't talking, he sang: “Little Sally Walker, walkin' down the street. She didn't know what to do so she jumped in front of me...”
After a while we detoured to the corner deli and bought breakfast sandwiches. We sat down on the edge of the fountain to eat them, and then took off our shoes and waded right in. No one was around to tell us not to; after all, it was just about time for eight AM service.
I expected Arthur wanted to clear out before the park got populated at eight AM, but oddly enough, he hopped back on his board and made his way to the dogwood trees. I followed after him, figuring he was planning to meet with Craig or Aaron, who would be at the service.
At eight AM service in the park, you brought your own chair or you sat on the grass. Arthur did the latter, taking a seat right up in the front and propping his hoverboard up beside him. I couldn't believe my eyes! I sat down next to him and asked, “What are you doing, man?”
“You'll see,” Arthur said. Of course he was up to something! Now I was dying to see what it was.
To say that it was shocking to see Arthur at a church service was an understatement. The Good Christians and RiffRaff alike who filed in with their lawn chairs seemed in equal parts alarmed and fascinated by his presence. Mara Tushud said, “Hey, Arthur, you're the last person I'd expect to see here,” while her father, Kane, gave him a look that indicated he'd better be on his best behavior or he'd know the reason why. His pal Aaron said, “I never knew you had it in you, Arthur!” His other buddy, Craig, walked right up to him and asked, “What are you doing here?”
His only response was, “I dunno, what are you doing here?”
The sight of me at a church service was just as rare, but nobody really paid attention to me, and that was how I liked it. My silence allowed me to fade into the background, and going around with someone like Arthur meant that he bore the scrutiny of Others so I didn't have to. People said, “Hi, James,” and “'Sup, James,” and “Never thought I'd see you here, James,” but that was all. Until the reverend stepped up to the pulpit, Arthur had the floor.
Reverend Taylor greeted everyone with one of his characteristic angelic smiles, and then led the opening prayer. Even though I wasn't a Christian man anymore, I hoped Arthur would save his antics for after that; getting up to mischief during a self-indulgent church service was one thing, but I drew the line at interrupting prayer with antics. Thankfully, Arthur remained silent for once in his life. He didn't bow his head to pray, but stayed perfectly still and quiet as the Good Christian prayers commenced all around him.
Reverend Taylor opened up his Bible and began his spiel with a reading from the Book of Leviticus. I had been hoping for Revelations; it had always been my favorite due to the apocalyptic imagery and the sense of urgency in the reading. There was nothing special about Leviticus and my mind went elsewhere. I could have sworn I saw Ramona Reinhart flash a little smile at the reverend. I felt like gagging. She was a real pretty girl, but much too good to be making doll eyes at this clown. Besides, wasn't it a colossal sin to flirt with a preacher during a sermon?
I thought I was going to fall asleep, and I was about to nudge Arthur and ask him if we could go back to my place for Black Ops 4. I poked him, and he turned to me and held up one finger. While the preacher was going on about the many things that made a person unclean, Arthur pursed his lips, cupped both hands over his mouth...
“Pffffffffffffffffffffffffh!”
The entire world stopped what it was doing. It was as if time and space had compressed into a singularity at this very moment, right here in the park under the dogwoods, where Arthur Ratliff was making pooting sounds in the middle of a preacher's passionate speech on the unclean. “Pfffffhpffffhpfffffhpfffffffffffh!” Eagle-eyed Kane gave us both the coldest, sternest old-man look I had ever seen in my life. Sophia Burisov covered her mouth with both hands and looked as if she longed to sink right through the ground. The Others looked at us with some of the most prominent disgust I had ever before seen on human faces. Up on the pulpit, the preacher's awkward attempt to smile it all off was betrayed by his visible discomfort; he shuffled his feet and fiddled with his cuffs, and his eyes were darting around like they had that Saturday at my doorstep. I caught Craig, Paige, and Aaron trying their damnedest not to laugh, and when I felt the laughter brimming up inside of me I bit down so hard on my lip that I tasted blood. But it was no use.
I erupted.
“James!” Ramona cried when the first bellow escaped me. It was followed by another, and another and another, until I was screaming, shaking, and gasping for breath. I slumped all the way down to the ground and wrapped my arms around myself in a desperate attempt to keep the rest of it from coming out, but there was just no stopping me once I started. Tears stung my eyes and my sides were in agony. Beside me, Arthur suffered largely the same afflictions. We screamed, choked on air, and snorted like pigs. I'm pretty sure I farted a few times myself, but between my hysteria and Arthur's, there was no way anybody heard anything.
We kept on laughing as the Others around us slung the words “disgraceful,” “shameful,” and “absolute scene” around. We kept on laughing as an angry old lady confronted us, standing over us with both hands on her hips and looking at us like we were two unruly boys in her fifth grade class. “Both of you need to get your nasty selves up,” she barked, “and get out of here right now!” We kept on laughing as we picked up our hoverboards and stumbled to our feet, rushing down the trail as the Others apologized for our disgusting behavior and assured the preacher that “Those two are nothing good.” I knew our fellow RiffRaff would get them back for it later; they may have been ashamed of us now, but RiffRaff look out for one-another.
It wasn't until we reached the safety of the fountain that we could finally breathe again. When we got there, Talia was wading around in the water and picking up handfuls of coins.
“Where the hell were you two just at?” she asked, flicking pennies at our heads just to show us that she could.
“Church,” Arthur said, but it was only partly true. He neglected to mention that we had just come back from the darkest depths of Hysteria, where twenty-six years of unused sound had escaped all at once, likely never to return again.
On the way back to my place, Arthur snuck up behind me, pursed his lips, and cupped both hands over his mouth. “Pffffffffffffffh!”
I punched him in the face.
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