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“No” shesaid. “Then what’s wrong?” “Nothing.” She was acting verystrangely. Finally, I left… more than a little peeved.On Monday when we drove in to work, she apologized and seemedembarrassed about it. “Larry *was* there wasn’t he? How come youcouldn’t tell me?” “No, he wasn’t.” “Then what was going on?”“Well”, she said, “Larry and me play this game.” “But you said hewasn’t there!” “He wasn’t.” “What’s going on?” I was gettingfrustrated. “I’m sorry”, said Cindy, “I’ll explain. Larry and I play thisgame where …” she paused and seemed unwilling to go on. “Well, Iam… I pretend to be his slave.”I sat there in silence with my mouth hanging open. “It’s only a game”she said nervously. “He *makes* you do. He was an iron-faced man in black robes, his arms held high, leading them in song. They clapped and jumped and shook like the Holy Spirit was upon them. Some babbled incoherently. I reckoned they were speaking in tongues, though it sounded like horseshit to me.I spotted Happy, curly, dark-brown hair swaying about her shoulders as she moved to the music, a look of worshipful ecstasy painted on her face. Imagine that, the prude could smile. Her face was actually pretty when she wasn't frowning. She looked a youthful thirty, her figure sleek beneath a long, floral skirt and modest white blouse.I pushed my way through the crowd. None seemed to notice – or maybe they didn't care, chalking it up to 'God' – that an invisible force pushed them to the side. I reached Happy, perspiration dotting her face. It was sweltering in the tent; the pathetic AC chugging away didn't seem to do a damned thing. The Reverend launched into another hymn, one I vaguely remembered from my childhood sitting in.
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