I give Ricky a sleeve of Fig Newtons and a blue Gatorade.
He’s already doing his math homework, because he frickin’ loves math.
“I have to go see The KDFCs,” I tell him, but he doesn’t look up from his math. “I’ll be back to cook dinner. Okay?”
“Ricky Roberts is doing math. Do not talk to Ricky Roberts when Ricky Roberts is doing math!”
“Cool,” I say, and then lock the door behind BBB and me. Ricky will do math problems forever if you let him, so no worries leaving him alone.
I take Donna’s ten-speed bike from the garage and put B3 in the little basket Donna bought for him that is attached to the handlebars. He fits perfect so that just his head sticks out. It’s pretty frickin’ adorable.
We are flying through the cold January air, out of town, across the tracks, and into the ghetto. There are a lot of down-and-out people in this town, and they usually stare at me when I ride my bike through.
The first time this happened, it scared me a lot, because it sorta looked like these people wanted to kill me, but I have since learned a trick.
Whenever someone looks at me like they want to stomp my face in, I now look the person in the eyes, smile really huge, wave, and say, “Hope you’re havin’ a great day!” It’s pretty wild, because doing this really works. If you don’t believe me, try it yourself. Even the meanest-looking people will get this really stunned look on their faces, but then the smile blooms, and they usually wave back and say something nice like “God bless you!” or “Same to you!” It’s a pretty cool trick, and maybe even a pretty killer way of life, if you are a crazy spiritual ho like me. True? True.
Today I yell, “Hope you’re havin’ a great day!” eight times, and I get two “Thanks!” one “Jesus loves you!” two “You go girl!”s two “Same to you!”s and one “You a sexy bike girl! Ride on, girl, ride on,” which made me laugh, because the man who yelled this had to be at least ninety-seven.
And then I’m at the Korean Catholic Church, which is an old shoe store turned house of God, and sits nestled between a McDonald’s and a liquor store. In his penguin suit, Father Chee is waiting outside for me, because the men in front of the liquor store sometimes say bad things to me, and the “Hope you’re havin’ a great day!” trick doesn’t always work on them so well.
Technically, I got hooked up with Father Chee through my high school guidance counselor, who says I have to do a load of community service if I want to get into Bryn Mawr College, which is where I want to study English, because you can go to law school if you major in English and do really well at Bryn Mawr College. That’s what Donna did anyway. But to tell you the truth, I don’t really give a crap anymore about fulfilling the community service requirements, which are of this world, as Franks like to say. I still want to go to Bryn Mawr and all, but doing what I do with Father Chee has become part of my religious practice, which I realize might sound truly whack to some, but I believe in what FC and I do, like—for real. Word. And I had been praying for a chance to make a difference in the lives of people who needed it most, because that’s really all I want to do with my life—help people who need it, just like JC told us to do.
About a year back, Father Chee contacted the high school looking for someone to teach English to the women in his church who wanted to learn. At first, I tried to simply straight-up teach them vocab and grammar and whatnot, but it was so boring and depressing for the women that I had to think up a killer alternative or quit. Lucky for FC’s church members, I’m pretty good at thinking up killer hooey. Also, Father Chee and I work well together—we’re an awesome team—and ever since I implemented my new teaching technique, my enrollment has more than doubled.
Father Chee holds open the front door and I ride Donna’s bike right into the church.
My Man of God locks the door behind us, which is sorta weird since it’s a church and all.
“Hello, Bobby Big Boy,” Father Chee says, patting 3B on the head. Triple B licks Father’s hand, because they are boys, and then FC is pulling BBB out of the basket so that they can get a man hug in, which is cool, because B Thrice loves to hug Men of God.
My dog is Catholic. And if you say dogs don’t have a soul and therefore don’t go to heaven, I will slap your face silly. Word.