I found some old writing while I was clearing out my closets.
His name was Don. He secretly baptized his schnauzers as gentiles. (The synagogue would be up in arms). Truth is, he didn’t buy into the familiar smells, the chanting, the passing of the hands before the eyes murmuring, We are god’s chosen ones. Something didn’t add up. Don was meant to be a race car driver, or a long distance runner or a specialist on lemurs in their natural habitat. And what about those lemurs. He would stare at pictures of them for hours on the internet, sketching their darkly ringed eyes. He said something about their feral stare haunted him, made him want to draw it out as a map to be led back out into the wilderness. Weeks later, they found him at an outpost in Padukak, Kentucky, mustard on his chin, a half eaten burger with limp lettuce in his hand, staring dazedly at his captors (Bounty Hunters 1800 getyoman) his black outfit wrinkled, boy scout patches haphazardly sewn across his chest like a beauty queen. What is this business we call faith? He was tired of that question. He just wanted to be something else, something that he could choose to be, something easy and relaxed, like drinking a beer on a Wednesday after work and wondering what to do- but what that was, he did not know