Bubba McQue

Eugene “Bubba” McQue could tell that he had gotten up too early this December morning, not a lot early, but due to frequent nightly urination was probably operating under six hours of sleep, total. He was fine now, but knew that around noon he was going to need a nap, and this put him in a mood that he knew only coffee could fix and would fix. The house was still a bit cold, so he pressed the ‘heat’ button on the Kuerig as fast as he could when he got down the stairs, just to get the process started, which takes about 60 seconds. He did this every morning, and would not even put on his socks until this button was pushed. Yes, this was the most important button in his life. It was not the most important ‘thing’ in his life, but definitely the most important ‘button’ since if you think about it the average person has very few buttons in their life anyway. After putting on his two pairs of socks the water in the Kuerig was now hot so he could insert the dark roast Starbucks K-cup pod into the Pod holder, and press the brew button, also an important button. As he waited an additional minute for his coffee he was only mildly disturbed that the socks on his feet were the same two socks he had been using since November 1st, with the justification that his feet did not sweat as much during the winter, but truth be known he did the same thing in the summer except with one pair of socks. Normally he changed his socks when he changed the calendar page, but it was already December 4^th. It bothered him that it did not bother him more than it did, and made him contemplate what he was becoming yet again he knew that the caffeine would alter these troubling thoughts, but that was still about 4 minutes away. 

The next thought sequence that crept in under the wire had to do with a letter he had read the night before from a minor acquaintance, Yuri Slapanovich.  It was minor since he only met him briefly, many years ago, in the lobby of the Jonesboro Grain Elevator, where they were both waiting for job interviews. Yuri had started the conversation by commenting on a painting that hung on the drab pale green wall entitled, “Moving House”, by Victor Nasnetsov. Bubba remembered that he didn’t think much of the painting, but that Yuri went on and on about his perceived pathos, and how he loved the tragedy of Russia, the bleakness of the land, the harshness of the climate, and how the picture seemed to capture all of that. He remembered Yuri being disturbed that the copy did not include the tiny dog in the lower right hand portion of the canvas, and seemed to be a little too proud of the fact that he knew this detail. The thing was that Bubba also knew of this painting, and was able to discuss it, which excited Yuri, and they actually had a lively conversation concerning it AND Russia, as well as many other topics, so that when it came time for Yuri’s interview they exchanged contact information upon departure. 

What Bubba did not understand at the time was that this was Yuri’s typical MO, striking up a conversation, establishing a connection, exchanging contact information, and then writing letters to the person with whom the connection was established. Now at first glance this may seem normal, and almost appropriate, but the weird thing was that Yuri would send a physical letter as well as a small snack, to the address of his new found friend, even though the physical address was not included during the contact information exchange. This gave his letters a bit of a ‘creep’ factor since the home address obviously had to be Googled, probably through multiple search iterations. The other odd thing was that Yuri would never use the actual contact information given such as the email address and text number. Even if you contacted Yuri through one of those means he would reply, but only with a physical letter through the postal service, but the small snack was usually not included if he were replying to a text or email.

So now Eugene was mildly disturbed by the socks, the tragic bleak painting, the creep factor, and the possibility that he had acquired a friend that he neither intended nor desired to acquire. The odd thing was he was not disturbed by the content of the letter, in fact it had intrigued him, and the thought of it seemed to compensate for negative emotions just discussed. 

The letter had to do with Wednesday night church services, not a particular service, but the collective Wednesday Night Service, viewed in aggregate, across the Americas. As the coffee sank in his mood improved on schedule and he imagined actually writing a letter back to Yuri, and when he realized that he rarely did what he imagined that troubled him as well, the caffeine notwithstanding.  There were a million things running through his head as far as things that needed to be done, tasks that would nag him while he wrote the letter, which he could not afford, since to him letters, even the minor ones, take all his concentration, and the niglets of everyday life would tend to mentally cripple him. “A list”, he thought, “I’ll do a list and only do the most urgent, knowing the others are essentially done as well since they exist on the list, and therefore ARE done in the future tense.” And so he did, and decided on the following; inspect the house exterior for mouse holes, fill those holes with some suitable substance, jump start the pickup truck, move the wood from the pile to the house, affix the loose vanity to the wall, place snaps on his hat’s flaps, schedule meeting with accountant on year end taxes, buy and mail the Christmas presents, and on and on. 

Most of the tasks were only mildly difficult, but the one that was truly troubling was regarding the Christmas presents. To him this was monumental, so many stages, determining who gets a gift, who gets only a card, who gets a card AND a gift, what to get each person, finding their physical address, finding  suitable boxes, wrapping the packages, and finally the mailing. Granted there is still time as of December 5^th, but he knew that due to his hatred of these tasks that procrastination would take hold, that it may as well be December 22^nd. It was as if someone was swinging a baseball bat at his head, fast enough to hurt but slow enough to get out of the way, but somehow he could not move. Eventually the bat would hit his face and add injury to his incompetence. He could take the injury as well as the incompetence, but not both of them together since a few can tolerate serious dents in psyche and body simultaneously.

 To solve this he set aside an entire day to do this, with nothing else on the agenda that day. December 7^th. That will be the day, same as D-Day, no not D-Day, but Pearl Harbor, the day the Zeroes bombed Pearl Harbor so that the American fleet stationed there would not be able to interfere with the conquest of Southeast Asia. But why did they need to conquer Southeast Asia to begin with? Something to do with rubber? Maybe tires and oil for military vehicles? Focus… He must focus, but as he looked out his window he saw that one of his trash cans had blown across the street. Ah, an urgent task that must be accomplished now, and it’s easy so he thought he would just do it now immediately, and it would only take five minutes, which was underestimated due to the sequence of minutia required. He would have to find suitable clothing for the day, then suitable outer wear since the temperature was single digit negative in Celsius, the wind was obviously strong enough to blow the can about a tenth of a mile, so maybe a facemask was in order. Might as well brush my teeth and shave before I go and get completely ready for the day, plus I have to urinate, plus my coffee is only half finished, so maybe that should be finished before it gets lukewarm, but the microwave is broken so it must be heated on the stove,  ugh, “Stop IT”, he told himself, just go get the trash can, which he did. He enjoyed mornings like this where the dirty white landscape, soaked in stone cold humidity and associated elements reminded him of the bleakness in the “Moving Day” painting which was the backdrop for his initial meeting with Yuri Slapanovich.  He liked the Russian type feel of this landscape, and while he did not particularly care for Yuri he liked the idea of having a Russian friend, which is one of the reasons he plowed through the potential minutia of his day and responded to Yuri’s letter.  

Dear Yuri,

Thank you for your recent letter and the topics therein that certainly are not the type of things we discuss at parties, or any other time for that matter. My curiosity was certainly piqued regarding your theory on why Floridians are generally in a perpetual sour mood. While I have known many angry Floridians, mostly on the road, I don’t think you can conclude that most Floridian’s are angry due to a genetic predisposition to anger and the suppression thereof. You may be proud of the fact that you live in Anna, Illinois, or should I say that you have the ability to be happy and content in such a dismal place, and a place that is verifiably genetically crazy. Yes, Verifiably, and maybe that’s a big part of it, a fish as odd as you would obviously be happier in that type of slough.  I’m wondering how you would fare here in Cairo? In any case I’m sure that back in the 60’s and 70’s many people who were depressed due to the climate in say Toledo did move to Florida, and the weather was indeed only masking the true reason for their depression, and their depression may have a genetic element, but to say that the entire state of Florida has a genetic predisposition to sadness is probably a gross overreach. So while your theory was entertaining, I think the word ‘dumb’ describes it best. 

What I found more enlightening was your treatise on Wednesday Night Christian Gatherings in the aggregate. I would certainly agree that from the outside looking in the Wednesday night gatherings in evangelical churches are less that a fascinating phenomenon. Maybe even from the inside looking within. I may have told you that there was a time when I was a regular church goer, and for various reasons I fell away from the faith, not necessarily because of Wednesday Night, but it didn’t help either. In isolation I thought they were pretty lame. They all seem to have a consistent them, start with a song, accompanied with a guitar or piano. This is called worship, and maybe it is for some. No problem there and actually I think the Bible does mention it, something about singing to yourselves in psalms, hymn, and spiritual songs. Ok fine, and yes, God probably likes that as long as that is what you are truly doing in your heart. I know it says that God looks at the heart, not the outward appearance. The next two sections however were especially troubling for me, and they both have to do with corporate prayer. This is where the leader of the group, usually the Pastor, makes some announcements regarding people who are ill, or going through a hard time, and then asks for additional prayer requests from the few people who actually attend the Wednesday Night. In the church I attended only about ten to fifteen people would attend, and I didn’t know any of them really well, but even if I did I still wouldn’t share the things for which I would like prayer because most of THOSE things are truly embarrassing, so why would I be so vulnerable as to share them with the whole group? Think about it. What would be like if Kevin shared his lust for Trevor, and Agnes wanted prayer for the guilt associated with the fling with Steve back in the 60’s, and Trevor shares his porn addiction, and Vulvaeta is tormented by an attraction to the pastor. No, the things we really want prayer for are not the general but the specific, and not the innocuous specifics but the ones for which we hate ourselves. It’s bad enough that we wallow in our self-loathing but we certainly don’t want to invite others to do the same. Human nature precludes this, but since we have to do something we persist with prayer requests so general that the meaning is sucked dry. But that is not the worst part. The worst part is that we proceed with the meaningless generalized prayers, which I suppose is better than nothing, but that is just a supposition. Maybe they’re not better than nothing, maybe their worse than nothing. Or maybe they work just fine because God actually knows that Agnes’ guilt IS related to the rear seating section of the pale green Ford Falcon. 

But still we’re not to the worst part, which is when we are asked to split up into small groups of three or four. Ugh, noooooo…. Please nooooo.  In these groups we are asked to share additional prayer requests, even more intimate than the ones we just presented in whitewashed form. Now I’m actually sitting in a circle with just Agnes, Kevin, Cooter, and Vulvaeta, and we ALL are expected to come up with something, anything, to pray for. And we do, except for me. I simply refuse. They may think I’m not very spiritual, but I don’t care because that is the absolute truth. Still, it’s awkward. Then the sharing begins, Agnes asks for prayer for President Trump, Kevin asks for wisdom regarding a possible job change, Vulvaeta need’s prayer for a sore throat, and Cooter is like me in that he says nothing and just wants to get this over with. Then we pray for  these minor requests but again maybe God pairs the job change with Kevin’s queerness, Vulvaeta’s sore throat with the Pastor attraction, and Agne’s Trump Prayer with the Ford Falcon. Cooter gets nothing. Neither do I, other than this exercise is finally over. 

After this the video starts, with some semi-famous teacher from another part of the country, speaking on some topic, which is fine because nothing is required of the attendees, except when the guy prays.

I guess what I’m saying is that from the outside looking in it all seems so ridiculous, but then again I am probably a ridiculous figure myself, and certainly to God. If I take this latter stance then your hypothesis on the Aggregate Wednesday night makes more sense. 

By the way, in the spirit of transparency I think that little French beret you wear comes off as pretentious. First of all you’re not French, your Russian, at least that is what your name indicates. But beyond that it looks like your trying to present yourself as some type of hip artisan, and maybe you are but that hat makes you looks like an effeminate dandy.

Yours Truly,

Eugene B. McQue