“Not worth anything?”

“Not really,” he said, “but check this out -- it’s still working! And it’s got the right time!”

“Takes a lickin’ …”

“ … and keeps on tickin’”

“If only John Cameron Swayze was still alive,” I said.

We laughed and John-John said he had to get going. Some kind of appointment. He wasn’t real clear. “You’re a good guy Dietrich,” he said. “How ‘bout we hook up around five for a drink. You know, happy hour.”

“A drink?” I said. “Where?”

“How ‘bout O’Malley’s?”

“By the bowling alley?”

“Nice little sports bar. We’ll shoot some pool. Get to know each other.”

Hit the local bar for happy hour. Shoot some pool. OK. These are phrases not usually included in a preacher’s lexicon -- especially in a town like this where you never knew who you‘ll run into. But somehow it felt alright, permissible. The times were changing for me. It was in the wind. In my gut. And without any bitterness. None at all. More like I was smiling all over. What if someone from church did see me at O’Malley’s? So what. Meet John-John at the sports bar and shoot some pool. Why not? Even in college, I’d never actually had a drinking buddy -- not that I was planning to become a drinker. But one happy hour … what could it hurt?

“Got one thing to tell you John-John.”

“Yea?”

“I didn’t mention it, but I’m a preacher too -- just like my Dad.”

“I knew that.”

“I wasn’t sure if you did. It’s not a problem?”

“Not for me. Is it for you?”

“I just asked myself that, and you know what? I don’t think it is.”

Twenty minutes past five and O’Malley’s was packed. I hadn’t figured I’d have to push through a crowd. I felt self-conscious. Out of my element. Fortunately John-John was watching for me. I stopped a few feet inside the door to get my bearings and he came bouncing up in his shorts and sandals and grabbed me by the arm. “Hey padre,” he said. “I saved you a spot at the bar. It’s karaoke night in here and they fill up pretty early.”

That’s how it went all evening. John-John leading the way, me following. We were on his turf and playing his scene. I just wanted to laugh, let go and have a good time. After that first uneasy moment by the door it came pretty easy. Follow the leader. I drank what he drank, shot eight-ball or listened to karaoke when it suited him, or just sat and joked with the bar tenders when that’s what he wanted. They all knew his name and before I left around nine they knew mine. I liked that. John-John had kindly not mentioned I was a minister. That bit of info that can throw a big wet blanket on any celebration. And on this night I had no interest in being Pastor Waymire. I was just good old Dietrich doing happy hour with my buddy John-John. I never got around to asking how he knew my old man.

At some point I realized I’d had too much to drink. It may have been when this young blond woman with whom we‘d been shooting pool, a school teacher she said, asked if I’d sing a duet with her. I laughed and said, “oh maybe a little later.” She took that as a yes and signed us up. When they called us she told me to choose a song and I chose “You Don’t Know Me.”

Honest to God I thought I‘d make a fool of myself, but my voice -- maybe it was the beer -- my voice sounded rich and powerful to me, even sexy. And when she, this pretty blond standing so close to me, smiled into my eyes and sang, “you think I’m just a friend, that’s all I’ve even been, but you don’t know me,” I wanted to melt into her arms then and there. Like I said, I’d had too much to drink but not so much that I didn’t see the danger I faced: God was releasing me, giving me freedom to run, but not to run wild. God had a mission for me. I know now what it is. I didn’t then. I did know it wasn’t melting into the arms of young women.