The Prayer
creative nonfiction by Charles Spring
It can happen anywhere--writing in a coffee house, walking through a building with headphones blaring music in my ears, or, right now, when I’m working for just above minimum wage selling body care in a mall. I tend to always get singled out for being the most “in need” of help.
I’m working on some shipment when a man and two children, presumably his, walk in. Me being busy, a coworker welcomes them in. Eventually, I finish a box and my coworker lets the father look around. She tells me he is looking to purchase a gift for his wife, and I should check in with him later after he tests a few perfumes. He seems like your average middle-aged man, possibly in his late forties, early fifties, but his kids do not seem average. They are well-behaved, quiet, and I barely notice them there. Just good parenting, I assume.
I get ready to place more items on the shelf next to the man and decide to check in on him while I finish the box. He tells me what my coworker said about finding a gift, and I help him narrow down his ideas. Nothing eventful. After he picks out some scents, I offer to check him out on a mobile register.
“So what do you do?” I ask him, scanning the items we picked out.
“I’m a Pastor,” he says, letting out the first smile I’ve seen on him since we started interacting.
“That’s nice.”
I continue to scan through his items, donning a fake smile. I wasn’t raised with faith. I never heard anything about it that interested me, but I respected people who practiced. In Florida, it isn’t exactly hard to run into religious people, especially Christians. In the two miles between this mall and my house, I can pass five to seven churches depending on if I take the back roads or highway. It just isn’t for me, but that doesn’t mean people never try to convince me otherwise.
“Tell me, what do you know about Jesus?” He asks me.
“I know he was a good man, but honestly he wasn’t something I learned much about growing up.”
“Well he did a lot for us. He died for everyone’s sins. Even yours.” I widen my fake smile and nod.
“Mhm!” My job is not where I want to hear about other people’s faith. He begins to ramble on about Christianity and Jesus, like I just opened up the 700 Club equivalent of Pandora’s Box.
I don’t like to think of myself as being so obviously gay, but my feminine-toned voice means it’s hard to just blend in if I have to talk. It acts like a siren to people like this man. To me, my voice simply says, “I’m gay.” To people like this pastor, it says, “Please save me.”
“It’s never too late to repent, you know.” He holds his credit card close to him, using it as a lure knowing damn well I can’t do my job if he doesn’t pay. “All you need to do is pray with me. Just one prayer and you will feel comfort.” I give an exaggerated slow blink, inhaling loudly. I still have shipment I need to put on the shelves before I leave. I figure it’s faster to just let him feel like a hero than challenge him and risk getting into trouble. “Repeat after me,” he says with a satisfied grin as I sigh in reluctance.
I’m not sure what I’m saying, because honestly, I just don’t care. It’s just another “savior” coming to my rescue without my asking for it. It’s happened at least once a week in the two years I have been with this company. My least favorite was when other devout customers walked through the store talking to everyone, and as soon as they noticed me, they felt the need to hand me a flier to their church. To them, it was like an amber alert anytime I spoke. They couldn’t help themselves from saving another sinner. It was always just me, too. No matter who I worked with, I would be the one to get the church business card or whatever it was that day. When I told my managers or coworkers, they would just tell me, “He/she is just trying to be nice. Don’t think about it like that.” For the most part, I was the only non-religious person in the store. Everyone else was either deeply Christian or just about the business and didn’t talk about their personal lives. Needless to say, I was usually alone in being bothered by it.
Sometimes, I’d get threatening looks, too. Mostly from young college boys or older gentlemen with their wives riding around the store on mobile scooters. People would shoot me looks that told me I didn’t belong in this place. After such a long time of dealing with them, I tried to approach it with good customer service: Kill ‘em with kindness. I sometimes justified it, like maybe I was paranoid or misreading people. I still didn’t feel welcomed in my own store, and that’s probably what I should have focused on.
One time a guy with a group of four other college bros decided to go further than just intimidating stares. I said goodbye as he was leaving with his friends.
“Shut the fuck up, faggot.”
His shout echoed throughout the entire store as he exited the building. I shrugged it off at first because a slur is better than getting my ass beat. Then, I turned around and saw my store manager and assistant store manager both stood with wide eyes, mouths open. They heard it. My assistant manager even commented on it: “What did he say?” Then she just walked away to pretend it didn’t happen. The store manager, who was no stranger to micromanaging and strict disciplinary action, just made an I-hope-no-customers-heard-that face and pretended to clean a display. Nothing happened after that, the day continued. Nobody talked to me about it, apologized for it, or even acknowledged it when I was clocking out. In retail, I’ve learned, if it isn’t reported, it never happened, and there doesn’t need to be a case made about it.
I just don’t belong in this town, I guess. That’s why I keep getting savior Christians looking to sanctify me or dirty looks directed at the only gay man working at a body care shop full of otherwise good Christian women.
As the prayer stops, the pastor finally hands me his credit card to pay for all the things we picked out. I swipe it, still not sure what I just said. “You know,” he starts. “You may not realize it, but now that you’ve spoken that prayer, it means that Jesus will be watching over you from here on out. You have felt his light and you cannot walk away from it.”
Amen.
I’m working on some shipment when a man and two children, presumably his, walk in. Me being busy, a coworker welcomes them in. Eventually, I finish a box and my coworker lets the father look around. She tells me he is looking to purchase a gift for his wife, and I should check in with him later after he tests a few perfumes. He seems like your average middle-aged man, possibly in his late forties, early fifties, but his kids do not seem average. They are well-behaved, quiet, and I barely notice them there. Just good parenting, I assume.
I get ready to place more items on the shelf next to the man and decide to check in on him while I finish the box. He tells me what my coworker said about finding a gift, and I help him narrow down his ideas. Nothing eventful. After he picks out some scents, I offer to check him out on a mobile register.
“So what do you do?” I ask him, scanning the items we picked out.
“I’m a Pastor,” he says, letting out the first smile I’ve seen on him since we started interacting.
“That’s nice.”
I continue to scan through his items, donning a fake smile. I wasn’t raised with faith. I never heard anything about it that interested me, but I respected people who practiced. In Florida, it isn’t exactly hard to run into religious people, especially Christians. In the two miles between this mall and my house, I can pass five to seven churches depending on if I take the back roads or highway. It just isn’t for me, but that doesn’t mean people never try to convince me otherwise.
“Tell me, what do you know about Jesus?” He asks me.
“I know he was a good man, but honestly he wasn’t something I learned much about growing up.”
“Well he did a lot for us. He died for everyone’s sins. Even yours.” I widen my fake smile and nod.
“Mhm!” My job is not where I want to hear about other people’s faith. He begins to ramble on about Christianity and Jesus, like I just opened up the 700 Club equivalent of Pandora’s Box.
I don’t like to think of myself as being so obviously gay, but my feminine-toned voice means it’s hard to just blend in if I have to talk. It acts like a siren to people like this man. To me, my voice simply says, “I’m gay.” To people like this pastor, it says, “Please save me.”
“It’s never too late to repent, you know.” He holds his credit card close to him, using it as a lure knowing damn well I can’t do my job if he doesn’t pay. “All you need to do is pray with me. Just one prayer and you will feel comfort.” I give an exaggerated slow blink, inhaling loudly. I still have shipment I need to put on the shelves before I leave. I figure it’s faster to just let him feel like a hero than challenge him and risk getting into trouble. “Repeat after me,” he says with a satisfied grin as I sigh in reluctance.
I’m not sure what I’m saying, because honestly, I just don’t care. It’s just another “savior” coming to my rescue without my asking for it. It’s happened at least once a week in the two years I have been with this company. My least favorite was when other devout customers walked through the store talking to everyone, and as soon as they noticed me, they felt the need to hand me a flier to their church. To them, it was like an amber alert anytime I spoke. They couldn’t help themselves from saving another sinner. It was always just me, too. No matter who I worked with, I would be the one to get the church business card or whatever it was that day. When I told my managers or coworkers, they would just tell me, “He/she is just trying to be nice. Don’t think about it like that.” For the most part, I was the only non-religious person in the store. Everyone else was either deeply Christian or just about the business and didn’t talk about their personal lives. Needless to say, I was usually alone in being bothered by it.
Sometimes, I’d get threatening looks, too. Mostly from young college boys or older gentlemen with their wives riding around the store on mobile scooters. People would shoot me looks that told me I didn’t belong in this place. After such a long time of dealing with them, I tried to approach it with good customer service: Kill ‘em with kindness. I sometimes justified it, like maybe I was paranoid or misreading people. I still didn’t feel welcomed in my own store, and that’s probably what I should have focused on.
One time a guy with a group of four other college bros decided to go further than just intimidating stares. I said goodbye as he was leaving with his friends.
“Shut the fuck up, faggot.”
His shout echoed throughout the entire store as he exited the building. I shrugged it off at first because a slur is better than getting my ass beat. Then, I turned around and saw my store manager and assistant store manager both stood with wide eyes, mouths open. They heard it. My assistant manager even commented on it: “What did he say?” Then she just walked away to pretend it didn’t happen. The store manager, who was no stranger to micromanaging and strict disciplinary action, just made an I-hope-no-customers-heard-that face and pretended to clean a display. Nothing happened after that, the day continued. Nobody talked to me about it, apologized for it, or even acknowledged it when I was clocking out. In retail, I’ve learned, if it isn’t reported, it never happened, and there doesn’t need to be a case made about it.
I just don’t belong in this town, I guess. That’s why I keep getting savior Christians looking to sanctify me or dirty looks directed at the only gay man working at a body care shop full of otherwise good Christian women.
As the prayer stops, the pastor finally hands me his credit card to pay for all the things we picked out. I swipe it, still not sure what I just said. “You know,” he starts. “You may not realize it, but now that you’ve spoken that prayer, it means that Jesus will be watching over you from here on out. You have felt his light and you cannot walk away from it.”
Amen.
About the writer
Charles Spring is a writer and college graduate from Tampa’s University of South Florida. Majoring in Creative Writing, his repertoire is eclectic. He uses writing to explore his personal life experiences, but also enjoys world building, fantasy, and comedy screenplay writing. While he is a Florida native, Charles decided to move to Boston, Massachusetts after graduating to start a writing career in unfamiliar territory. He one day hopes to make it to New York City to begin writing for television with dreams of having his own show. Until then, he enjoys late night writing sessions with fast food and Final Fantasy OSTs in the background “because feels.”
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