u/Admirable-Friend1497

My brother’s parole officer is short and mean as hell.

Got him so paranoid about going back, he don’t even step off the porch. Now she telling him he better get a job or she sending him back anyway.

I don’t care if she hear about this—I’m saying her name.

Maizee Grace.

Yeah. That her real name.

And she shaped like she can stand straight up and win most limbo contests. I know that’s mean, but Maizee Grace been mean first.

Two Sundays ago we in church—me, my brothers, Mom, Aunt Coretta.

They all get up for  “Amazing Grace.”

Soon as they start singing, I look at my brother.

He looking hard up front and singing.

Everybody seeing Jesus—except me.

I keep seeing…Maizee Grace.

I try to hold it. Man, I really do. But it’s already over.

I’m trembling in the pew, trying to cough it off like I got peanut allergies.

They almost had to carry me out. I couldn’t stop laughing.

Mom ignored us when we pulled up to the curb for her after five blocks of walking. She hiked the whole distance home, and it was raining..

Only person I told was him—and that made it worse.

Now it’s in both our heads.

So last Sunday?

They run it back again because somebody made a request.

“Amazing Grace” again.

Now we ready this time… or so we think. I start off with clenched teeth.

Song get going.

Mom already side-eyeing me like she know something ain’t right.

Then they hit:
“Saved a wretch like me—”

That’s it.
We done.

Full collapse.

He snorting, I’m folded over, pew shaking like the Holy Spirit having a temper tantrum.

Mom looking at us like she deciding whether to pray for or kill our sorry asses.

We ain’t even hearing the rest of the song.

Just trying not to die laughing in church.

Y’all ever start laughing somewhere you absolutely wasn’t supposed to?
Don’t make nothing up—true stories only.

Don’t lie…Church laughs score double.

Using a porta-john is an endurance test—it brings out how good you are at handling your business with your eyes and lungs shut down.

I honestly believe they oughta make it Olympic.

Imagine the gold medal round. You got two hundred drunk athletes with induced explosive diarrhea, the sun beating down and only one porta john that got stolen from a truck stop.

Each athlete has to eat half a gallon of Kiki Castile’s chili and wash it down with two pitchers of Dead Donkey Springs beer—I can think of six categories for gold medals right there.

This year, the Ethnic Food Fest was held on a pickleball court. It brought in five hundred people.

The city provided two porta-johns: a blue men’s and a pink women’s.

For most of the fest, the blue one was occupied by the same guy. Four hours after it was over, he still in there.

That should’ve been enough for me to go home.

But I’m still there—doing my court-ordered duties. Chairs folding, tables scraping, some other traffic offender is dragging a trash bag with moving parts in it.

Our work boss is Reverend Watson, he ain’t touched a thing. He just leading us criminals around, telling us we gonna be struck blind if we don’t stop looking at the women he’s baptizing in his Winnebago.

Then he tells me and Fontsy to follow him.

Fontsy is a Haitian witch doctor who can’t go ten steps without checking his face paint in a compact mirror. Flip it open, inspect, little kiss, snap it shut—like he just approved himself for billboard viewing. Court sent him here because a meter maid said he put out a spell that made the fire hydrants go dry.

And Reverend Watson? He picks up all the money and make sure us convicts get the pickleball court cleaned up. Then the city hall don’t have to put up with all those senior citizen pickleball players yelling about slipping on grease spots and pulling the pins out of their knee replacements.

We come up to the blue porta-john.—Our last job.

The flies buzzing sounds like a five-alarm fire.

Fontsy steps back to work on his face paint. The preacher steps way back to pray—and tells me to pull the door open.

It’s wedged, man. Whole thing almost tips over on me.

So I put one foot up on the edge and pull.

Door flies open—I fall back on my ass and this beat-up old man lands face down between my knees. Flat out on the ground.

I scooch back, still looking at his hand locked on that handle.

A billion flies pour out behind him.

“Man, we need to call somebody,” I tell the Reverend. “And you gotta say a prayer.”

Reverend don’t move.

Then he tell me I gotta do CPR.

I say, “Hell no. I ain’t putting my mouth on his. I’d kiss a dog’s vent first.”

Watson roll that toothpick with his tongue and say refusing CPR is a direct ticket to hell.

I say, “That sound better to me. At least my lips won’t be attracting flies.”

Fontsy crouch down low, studying him. Then he get up, pulls his mirror out.

Flip. Check. Kiss. Snap.

Then the old man coughs.

Not big—just enough to let us know he ain’t gone yet.

And I still got a chance to get right with the Lord without the CPR.

I freeze. “You saw that, right?”

The Reverend kneel down next to the old man.

“Brother,” he say, soft now. “You got something to share with me—cash, credit card, car… and oh yeah, last words.”

The man’s lips move.

Dry. Cracked. Quivering.

Fontsy pull his mirror out again—check, then close it quick.

The Reverend switches out his toothpick. “Hold his hand,” he tell me.

You ever get the feeling you doing all the work and somebody else getting the payoff?

The poor old man whispers—“Ten… million… BiteCoins…”

I look at Reverend. He smiling already.

The man keep going on with his whispering.

“Under… the shadow… of the virgin…”

Now I look at Fontsy. He ain’t smiling. He studying. Real serious.

I glance back down at the man. He got his head wrapped. Religious, protection, first aid, who knows.

And that word—virgin—don’t help none.

Got all three of us looking in different directions like the answer might be standing there waiting.

The man’s mouth move one more time—then stops. Just… stops.

Silence settle in. Except for the flies.

I stand there a second. Then I say it out loud:

“Y’all heard the same thing I heard, right?”

Reverend don’t answer. He still smiling.

Fontsy closes that mirror real slow. No kiss this time.

And that’s when I know—whatever it is that old man just left us…it is big.

 I know somebody out there got a story worst than this...don't lie. Let's hear it.

A low nicotine ceiling hanging over high expectations.

Banner says: WELCOME, ETHNIC FOOD & FUNDRAISER GALA.

DJ playing something that sound like an Amish tribal uprising.
Servers weaving through tables like they looking for pockets instead of plates.

Reverend Watson up there in a gold blazer fighting for his buttons, working three ladies like he passing out salvation samples.

He taps the mic. Boom. Boom. Boom.

“Alright, alright—how we doin’, food lovers?”

He smiles big. Rolls that toothpick.

“Give it up for the kitchen staff—because if anything go wrong, they already left the building and went on a prayer vigil.”

People laugh. Some pray anyway.

Then he goes:
“Ladies and gentlemen… RayMee Doe.”

Nobody claps but my mama—and she halfway in another conversation.

So now it’s me.

Heart beating wrong. Half confidence, half survival.

Some dude yells, “Say something!”

So I do.

“I don’t know nothing about good food. I ain’t a foodie—I’m a feeder. I specialize in chewing, digesting, and getting rid of the evidence.”

That gets a few laughs.

Server start bussing plates right in front like I’m background noise.

So I stop.

Let him finish.

Reverend hit me with the watch like I’m already failing.

Mic start squealing. He rush in, make it worse, then unplug everything like that fixed something.

Then he lean in:
“Keep it tight. Speak louder. And try not to sound stupid.”

Then louder:
“Make it last three hours.”

Three hours.

Man I ain’t got three minutes on food.

So I say:
“Food only got three textures: runny, chewy, and Heatherd.”

Now they listening.

“Runny is like my aunt’s mashed potatoes—you drink ’em through a straw.”
“Chewy is anything from taffy to tires.”
Heatherd is my sister’s style of cooking… that’s government-grade. That’s what they coat bunker buster bombs with.”

Now they laughing.

Then this woman yell:
“Why you lying? You ain’t even got a sister!”

And she right.

So now I pivot fast.

“Everybody relax—I ain’t talking about potatoes. This whole speech about eggs.”

Security already moving.

I point at her:
“Yeah Tammy—you can’t cook either. That’s why all your boyfriends prefer prison food.”

She comes UP.

“I DID NOT PAY TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS TO GET DISRESPECTED!”

Reverend jump in:
“We love passion! This is a fundraiser—not divorce court!”

They dragging her out.

She still yelling:
“THIS AIN’T EDUCATIONAL!”

I go:
“It will be when you watch the replay!”

Door close. Crowd clapping—not for me, just relief.

So I reset.

“Eggs. Same three textures. Different consequences.
Runny egg got ambition.
Chewy egg fought back.
Heatherd egg… somebody left the stove on ‘ruin’ and called it flavor.”

Now they with me.

“Some drunk yell, ‘I want a refund—somebody picked my pockets!’”

I finally breathe.

Reverend slide back in like he saved the night.

“Give it up for RayMee Doe!”

Then he lean over the collection plate and scoop money up like it finger food.

“And that’s when I realize—this wasn’t a speech.

This was a diversion.”