A new place opened up just off Highway 9. Christ-On-A-Stick, it's at Exit 13. They sell foot longs and corn dogs. Pretzels, big soft ones. Crinkle-cut fries and crisp onion rings. I heard they made a really good cheeseburger, too.
My stomach was growling just thinking about it. I love a good cheeseburger. But I didn’t have a cent to my name. I was poor as a church mouse and I stood not too far from Christ-On-A-Stick, smelling the corn dogs, the onions, the grease; the yeast from the pretzels, the burgers and fries. Heavenly scents that rose in the air like the sound of a choir. They beckoned. They called. I answered. I went.
Christ-On-A-Stick is…let’s just say it’s “unique.” There are skylights, of course. Pews for booths, prayer cloths for napkins. The logo’s a corn dog with wings and a halo. Big game is on and you don’t want to miss it? Christ-On-A-Stick—wait for it—delivers.
At the front of the store, there’s a pearly-white sign trimmed in gold, with red letters: “Whoever comes here shall never go hungry. First meal is free. See your servant for details.”
Servants, they’re called at Christ-On-A-Stick. The guys and gals who work the front register. Or hand you a bag from a stained glass window. Or bring your food out on collection plates.
To tell you the truth, I’m not a believer. The last time I set foot in a church, I was five. But I was so hungry. And I’m partial to cheeseburgers. The sign said they’re free, and god, they smelled good.
The girl who worked the front counter that day looked like she’d eaten nothing but soap all her life. She was shiny and scrubbed. Her name tag said “Tammy.” A plushie toy sat on top of her cash register; Jesus, riding a dinosaur. Bare back.
Welcome to Christ-On-A-Stick, she said. I cut to the chase. The free meal, I told her. It’s my first time here. A cheeseburger, medium. With mustard and pickle. Coke, if you have it. And onion rings, please.
Come right this way, servant Tammy said. I was practically drooling. I followed. She led.
The room was white. So white it was sinister. Quiet in a way that just wasn't right. Innocent men will sometimes confess; a few minutes there and I understood why.
Finally a manager-type walked in. Had a clipboard and pen. His name tag said “Clyde.” Big beefy guy. Like a cow with a tie.
There’s paperwork I need you to fill out, he said. Questionnaires, forms. How did you hear about us, that kind of thing. The one on the bottom, no need to read that. Just sign it and date it. I’ll be right outside.
The door closed with a click. No need to read it? I wanted to ask but I was so hungry. Dirt-poor, and hungry. So hungry I would've eaten...well, dirt.
And I was about to taste manna from heaven. A sizzling cheeseburger, with mustard and pickles. Onion rings fried to golden perfection. There's no such thing as a free lunch, I’m told. I didn't care. I was starving. I signed.
***
Alcatraz housed the worst of the worst. Life at “The Rock” was hard by design. So hard, in fact, in a moment of despair, George K. Barnes, Inmate 117, carved “nothing’s worth all this” into the concrete walls of his cell.
You might know him as “Machine Gun Kelly.” You might also know what “tithing” means; a tithe is simply an offering, of sorts, of a part or percent of whatever one has, or is, as a whole. It was tithing that paid for my “free” cheeseburger, though Christ-On-A-Stick won’t say so outright.
As I hovered gently above Hwy 9, on a fiberglass cross, high in the sky over Exit 13, holding a sign that said “refills are free, our cups runneth over”, dressed as a corn dog with a halo and wings, I swore from then on I would read the fine print. And George Kelly Barnes had nothing on me.