The Preacher's Son Comes Through
The voice from the ground belonged to Charlie, the preacher’s kid, who was younger than the rest of us, but still cool. I dropped the rope down for him to climb up; it was the only way to get into the tree house in which Larry, Buddy and I were sitting. Soon, he was up and in, red faced and sweating. Charlie was a little on the chubby side and rope climbing didn’t agree with him.
“Did you bring it?” Buddy asked.
“Let — me breathe a second, would ya?” Charlie wheezed. He unbuckled his back pack, reached inside and drew forth the unopened bottle of Vino Sacro that he’d just liberated from his father’s church.
We all just stared in wonder – more at Charlie’s audacity than at the symbol of the Blood Of Christ we were about to shamelessly partake of in abundance. The four of us would share equally in this sacrilege and in the punishment to come, but for the moment, there it was.
“Where’s the corkscrew?” I asked eagerly.
A look of horror crossed Charlie’s face.
“What corkscrew?” he asked.