Yeah, I can see why people love dogs.
Gomer is trotting, prancing, really, his tail up like he’s proud to be taking a walk. Every person we meet needs to stop and fawn all over him, and Gomer greets them by standing up on his hind legs and attempting to lick their faces when they bend down. We wind through tree-lined streets chock-full of Victorian houses scrunched together. When we pass a nondescript cream-colored building with purple doors pushed up against a row of skinny Victorians, Turk stops.
“This is my church.”
Aisha and I laugh. I’ve known the man for a day, and the one thing he isn’t is religious. Last night at dinner, he started oversharing about his lack of a sex life in the last two decades. I’d never heard a seventy-year-old person talk about sex before, and frankly I’ll be okay if I don’t again for a while. But Turk doesn’t change expression.
“You serious?” Aisha says, an eyebrow raised.
“As a heart attack. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re, like, Christian and a fag?”
“Whoa,” I say, but Turk doesn’t seem quite as taken aback.
“There are literally millions of us Christian fags, dear.”
“But don’t Christians basically think we’re going to hell?”
“ ‘Christian’ is a rather wide range. To group all Christians together is rather like grouping all homosexuals together, wouldn’t you say?”
I think back to Mr. Bailey saying the same thing, and I savor the irony of Turk and Mr. Bailey agreeing on something. Gomer pulls on his leash as a big dog trots by. Turk reins him in.
“All I know is my dad threw me out based on his beliefs, and he’s a Christian,” Aisha says.
Turk pulls her toward him, firmly but gently. “What your dad did,” he says directly into her ear, “that’s not Christlike, okay? That’s not Christian. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”
“Oh, he’s a real Christian all right,” Aisha says, and I feel my shoulders rise and tense.
“He may think that,” Turk says. “But true followers of Jesus Christ would never turn their back on a child who was suffering. That’s not conscionable. He’s living in fear.”
“Okay,” Aisha says.
We’re all more comfortable when Turk lets go of Aisha and we start walking again.
“Forgive me,” he says, chewing on his mustache. “I get so sick of assholes hijacking organized religion. Seriously. Somebody told your father, in the name of Christ, to kick you out of the house? Totally unacceptable. Sitting in a church makes you no more of a Christ follower than sitting in a Ford dealership makes you a Mustang owner.”
I say, “So you believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God? That he was born without his mom having sex? That he was crucified and resurrected? That he died for our sins? Really?”
“Actually, I was born Jewish.”
I raise an eyebrow, as best I can, anyway. “Turk? What kind of Jewish name is that?”
“It’s a nickname. My given name is Tzuriel. It means ‘Rock of God’ in Hebrew.”
“I think Tzuriel Braverman came up when we Googled Turk Braverman back in wherever,” I say. “We didn’t pursue it, as we didn’t think it was a thing.”
He laughs. “Tzuriel is my given name, and my professional name. I’m an author. I tend to write about religion and sexuality.”
“You write books about God?” Aisha asks.
He nods.
“Cool,” she says, and I’m like, Yeah. It is kinda cool.
“So you’re Jewish?” she asks.
“Well, I was born Jewish. I love the Jewish religion, what it stands for. In essence, Judaism is about being the best person you can be. I love that. As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve dabbled here and there. I mean, how can you be Jewish or Christian when the Dalai Lama exists? How can you be Buddhist or Muslim when there’s Christ’s teachings? There are so many wise people who have taught us so many wise lessons. How can a person choose to follow only some of the wisdom of the world?”
I ask, “So you’re not Christian, but you go to church?”
“This is the Metropolitan Community Church. There are tons of open and affirming churches. To me, a church that isn’t open and affirming isn’t really a church at all. This one is run by and for LGBTQ people.”
I look at Aisha. She’s just staring at the building. “I wish I could go to a service here,” she says, and we go back to walking.
“Well, you’ll need to fly back and get your car, won’t you?”
Aisha nods. I’ve been so focused on our flight back to Billings later today and introducing Turk to my dad that I’d forgotten we’ll return here in a few days.
“Well then, it’s a date. You’ll love it. There’s so much love in there, so much kindness. I sometimes feel as though the walls can’t hold it all in.”
We walk for a while. I try to digest what he’s told me. He’s a Jew who goes to a church and loves the Dalai Lama. He talks about sex and he’s a recovering alcoholic with forty years in AA and he writes books about God and he drives his convertible too fast.
God, Grandpa, I think to myself. Why’d you have to marry such a stereotype?
Turk is a local celebrity. Every block, he runs into someone he knows and stops to hug. He introduces me to some people as his new grandson, and to others as “Russ’s grandson.” The first garners puzzled looks; the second gets me hugged tight the few times it comes up.
As we get back to Market Street, I say, “So you believe in heaven and hell?”
Turk pulls on Gomer’s leash to stop him from sniffing a big pile of poop. “To me, hell is on earth. We’ve all been to hell. Heaven too. Living well takes us there.”
I snort. It sounds like a slogan you’d see on some late-night infomercial by some quack with a bad toupee selling CDs for $59.99, money-back guarantee if not completely sent to heaven for eternity, some restrictions apply.
Turk gives me an admonishing look. “Look. I get that there are assholes out there. They were out in full force when my friends were dying. I just refuse to let them rule me. I think Christianity is mostly good. I think religion is mostly good, even if it’s been the cause of most of our wars. That comes from a lack of flexibility, from not allowing others to disagree. Rigidity is dangerous. When someone tells you they know exactly what God is, run from that person.”
“For you,” I say, thinking of what Laurelei said.
“Huh?” Turk says, as Gomer does a little lamb leap toward a dog that’s obviously familiar to him, since the other dog makes a similar leap in Gomer’s direction. That owner waves and the two dogs sniff each other’s snouts and begin to circle each other.
“Laurelei in Wyoming said that to me. She said whatever people believe about God is undeniably true, so long as it’s followed by the words, for me.”
“I like that,” Turk says. “And I’ll add a resounding ‘fuck you’ for anytime someone else tries to put their ‘for me’ on me.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Aisha says.
“The Porcupine of Truth,” I say.
Aisha rolls her eyes. “Inside joke,” she says to Turk. “Carson has no joke filter. When he’s uncomfortable, he goes for the laugh.”
“Oh, I’m familiar,” Turk says, as we turn onto a side street. “If I had a nickel for every time Russ would say some nonsense when things got real. It was utterly adorable and truly obnoxious.”
Aisha puts her finger on her nose and points at Turk, who laughs.
“I’m standing right here,” I say. “Am I invisible?”
Turk ruffles my hair. “What’s the Porcupine of Truth?” he asks.
Aisha explains it to him. He takes it all in and slowly nods. “That’s definitely something Russ would have invented,” he says, his eyes a little sad.
We walk together in silence, our steps in a comfortable rhythm. When we get back to his street, Aisha says, “And you really believe in heaven?”