Free A Wolverine Is Eating My Leg by Tim Cahill Page B

corner, and as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I saw that there were wooden bench seats along three walls and an ancient, puffy sofa along the fourth. The linoleum had been torn up to reveal a wooden floor. The walls were rough-hewn wood, like a rustic sauna.
    After the first few seconds of ripping claustrophobia, one became aware of a milling crowd and the monotonic sound of spoken gibberish. People were tromping back and forth lengthwise, and their footsteps produced a constant low rumble, a counterpoint to the words “thank you Jesus, praise you Jesus.” Christians stood in various corners and trilled out nonsense syllables: “Ah na na na” and the like at a rapid rate. Talking in Tongues.
    I was later to happen upon a few verses in Chapter Two of Acts concerning this phenomenon. Forty days after the death of Christ, the Apostles gathered, “And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.” Bystanders were amazed that the Apostles were speaking in their ownlanguages, while, “Others mocking said, These men are full of new wine.”
    My older Christian sat me on the bench and took up a position on my right. Someone else sat close by on my left. Both men began rocking back and forth, chanting, “Praise to you Jesus, thank you Jesus.”
    I have been at Catholic services, where everyone suddenly kneels at some signal, and willy-nilly, I found myself on my knees. It was impossible to remain seated. In the same way, it was difficult to sit in that room and not rock and chant.
    “Thank you Jesus, praise you Jesus,” I said for a little over an hour.
    Presently the three of us began rocking faster, chanting locomotive-style, “Thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus …” I assumed—half-believed—that there was some sort of self-hypnotic process in the works, and I intended to get thoroughly stoned. Several people seemed to be in a state of trance. I thought there might be some psycho-physiological process in which the tongue spewed out syllables of its own volition after a long chant. For me this was not the case.
    “Thank you Jesus,” my older Christian said, then began stuttering slightly. “Thank you Jesisisis, thank you jisisisis, dank eh jsiis, dada a jisisisis.” I found myself stuttering along. The pace increased and the man on my left broke into tongues. “Ah yab dadaba doedoedoe,” he stated. “Ah ra da da da da,” the man to my right replied. “Thank ooo jeejeejee,” I ventured. Apparently it wasn’t enough, and we started the whole process again.
    I could not, try as I might, get from the stutter to the tongues organically. I sneaked a look at my watch and realized that I had been rocking and chanting for almost two and a half hours. I was developing an unpleasant prayer sore at the base of my spine, and it was becoming painfully obvious that I wasn’t going to get out of there until I began speaking in tongues.
    We were working toward another crescendo. “Dank oo jejeje,” I said and burst into a tense, conservative burst oftongues. “Er rit ta tit a tit a rit,” I said, taking care to roll my
r
’s. “Ah yab a daba daba daba raba,” the man on my right shouted. “A nanananan nana nah,” the other Christian said.
    I opened my eyes slightly on the down rock, saw feet gathering around me and experienced a mainline shot of mortal dread. They knew I wasn’t speaking in tongues. They were going to stomp on me like a rat caught in the cheese box. “Er rit a tit tit tita,” I babbled, heavy on the rolling
r
’s. “Rit ti tit tit.”
    There were more feet. Several people stopped chanting and were standing in a semicircle, speaking in loud and extravagant tongues. Someone shouted, “Oh, thank you Jesus, thank you for the victory.” The victory, I realized with relief that approached joy, was that I had said, “Rit ti tit tit.” I was in. I belonged. Everyone was with me. “Rit ta tit tit,