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deal with him: God will give Abraham more children than he can count—if Abraham agrees to circumcise himself.
    I first heard the word circumcision in Sunday school, the morning Eddie Quackenbush raised his hand and said, “Mrs. Pike, I was trying to read my Scriptures last night before bed, but there’s one word that’s got me puzzled and I can’t figure out what it means.”
    Old Lady Pike’s face lit up—Eddie was the last child on earth you’d expect to read the Bible on his own volition. “I’m so glad you asked, Edward. Now which word is that?”
    “Circumcision.”
    Eddie never got an answer, because the old hag turned purple and ran out of the room.
    Later, I asked my father what it meant. “It’s the removal of the foreskin of the penis,” he said.
    It took me a minute to get over the shock of Father saying the word penis . “Re—removing? As in, cut—cut—cutting off?”
    “That’s right. With a knife.”
    I looked down at my crotch. “Did—did I have that done to me?”
    He frowned. “Of course. It’s a sign that your body is consecrated to God, every member of it.”
    The blood drained from my face. And from my injured member, too. From that day on, I was haunted by the ghost of my foreskin. What did it look like? Would girls like me better if I still had one? Did chopping it off stunt my growth? Was that I why I still hadn’t hit
puberty?
    After Abraham gives his 99-year-old pecker a shave, the lowly foreskin becomes a major player in the Bible. It becomes the defining mark of God’s chosen people. Things really get crazy in the Book of Samuel, when David slaughters 200 Philistines, circumcises their corpses, and brings the bloody foreskins to King Saul on a silver platter—in exchange for the king’s daughter. And this was the same David who killed Goliath? Every Baptist boy’s hero? Author of the Book of Psalms?
    My life would be a lot less confusing, I thought, if only God had told Abraham to cut the whole damn thing off.

    + + +

    The idea that we evolved from monkeys was tough to swallow. But what was the alternative? Flaming swords, fornicating angels, faked dinosaurs, and Philistine foreskins? No wonder the Chicagoans heckled that old evangelist.
    As far as I could see, there were only two possibilities. Either the evangelist was right—and my father with him—or the Chicagoans were right.
    If the evangelist was right, this life was nothing more than a waiting room for the next. The only thing on earth that mattered was placing your reservation for eternity. And, considering how I preferred the French Lady over Jesus, I’d already bought my ticket to that warm place down South.
    But if the Chicagoans were right, there was no hell—and no heaven, either. This life was all there is. You’re born, you eat, you shit, you screw, you die.
    Funny thing was, the Chicagoans seemed happy, while the evangelist—sure of his eternal reward—didn’t. Then I realized why: if no one’s keeping score, there are no rules. If there is no Judgment Day, you can do whatever you want. Forget about laws and obligations—follow your whims and enjoy life while it lasts.
    As we pulled into St. Louis, the last ember of my childhood faith flew out the window and disappeared in a stream of smoke. For the first time in my life, I was free to do whatever I wanted.
    Bring on the Harvey Girls.



CHAPTER 7
     
    F RED Harvey’s restaurant was right inside the station, so all I had to do was follow the scent of succulent flesh. My belly was as famished for food as my eyes were for pretty girls.
    A man in a tuxedo showed me to a table in back, where I scanned the menu and the room. Once I got my bearings, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Those were the Harvey Girls? Beautiful in form and spirit?
    What a crock. They looked like a bunch of damn Pilgrims in a Thanksgiving Day pageant, with their starched white collars and black dresses that touched
the floor. You couldn’t even see their forms. Aside from