Once during my latter teens, the phantom patrol (a name for motor cycle pigs) visited my home; because I had picked a fight with Little John—a member of my posse at the time. It took place at the Greater St. Matthews Independent Church during a Friday night dance. John kept insisting that I dance with the girls; however, even under the influence of booze, I was too bashful to oblige. So in order to get him off my back, I lifted him up by the shoulders and shoved him into the glass window of a door. Luckily there was a wall behind the door, so he didn’t go all the way through. During the commotion and screaming, I left and headed home.
     The phantom patrol—Porky and the Creeper—intercepted John heading toward my house with his bloody hand wrapped in a handkerchief. He was highly pissed and was seeking revenge. The two cops came to my home and asked questions. I was expecting them to run me in. However, they shrugged it off as a mere feud between cut-buddies and left without collaring me. I was surprised that they didn’t even demand I pay for the broken church window.
     There’s not too much to brag about here, since like the name implies, “Little” John was little. It didn’t take much for me to pick him up and toss him like a rag doll. After sobering up the next day I felt bad for what I had done. I recalled the girls dressed in their fine attire, and the elderly ladies from the church who were overseeing the dance. Even though the dance was in a house next to the church sanctuary, it was still part of the Lord’s property. I guess the purpose of the dance was to keep teens off the streets and out of trouble. Well, I spoiled their plan and brought trouble to the church instead. It wasn’t the sort of reputation I was trying to build. Shame on me.