Patrick hadn’t read the Bible since his expulsion from Catholic elementary school, but he couldn’t imagine that Jesus would want his missionaries of the faith in Chicago wearing such terrible shoes. They were Walmart-brand tennis shoes, generic as hell, and certainly didn’t inspire faith in something as basic as the wearer’s fashion sense, never mind his ability to be privy to classified religious information. As the el tottered slowly along the tracks toward Wrigley, Patrick tried to look away from the shoes, but couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from lasciviously wandering over them again and again. Sneakers! Shouldn’t missionaries at least be wearing sandals, as a throwback to Jesus and all the sand the guy must have walked through? If it were winter, he could understand, but July was certainly sandals weather. He wondered if the missionary was going to Wrigley to pass out his poorly-printed literature before the game. He certainly wouldn’t be meeting with a very friendly/sober crowd there. Patrick watched the guy’s face as the train swayed and crept forward past Wilson. He looked incredibly calm, as if he were unaware the air conditioner on the train was broken and the stench was steadily building. Maybe Jesus was controlling his internal body temperature as a “thank you” for going out and spreading the good word on a Saturday during baseball season. Patrick wiped the sweat off his own face and took a swig from his rapidly warming Steel Reserve. Off-brand tennis shoes or not, right about now that seemed like a pretty fair trade.
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