Growing up poor in a moral and cultural cesspool has its perks. Did I just use the plural? I meant to use the singular. The perk is, if you survive such an upbringing, you come out at the other end with stories. Yes, “stories.” That time, I meant to use the plural.

Remember how Mr. Rogers used to take you to Make-Believe Land? I’m escorting you to Make-It-Go-Away Land. There are no puppets where we’re going. If there were puppets, they’d all be carrying tiny foil spoons—for freebasing.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

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The study of journalism advises writers to start off strong. Thus: Youth groups are the second most debauched institution in existence, just behind the Internet.

Before you sling poo at my poor editor, allow me a sentence or two to explain that statement. My experiences with youth groups come courtesy of my time in Martinsville, a city whose high school has the second highest teen pregnancy rate and the highest STD count in the state. (Go, Bulldogs!) While your own youth group experiences may have been pleasant enough to inspire a “feel good movie of the year,” mine weren’t.

I’ve heard all manner of youth group horror stories from fellow Martinsville-ites:, adolescent orgies, homosexual liaisons between the pews, and even youth ministers who propositioned their female youth—but only for sodomy, so as to keep their virginities intact. Just because they were perverts didn’t make them heathens.

Those stories in that last paragraph are secondhand. Beginning next paragraph, you’ll get the firsthand. First, I’ll drag you along to a youth group picnic I attended in my late teens. Later, we’ll visit a dirt racetrack in Oakvale, where I became the prey of a vicious, albeit unusual, predator…

ACT I: HOT TEENAGE GIRLS

“There’ll be girls there,” said my friend. “Lots of hot girls.” My other friend supported him in this. “Lots,” he agreed. “It’s an open event to attract new members. There’ll be dozens of babes.”

My other, other friend and I exchanged a look, a look that very plainly communicated both ways, “No way in hell is this going to end well.” We didn’t trust Friend or Other Friend to pick out a movie, let alone to introduce us to women. Other Other Friend and I knew better than to cave to Friend and Other Friend, but it was a Saturday afternoon in Martinsville. If we didn’t find something to do soon, we’d end up alone watching another episode of Xena: Warrior Princess.

Sorry, I have to break our narrative stream for a moment. Those “Friend”/”Other Friend” labels aren’t working. I can’t use my friends’ real names, so I’ll have to assign them aliases. Hence, the cast of this Martinsville Story will be named according to the actors who would play them in my biopic. “Friend” is Meat Loaf Aday, “Other Friend” is Tom Arnold, and “Other Other Friend” is Matt Damon.

Now, to recap and resume: Meat Loaf said there’d be hot girls at their church’s youth group picnic, and he invited Matt Damon and me to attend. Tom Arnold seconded this claim. The invitation was a feeble attempt at incentive; truth was, they needed the ride. Matt Damon and I weren’t gullible, but we were bored. That was just the opening Loaf and Arnold needed. When you’re a teenager, boredom is mightily persuasive.

“How many hot girls,” my hormones and I asked. Meat Loaf reinforced his previous statement: “Plenty.” Matt Damon and I were budding atheists. We abhorred religious functions, but the journey offered us an alternative to Saturday afternoon television programming. Furthermore, we were in our late teens, poor, and socially scrambled. Any potential for “hot girls” was hard to pass up.

I should make it known before I go any further that none of us in the car that day was under 17. Where that car was headed, numbers would become an issue. But as is the case with any good (or mediocre) story, before the conflict came its foreshadowing. On the way to the park, we ran over a snake. Matt Damon and I stepped outside the car to take pictures, as evidenced in the accompanying photograph.

We ignored and exploited an omen. Does anyone ever not ignore an omen, or recognize an omen as an omen ahead of time? Omens are always defined by subsequent tragedy. Trauma and tragedy are so common in Martinsville/Henry County that omens are a part of life. It rains locusts once a week (not really). Babies are born without eyes; their parents just draw ‘em on with eyeliner pencils (this is called “hyperbole”).

After backing over the snake time and again lost its kicks, we arrived at the park. Meat Loaf and Tom Arnold rushed out of the car to greet their Jesus-friends. Matt Damon and I made a more careful approach. We saw adults. We saw children. There may have been babies, or even elderly folk—who cares? We didn’t see any hot teenage girls. We didn’t even see any teens. Aside from the ministers and parents, we were the oldest folk in attendance.

I voiced this concern to Tom Arnold. “Tom Arnold,” I said. “Where are those ‘hot girls’ you promised?” His reply: “They’re here, you [maternal figure][rhymes with “clucking”][English slang term for cigarette]! I can’t help it that you’re picky.” (I assigned this friend Tom Arnold’s name for a reason. In the inevitable film version of my life, only Tom Arnold could capture his inimitable crudeness.)

I had slightly better luck confronting Meat Loaf. “Legendary musician Meat Loaf Aday,” I said, “I thought you said there’d be teenage girls here? What gives?” He didn’t understand the question. “What? There are hotties everywhere. Are you blind?”

I was blind; the park was swarming with teenage girls. Thirteen is an unlucky number. There were 13 participants in the Last Supper. At age 13, Jewish boys become Bar Mitzvah. “Triskaidekaphobia” is the fear of the number 13. Thirteen year-old girls were everywhere. I don’t believe in the Devil, but I do agree that, if he were real, he’d own a beach house in the details.

I could continue with the awkwardness that ensued that day, but it boils down to Matt Damon and I eating cake and nervously making small talk with children and an oblivious youth minister. After a lemon-eating contest and an awkward game of relay races, Matt Damon and I rushed to the station wagon and fled the scene.

Meat Loaf and Tom Arnold met a number of their girlfriends at church. When those girlfriends were five years their junior, no alarm was raised. I’m still unsure as to why. Was it OK for young men to date younger girls because of the culture, or because they were meeting at church? This crazy notion that churchgoers don’t or can’t have lurid sexcapades is crazy. It’s so crazy, I’ve sandwiched the notion between two buns of “crazy.”

What’s crazier is that many of Meat Loaf’s bad math relationships ended because he wouldn’t put out. Meat Loaf was the presumably ill-intentioned older boy, but it was his young churchgoing girlfriends who pushed for fleshy relations. They wanted the goods. When he didn’t give, they got elsewhere. Meat Loaf wasn’t quick to intimacy, a virtue that populated his nights of tears, cigarettes, and Little Debbie snack cakes.

ACT II: THE ANTICOUGAR

The summer following my first year of college, boredom once again led me to the company of minors. I was 20, and Meat Loaf was 19. His girlfriend was 14. In accordance to our naming scheme, we’ll call the lass ‘Lil Cam Diaz.

‘Lil Cam and her youth group pals were going to see a race at a dirt track in Oakvale. She’d invited Meat Loaf and his friends to tag along. I’ve never cared for racing, but being that I’d developed a nasty case of cabin fever, I’d accepted the invite. Only, I didn’t actually see a race that night—only the interior of Meat Loaf’s locked car.

When Meat Loaf introduced me to ‘Lil Cam and her youth group friends at the ticket booth, I was uneasy, but not perturbed. Given my previous experience, the ages of Meat Loaf’s Christian comrades came as no surprise. When he introduced me to his girlfriend’s flirtatious 15 year-old friend, though—that was perturbation.

Initially, Ms. UnRobinson’s attention was flattering. I savored the attention in an “Aww, isn’t that cute!” sort of way. All perceived cuteness deteriorated when she asked me if I wanted to make out. I told her that I had a girlfriend. That revelation should have repelled her advances. Stalemate—do not pass go, do not collect $200. No dice. My playing hard to get had only made her lustier.

Our five year age difference frightened me. For Ms. UnRobinson, it had a very different effect. In an effort to defuse her roving eyes, I made small talk. I made a comment about being out of shape. This gave the anticougar the impetus to put her hand up my shirt to see and feel, mostly feel, the flesh underneath. “Feels like you’re in great shape to me,” she cooed.

I leapt backwards, excused myself to “get some air,” and ran for the parking lot. I spent the rest of the evening hiding in the back of the car. When the hormonal huntress came near, I locked the doors and feigned sleep. When she banged her fists against the glass and called my name, I did a commendable impression of a coma patient. She was persistent—a kitten in heat. I was mortified—a cat at the vet’s office, experiencing for the first time the insertion of a cold rectal thermometer.

I count my lucky stars that I survived that night with my belt intact. I locked myself in a vehicle because I was terrified of a randy teenage girl. I’m not proud of that fact. Then again, I’m proud of little that went on in Martinsville. You’d think a house of worship would be the exception to the rule. You’d also think that Donald Duck would wear pants. Alas, he does not.

Martinsville Moral: When in the company of youth group girls, proceed with the utmost caution. Avoid eye contact. If her cheeks run red, turn the other cheek . . . and run away.

Next time, in Martinsville: “Ring around the racetrack!” or “Let’s not get NASCARried away!”

Charles Smith is a regular New River Voice columnist who grew up in, yeah, you guessed it, Martinsville, but now lives in Radford. His “Martinsville Stories” will be appearing in the Voice every other Friday.