The suburban loser tokes a one-hitter in a church parking lot, loosening up the polo tucked into his jeans as he watches people dressed in white suits and dresses greet the priest near the big entrance doors. He puts a Listerine strip on his tongue and sprays a little cologne on his collar, making sure to lock his car until he hears it beep twice. The houses around the church look abandoned with rotted porches and his Escalade is the nicest car in the lot. His eldest son is already sitting at a pew inside, talking to an older couple who wish the suburban loser a warm and happy Easter as they shake his hand and tell him he raised a fine boy. The eldest son thanks the suburban loser for coming like it wasn't the suburban loser who got him baptized in the first place. The organ starts playing and a hush falls over the congregation. The priest walks in wearing a white robe with a book of the gospels lifted high above his head. Altar boys swing chambers of incense. The suburban loser's mouth is dry and his eyes drift away to the smoldering colors in the stained glass windows as the evening sun sets, deep sapphire blues and ruby reds, the amber beak of the pelican that plucks its breast to feed young. These older churches are something else. When it’s finally time for the baptism, everyone crowds around the font so they can get the best view, and even though the suburban loser is fine in back or even taking a quick bathroom break, he follows his eldest son through the crowd so they can watch the priest take the converts into his frail arms and dunk them underwater, one after another. The suburban loser asks his eldest son if he remembers getting baptized when he was just a baby, but his eldest son ignores him, watching the baptisms with a concentration the suburban loser uses to watch baseball. Then he asks, maybe a little too loud, if his eldest son remembers the name of the priest who baptized him, and he shushes the suburban loser. The suburban loser’s eyes get narrow and icy, and for the first time he wonders why his eldest son hadn't told him no one else would be wearing blue jeans. After the baptism, all of the adults wearing soaking wet robes that stick to every fold of their body stand in a row while the priest anoints each of their foreheads with holy oils, muttering a small prayer softer than the sounds of water dripping onto the stone floor. The suburban loser’s eldest son leans over to him and says they took him out of catechism before confirmation. When it's time for the little ritual when you shake your neighbor's hand and say peace be with you, the suburban loser spends as much time as he can with the strangers in the pew around them without making it too obvious that he's ignoring his son, who he hugs and pats on the back like a coworker. He joins a separate line for communion, which he hasn't had in over twenty years. As soon as he takes the host and sips the red wine, though, the suburban loser feels a vestigial warmth ripple across his chest, remembering fish fries during Lent and how good it used to feel coming out of the confession booth. He keeps his head lowered on his way back to the pew and feels the presence of his eldest son file in behind him as he lowers the knee pads. He closes his eyes and prays. Mostly for the dead people in his life like his mom and dad, but for the living ones, too, like his two sons and his wife. Then he prays a little for abstract things like peace and happiness, and he even prays a bit for himself, too, hoping that he gets to go to heaven. When he opens his eyes, he sees his eldest son watching him, just like the way he used to when he was a little boy, when the suburban loser would take him to church and his eldest son would watch every move the suburban loser made, trying to mimic and mirror him whenever he could because his eldest son wanted to make sure he was doing things the right way.