The Writing’s On The Wall… Until It Isn’t

I was working as a sign painter’s apprentice years ago, and we did a bunch of hand lettering work for a local church, the main sign out front, their van, and on their main glass doors.

My boss slams down the phone and, red in the face, spins around in his chair.

Boss: “That was the minister. He says he’s not paying. Said there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Me: “After three months of excuses? Seriously?”

Boss: “Oh, there’s something we can do about it. Are you willing to meet me here tomorrow at 2 AM?”

Me: “Uh… I’m getting paid?”

Boss: “Of course!”

Me: “Then yes.”

The next night, it’s quiet; the whole village is asleep. We ride our bikes under the cover of darkness, backpacks clinking with supplies. We stop in front of the church, the van glinting in the streetlight, the proud glass doors gleaming with the hand-painted lettering we’d worked so hard on.

Boss: *Pulling out four cans of Easy-Off.* “God may forgive, but oven cleaner won’t.”

We spray everything. Every careful brushstroke, every letter, until the paint bubbles and melts. Then we rinse it all down with a weed sprayer. By the time we’re done, the signs look like blank slates, as if we’d never been there at all.

Me: *Chuckling as the paint washes into the gutter.* “Guess he was right, there’s nothing we can do, but we can undo.”

Back at the shop, we crack open a couple of beers and lean back, watching the clock tick past 4 AM.

Boss: “That’s that. If he calls, I’ll tell him to pray on it.”

He never did call. Six months later, the local paper carried the headline: “Minister Charged with Embezzlement, Removed from Position.”