He's no Angel

So my friend Peter has left now.
He lives in a place where you have to play golf with your own patch of grass that you carry around.
They barter using goats as far as I know.
My mother insisted that Pete was a poor influence on me as I was growing up.
We used to argue about it frequently.
Mom would insist that Peter would get me into bad habits.
Like swearing in public and marrying people from the Turpin family.
We went to the same church, he and I.
That is to say our mothers dragged us to the same church.
When you're 12 you're not concerned about piety.
Unless you're a Mormon.
In which case I believe you're pretty into it.
That and drab clothing.
Anyway, the priest would gather around all of the children at the front of the building.
Then he'd quiz us on who got swallowed by what whale and so on.
Peter and I would always sit together and fuck around.
Being sporadically interrupted by Pete answering the questions correctly.
Then I'd go back to my pew.
And mom would whisper, "You're not sitting next to that Peter Russell any more."
Every time.
It only got worse when he became an alter boy and I joined the choir.

Pete helped to raise me.
He taught me how to make a fist (probably).
He taught me how to ride a bike without training wheels (probably).
He taught me how to do bottle tokes.
He taught me that with just two dollars you could buy a lighter.
And if you then threw that lighter against a big rock it would ignite and make a really cool popping sound.
He taught me what's flammable and what's really flammable.
And I can vividly remember receiving advice from him on performing oral sex.
Before I ever performed it.
"When you're doing it," he said.
"Uh huh," I said.
"Do it to the vagina."
Saved me a lot of embarrassment.
Of course, he'll come back from this country eventually.
Presumably.
But he'll likely have to teach me all of these things over again.