He flushed. "I'm not sure I'd want you to talk to my young people."
"You relieve me. And you've been very decent to listen—yourself."
"Oh," he said, fairly jovially, now that he was about to be gone, "I listen to them all. Crackpots, nuts, psychiatrists, anybody—"
"Listen to yourself, once."
Suddenly he was sore. "Who in hell do you think you are?"
"Somebody," I answered, "whose religion doesn't insist it knows all about all truth for all people for all time. Somebody who isn't a stuck-up, luxury-struck, fatuous, patronizing jerk in a black vest who carries around God's credit card in his hip pocket and keeps in the collection-plate business by holding smut sessions in the church gymnasium. Now, for God's sake, get out of here and let me work."
He stood at the door. He smiled again. "I'm sorry for you, Phil. Truly sorry. You're a brave man—in a way—and so arrogantly blind."
"Sure. We all are."
"Do me one favor?"