SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

In fond memory of Jen whose strength exceeded that of 10,000 men.

– “If you are humble, nothing will touch you, neither praise nor disgrace, because you know what you are.”

– “Yes, you must live life beautifully and not allow the spirit of the world that makes gods out of power, riches, and pleasure make you forget that you have been created for greater things.”

– “One filled with the joy preaches without preaching.”

– “There is a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter.”

Mother Teresa

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CHAPTER THREE

Back in my hotel room, I fell face-first onto the bed. As is always the case, my room was next to the honeymoon suite. I tried drifting off to sleep to the gentle and romantic sounds of two lunatics thrashing around like two sharks fighting over one live human (who screamed a lot). You’ve heard the phrase, “A fight to the death.”

This was sex to the death—none of this occasional romantic interlude nonsense. 

There was no slowing down, no conversation, no cigarette breaks between rounds, no peaks and valleys. It took me two hours to fall asleep, and these folks had the pedal to the metal the entire time—two hundred miles per hour—non-stop.

Somebody is leaving there in a box.   

The noises from the honeymoon suite became even more frantic and chaotic. It was impressive—well, I was impressed—and envious. 

I woke up late. Walking out to the thriving city of Gothenburg, I decided to roll the dice and see what popular Swedish abomination was available for breakfast. The hotel was in a part of town constructed as an old-fashioned village—a quaint, cobblestone three-square block with cute row houses next to cafés and trendy little shops. 

That was the idea. 

The village could have been a work in progress. I couldn’t tell. It screamed “government operation.” The houses were constructed with balsa wood, glue, and paperclips. The cafés looked like parodies of themselves. They had a collective vibe: “We are pretentious, soulless, pathetic, half-assed attempts to create a warm and charming atmosphere. As you can undoubtedly see, we failed. The whole thing’s a clown show. Our employees are embarrassed to be seen here. You may as well put McDonald’s golden arches on these ridiculous cafés so we can sell McBloodpudding Nuggets, McSurströmming Burgers with McLigonberry Sauce, and French Fried Herring Sundaes. These are counterfeit, prefabricated, fraudulent, insincere plastic cafés with short shelf lives. It’s an overpriced lost cause. Welcome to Socialism. Enjoy.”

Think about going to a grocery store and picking up a box of chocolates. The box has a cute picture showing a smiling grandmother with her grandson on a swing against a pastoral background while pieces of chocolate gently rain from puffy, white clouds.

The package name is “Auntie Mae’s Homemade, Hand-Churned, Buttery, Classic, Gourmet, All-Natural, Gluten-Free, Chocolatey Morsels with All the Goodness of Real Chocolate.”

Looking at the back of the box, you notice the list of ingredients (written, for your convenience, in 0.033 font): bleached flour, lard, palm lard, Canola lard, soybean lard, high fructose corn lard, baking lard, flavored lard, calcium phosphate, monosodium glutamate, more lard, sodium nitrate, artificial lard, sucralose, metal shavings, lard fungus, saccharin, acesulfame, tubs of lard, potassium, trans fat, margarine, saturated lard, lard extract.

After reviewing the package, you put it back on the shelf and think, “Chocolatey goodness, huh? No chocolate. Not a drop. Homemade? No. Not homemade. I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

The village was like that.

I walked into a little eatery, tremendously excited to see what flavor of Goat’s Blood Soup was available. Instead, I saw a footlong and three-inch deep cinnamon buns coming out of the oven. These things were out of hand. Think of a standard restaurant cinnamon roll, but make it five times wider, remove the synthetics and toxic waste, lighten up on the sweetener, and add flavor. I ordered and ate two of them. If I had only gone to Gothenburg to have a couple of those cinnamon buns and immediately left the country, the trip would have been worth it. 

When it came to appearance, the locals did not disappoint. Even the disaffected youth were neatly dressed. I spotted a few attempting to look like Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the Sex Pistols broke up in 1978 and that ol’ Sid kicked the bucket in 1979. 

Some buildings hadn’t been refurbished and had graffiti on them. The anarchy signs were neatly painted. That said it all for Sweden in 1985. Even the chaos was tidy.

Day-to-day life in Sweden had its share of quirks. For example, when the good citizens of Sweden wanted to name their newborns, they had to ensure the government approved the names. It wasn’t like the US, where you can name your child something ridiculous like Moon Unit, Excruciata, or Vaginal Discharge. All the men were named Anders, Lars, or Jan, and the women all went by Eva, Lena, or Astrid. The government wouldn’t let you name the kids anything else. I’m not sure that’s changed. That’s why no famous actors reside in Sweden: they couldn’t give their children stupid names to keep them, the actors, in the news.

There were a lot of squatters in Gothenburg. Compared to England and most of Europe, the Swedish squatters and government were nice about the whole thing. At worst, both sides would get pissy about something. The squatters’ most violent displays of discontent were when they’d very neatly paint graffiti, saying, “We’d kinda like it if you didn’t kick us out.” The most extreme reaction from the government was to paint over the graffiti tastefully.

Various genres of music played over outdoor speakers throughout this village.

Did you know there were Swedish hard-core punk bands in 1985? Well, now you do. They received a little airtime at one shop. I had to give the bands an “A” for effort. Their hearts were in the right place. The bands valiantly tried to sound and look like badasses. But they failed. If there’s a company out there looking to sell hard-core punk elevator music, then you need to look no further than 1980s Sweden. It’s a gold mine. The bands, of course, had meticulously crafted punk haircuts. Not a hair out of place. They wore cleaned and pressed t-shirts that were tucked into brand-new jeans. Their leather jackets were all picked up from the dry cleaners earlier in the day. 

You can take the punks out of Sweden, but you cannot take Sweden out of the punks. 

The most popular song at the time in Sweden was the most popular song in the free world. The little ditty was called “We Are The World,” or as it’s referred to by those who lived through it, “We Are The Stupid Fuckin’ World.” It was a collaboration of A-List pop music blowhards who all stood in a recording studio and smelled their own farts all night. Yes, it was for a noble cause. Proceeds of the song’s sales went to famine relief in Africa, and I am sure millions were spared starvation thanks to this song, which is the good news.

The bad news is the song itself. Think of one of the songs you sang in school when you were six years old. Mix the music with something that could pass as a soft drink jingle. Extend the song to ten minutes, with the final eight minutes dedicated to repeating the chorus. Instead of your classmates singing, bring in a couple of dozen of the most pretentious, self-indulgent, narcissistic, charmless jackasses you can find. Make the lyrics reflect the true sentiments of the songwriters, which was, “Gosh, it is magnanimous of us mega-stars to put down the cocaine and hookers long enough to write about how we, the mega-stars, are carrying the heavy burden of saving the world because we have the spiritual significance you people never will, plus we suffer for our art so you should suffer, too, and we are blessed with the knowledge that the world is blessed by the blessings we have blessed upon you unblessed people by our presence even though you people don’t deserve our blessings so, in a way, we’re a lot like Jesus only better because Jesus didn’t have a six-acre beachfront mansion, so, like, wow, we are courageous by writing a song concerning the poor people of Africa about whom we have no clue except we saw something on TV and we desperately need the publicity so we are gonna keep repeating this annoying chorus until you people give in and claim us as your lord and savior because we’re better than you.”

The singers didn’t sing as such. They bellowed. When they weren’t passing wind, that is. The musical instructions to the singers were, “Look serious. Pretend you’re troubled by something. Gas. Close your eyes when you sing. It makes it sound sincere. Or something. Look like it’s, like, I dunno, emotional or something. If you want motivation, then think about that heartbreaking day when the household staff brought you the bottle of Dom for breakfast, but it was five degrees too warm, you discovered a seed in your orange juice, your masseuse was ten minutes late so, for ten minutes, you were all alone lying on the massage table, crying hysterically, wondering how this world got so mean, and thinking you might die before your massage. Or something.” 

Well, that song was played everywhere—all the time. Sweden was no exception. 

Yes, I realize Bruce Springsteen was one of the participants in the song. I don’t know what to tell you. 

Ray Charles was there, too. I have always admired and loved Ray Charles’s music, but I find it troubling that he was in the house. 

So was Bob Dylan. What Bob was doing there is anyone’s guess. The song has all this heavenly choir stuff going on until Bob starts singing and derails the whole shebang, which is, I guess, just as well. 

I have a feeling Ray, Bob, and Bruce went to a bar near the studio and got drunk as skunks. They staggered out of the bar, couldn’t find a phone booth (no mobile phones back then), walked into the recording studio by accident, and were too drunk to realize they were singing the song. 

It got worse. The music in the village, that is. There is an annual Eurovision event where all (or most) European countries send a group to perform a song for all of Europe to enjoy. The song each group performs is the finest song their entire country could produce. There’s a vote to determine that year’s “best” song. I’m not sure who votes. Different countries host the event, which is broadcast throughout Europe. It’s a big deal. It may be the equivalent of the Super Bowl in the States. Sweden hosted it a couple of months before my visit. The previous year’s winning song, “Diggi-Loo Diggi-Ley” by Herreys, was Sweden’s entry. The song was a source of national pride. I guess. That year’s winning song was Norway’s entry, “La Det Swinge” by Bobbysocks!. (Yes, with an exclamation mark. Isn’t that just so cute? What a load of horse manure.)

Both songs received ample airtime in Sweden that summer. One common thread between those two songs is that they make “We Are The World” sound like Vivaldi’s “Gloria in Excelsis Deo.”

“Diggi-Loo Diggi-Lay” and “La Det Swinge” are ghastly. Please do not listen to them. I’m begging you. Don’t do it to yourself. If your significant other suggests you listen to either one, move out of the country or the hemisphere. You’re better off living in a bomb shelter. 

Very important. Let’s talk about the Swedish elephant in the room: ABBA. There was plenty of ABBA to be heard in Sweden, too. They’re amazing. Any band that sells over two hundred million records, charts over forty songs, has one of the longest-running musicals (ever) on Broadway and the West End, and inspired a movie about their music that grossed $700,000,000 is not a band to be trifled with. They’re in the same league as Michael Jackson and The Beatles regarding album sales. 

Is it my kind of music? No. But that’s me. I have no taste. My opinion of music has no value whatsoever. I understand that. An ABBA song is like “I Got You, Babe” by Sonny and Cher. It’s so bad that it’s good. But, on that day, I’d have taken “Dancing Queen” over anything else I heard. 

With my senses fully compromised by the music, I returned to the hotel and cleaned up before walking to the site of the dreaded dinner. It was silent in the honeymoon suite. I guessed they had concluded their night of Death Sex, and their nude, lifeless bodies would be discovered in a few days. 

I made it to the restaurant early to sit and throw down a few pre-dinner drinks. It couldn’t have been ten minutes later when I heard, “Hey, you!” Looking up, I saw Jen wearing an ear-to-ear smile and the same clothes she wore yesterday, down to the socks. She stood close enough for a sniff. The clothes must have been washed earlier that day.

So, that was good.

She didn’t start hopping around acting like a middle-school cheerleader. No “golly gee,” or “okee-dokee,” or “ewbee-doobee.” There were no references to butterflies, teddy bears, rainbows, or anything approximating the happy-happy joy-joy crap from yesterday.

That was good, too.

She stared at me, maintained her smile, and waited for me to start a conversation. That wasn’t good because I had no idea what to say next. The best I could think of was, “We’re early, but we can sashay to the restaurant if you’re hungry. Daniel says the food here is better than anything we’ve eaten so far, which, I realize, ain’t saying much. This place looks suspiciously French. So, the service is bound to be terrible.” 

Jen scanned the restaurant and looked at me with deep regret. “Um, you know, I….it looks fancy. I’m sorry. Maybe…it’s just that I’m not crazy about fancy places. I’m sorry. I sound dumb, don’t I? Would you mind…not…this?”

“Not at all. What’s your pleasure?”

“This is dumb. But you didn’t like the food yesterday.”

“You noticed me eating the napkins instead of the food?”

“Would you mind…there is this place a couple of blocks away with the best cinnamon rolls ever…”

“The ones the size of manhole covers, only larger and twice as thick?!” After she nodded quickly, I said, “Those are out of hand. They’re so good that I applied for a job there.”

Yesterday, she would have laughed too loud at that last sentence and danced gaily into the evening. The time, she just grinned. 

“I know it’s not dinner, but do you think we can…would you mind?”

“Mind? That’s the best idea I’ve heard in years. Let’s do this thing. I’ll race you there.”

Okay. No cartwheels. Odd. She is suspiciously relaxed and acting normal, which is not normal. Drugs? No. Her eyes are clear. She’s hitting the consonants without drooling. 

We left the restaurant. We didn’t skip. We slowly strolled. 

As far as the conversation went, she left the opening salvo to me: “So, how is the young couple doing? Behaving? You didn’t catch them sneaking into the house at 6 a.m., right?”

“They got home before curfew. Vic really likes him. Did Dan say anything to you?”

When did he allow anyone to call him Dan? It was “Daniel or death” forever.

“Oh, yeah. Last night, at intermission, he told me he was miserable. He can’t stand her. Sorry. In truth, the boy’s GAGA over her. That is a young man in love, L-U-V. I’ve never seen him happy. I’m serious. He’s always been the bitter, angry Daniel, and every other word that came out of his mouth started with F. Should we blame Victoria for all this unauthorized happiness?”

Jen stopped and stared at me. “You’ve never seen him happy before?” 

“No. At the age of ten, Daniel was a grumpy old man. Unless he attended a Bruce show or watched his football team, Daniel was always torqued off.”

Jen immediately asked, “What else did he say?”

“Oh, not much. Victoria combines the best features of Helen of Troy and Venus de Milo, but Victoria is better because she has arms, among other fine attributes.”

She said nothing even though it was obvious she wanted more information. A day earlier, she would have been giggling and jumping around, asking me twenty questions in a ridiculous faux-happy manner to get this information. This time, she let the silence do the asking. 

So, I answered. “Daniel told me he’s now a Christian, which I figured because I spotted you three having a pray at the church yesterday. Sorry. This is the same Daniel who, four years earlier, said Christianity was a mindless philosophy for mindless people. So, he had to clear some very high hurdles to get there. Can we lay that on your and Victoria’s doorsteps?”

She let out a small laugh and said, “We just encouraged him. He was praying for you. We all were.”

Okay, that’s weird. I did not need this tidbit of information. I wish she hadn’t told me that. Am I supposed to say thank you?

“Me?!?! Why?!?! Was it because I said rude things when we first met in that church?”

“Nope. We’re looking out for you. That’s all.” She gave me a casual grin. 

She wants to find out what he said about their little escapade in East Africa. Did Daniel tell her? I’ll let her bring it up.

And that’s what she did. “Did he tell you how we met?”

I didn’t know if Daniel had told her all he had told me, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.

I did the best I could. “Well, now, I did ask a couple of times. He seemed reluctant to say much but gave me the postcard version of how you guys found one another.”

“Did you give you another postcard about what happened?”

It was my turn to pause. I gave Jen a quizzical look, saying, “Why do you ask? Sorry.” 

Her response surprised me. It was blunt and showed sizable awareness on her part.

“Last night, you changed when we came back before the second set. With me. You, you know, looked at me. You talked to me, which was nice.” She laughed. “It’s okay. Really. I was acting crazy. I know.”

Whoa. Okay. We do get to the point. What am I supposed to say? 

We were still standing and facing each other. She was now, and probably forever, Jen and bore little resemblance to the Helmet Head from yesterday. “Well, Daniel painted things with a broad stroke. He didn’t say much.” I grimaced, “What he did tell me was enough for me to fill in the blanks. And I am so, so sorry. I understand some of the feelings more than I care to admit.”

What am I doing? Shut up.

“I thought you did. Do. You know.”

“I thought you did?!” Okay, she’s scaring me. 

We looked at each other. Neither of us knew what to say next. 

I produced a clever question. “Cinnamon rolls?”

“Cinnamon rolls.” 

We restarted our walk to the paradise, which was this cinnamon place.

I chucked out the following conversation starter. “I’m sorry about being so cold yesterday. Daniel acted so out of character that it threw me for a loop. I was ready to be rude and disgusting, which has been our MO since the…”

“Has he changed that much?”

“You have no idea. I was ready to share the latest dirty jokes. I’ll have to write them on the men’s room wall at the stadium tonight.”

“You can try one out on me.”

“Oh, no. Uh-uh. You wouldn’t like them. Believe me. These aren’t for decent human beings. Sorry. You’d find them offensive…”

“Just one. Please? I won’t get offended.”

“You’ll lose any respect you may have for me and…”

“I am so not judgmental. Really. I never judge.”

I’m about to tell a devoted Christian a dirty joke. Why should I care what she believes? On the other hand, it rules out the ones about vibrators. Are Christians allowed to do vibrators? I shouldn’t ask. Based on her recent history, no girl part jokes. That doesn’t leave me with…AH! Got one. 

“Here we go. A rabbit and a giraffe are walking in the woods.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

“So, while they’re walking, the giraffe falls into quicksand. The rabbit jumps into action, runs back to his Porsche, gets in, drives through all the trees, stops just in front of the quicksand, jumps out, ties one end of the rope to the bumper, throws the other end to the giraffe; the giraffe holds on to the rope, the rabbit jumps back into his Porsche, backs up and pulls the giraffe out of the quicksand. Everyone is safe, and they keep walking. 

“So far, so good. Then, the rabbit falls into quicksand. The giraffe takes his wee-wee, rolls it out to the rabbit, and reels him in after the rabbit grabs ahold. 

“What’s the moral of the story?”

Jen smiled. “This should be good.”

“The moral of the story is if you have a big dick, then you don’t need a Porsche. Sorry.”

She laughed aloud. It was a genuine laugh. “That’s really good.”

“I’ve never been able to look at a Porsche driver the same.”

I’ve punched my ticket to Hell—a non-stop flight.

She continued giggling. I kept talking. “Glad you liked it. Is it my turn to make an observation? Jolly good. You aren’t jumping out of your skin today. You were so happy and excited yesterday. Sorry. Today, not so much. Hopefully, it’s not me. I’ve been known to destroy a woman’s happiness and excitement in no time.”

“No, Mister Funny Man. Know how you like to be humorous so you can…um…”

“Keep the barbarians at the gate?”

This girl is more aware of things than I thought. I thought I was observing HER yesterday. Who authorized her to observe ME?

“Yup. Sometimes, it helps to be over the top, especially if Dan and Vic are with me. They make me a little self-conscious.”

“So, you’re happier and more relaxed than yesterday?”

“Yup. You, too?”

“Me, too.” 

It occurred to me that I no longer focused on my feelings towards her. There was no physical attraction and no perceptible sexual energy. At least, I didn’t notice any. My thoughts towards her from yesterday meant nothing. 

At that moment, her thoughts about me meant everything. That was not good because I would spiral downward in a hurry whenever I cared what someone thought of me.

“So, tell me about Jen’s life. Do tell. I must know. I must, I must.”

Let me guess. She’s from a small town in the Midwest. It’s one of those towns where you had to carefully check family lineages before going on a date to avoid intimate relationships with your cousin. She spent Saturday nights watching Disney movies and eating popcorn with a doting Pa, a loving Ma, a sister named Marianne, her boyfriend Bif, a drooling grandpa, a flatulent grandma, some weird uncle with an infected foot, the uncle’s fifteen-year-old pregnant wife, Linda Lou, who continually scratched her crotch, and an infant of questionable origin. In high school, a wild night out meant going to Dairy Queen with her girlfriends and talking about having booty sex with boys because God doesn’t consider that real sex, so they’ll still be able to wear white at their weddings, which can’t happen soon enough because booty sex daily gets old in a hurry plus all the ointment in the world doesn’t help when you’re in high school and have to sit on those wooden chairs for seven hours. Days were spent skipping through amber waves of grain or walking across town (which extended all the way to 3rd Street) to buy freshly picked apples for Ma to bake an apple pie because, owing to her overdeveloped stupidity, Ma baked apple pies every day, which was why everyone ate nothing but apple pies except on Sundays after church when the family would go to the only restaurant in town and enjoy biscuits with gravy, pork with gravy, bacon, mashed potatoes with gravy, pancakes, plus pudding with a side of gravy in a bucket. And, a wonderful time was had by all because life was nothing but joy, contentment, love, safety, happiness, innocence, and gravy which is why she’s filled with such gratitude that she wants to spread the Good News around the world except on Sunday night when she calls her parents to reminisce about the good old days, to see if her uncle’s foot is any better, and to pray that Linda Lou’s vagina no longer itches so she’ll stop scratching herself in public which is embarrassing for anyone associated with her plus it kills the vibe at church. 

Well, I was right about the small-town part. Jen grew up in rural Wisconsin, between Madison and Milwaukee.

After that, I couldn’t have been more wrong. People are comfortable giving me gory details about their lives. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I ask. Anyway, Jen’s life at home was horrifying. By the age of thirteen, she was a certified, card-carrying alcoholic. She was also pregnant but kept that tidbit of information to herself. After a suicide attempt, she had a miscarriage. Life at home showed no sign of improving. So, she took the occasion to move in with her twenty-year-old sister, who lived near Madison, in a one-bedroom apartment.

Jen was very matter of fact while reviewing all this with me. There wasn’t a trace of self-pity. She sounded like a person observing the plight of another. As Jen spoke, she transformed from a silly, slightly chubby little girl with a pudding-bowl haircut into something closer to that bronze statue of Joan of Arc near the Place des Pyramides in Paris.

Note to self – Never feel sorry for yourself again. She’s seen the worst of humanity, the worst of herself, the worst of the disgusting world around her. She is more than a survivor. I’m a walking knot of debilitating scar tissue. She has been beaten up just as much as me. From all the shit thrown at her, she thrived. I shriveled up into nothing. “Faith, hope, and love,” huh? Everyone whines about losing all three due to life’s disappointments. This woman had none of these things. Zero. She has so much faith, hope, and love that she’s out saving a world that, based on her experience, has no business being saved.

Moving in with her sister (who, believe it or not, was named Marianne) meant living with her sister’s house rules: hold down a part-time job, perfect school attendance with a minimum of a “B” in all her courses, no booze, no parties, no sexual relationships, no nightlife, church on Sundays as well as Wednesday evenings. 

Period. End of conversation. Zero tolerance (to use the idiotic phrase). If she screwed up once, her stuff would be on the sidewalk along with her.

Jen wasn’t thrilled by the new slew of regulations. However, her options were limited, and living at home wasn’t one of them. So, Jen stayed within the lines. Under Marianne’s very positive influence and support, Jen flourished. 

An early milestone in her new life was catching her first Bruce Springsteen concert with her sister. In 1978, our hero started performing energetic and highly compelling three-hour shows. 

Watching a Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band show in 1978 was not unlike watching Jack Dempsey, the heavyweight champion prizefighter in the early 1900s, in a boxing match. Their determination and ferocity were unmatched. No one came close.

I saw a dozen shows that year, and they never let up. Not for one moment. I  felt like I was watching a hungry and desperate Jack Dempsey fight for his life. 

The show Jen saw was in Milwaukee. It was so good that they attended the next night’s show in Madison. (Getting Bruce tickets back then was easy. Most shows in the Midwest had more empty seats than attendees.)

Jen felt the two concerts dramatically improved her life and outlook on everything. She was happy and felt energized for the first time in a very long time. 

So, she found Bruce. Five days later, with a new and improved attitude, she discovered God. After high school, she joined an organization that financed missionary trips to various scary locations worldwide, where Jen continued, at the expense of her well-being, saving lives and souls.

She finished her life story with, “So, how ‘bout you?” 

Oh, please. I’ve got nothing compared to that. I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. Does that count? I run around the world and accomplish nothing. I don’t care if I live past thirty. I can’t stand people, including me, and end up screwing them over, including me. You don’t want to fathom what goes on inside my head. If you did, then you’d call for my immediate execution. Because, Dear, I’m the Hindenburg, the Titanic, and the 1962 New York Mets. I am hanging on by a thread. I’ll be someone other than me for this evening because I’m always someone else. Currently, I’m the dignified, high-brow who looks down on the proles—a pseudo-hedonist. Still, I’ll be humorous, so you’ll think I’m an endearing, learned twenty-seven-year-old who’s refined well beyond my years and unencumbered by the trivialities of mainstream society thanks to my fake unconventional, eccentric, nonconformist lifestyle. Plus, I do a fabulous job pretending to have mastered myself and my surroundings to the extent that I can act as though mundane matters such as planning for the future or having a relationship are beneath me, thus giving me a fine platform to be someone other than me. That’s good because I have no clue who I am. None. I look in the mirror; the face isn’t just unfamiliar. It’s unrecognizable.

I thought that. I didn’t say it. 

I did say, “Not much to tell. I do have a vitally important follow-up question. What’s your favorite Bruce song?”

“‘Promised Land,’ of course. In second place are all the other songs on that record.”

“That is the correct answer. Congratulations! That record is amazing.”

“I think it’s the greatest record ever, ever, ever.”

“Better than ABBA?” I asked that. I had a feeling she wasn’t an ABBA fan.

“Better than ABBA.”

“Better than “We are the World.”

“Better than Eurovision?”

“Better than food.”

I opened the door to the cinnamon roll place while Jen continued laughing.

We found a place outside to sit, relax, and shovel down a few tire-sized cinnamon rolls. First, we had to hold hands again and thank the All-Mighty for the numerous blessings that had to be reviewed in detail. Jen did that part. I just drooled on my cinnamon roll. Once she finished, we couldn’t speak for the next twenty minutes because of the amount of cinnamon rolls in our mouths. 

As we chatted, the downward spiral continued. 

Jen confirmed that she’d return to Eritrea in a couple of weeks. She talked about all her good works but not in a boastful way. Not in the least. She reminded me of one of those veterans of World War Two who, after getting shot in both legs, carried twelve of his wounded buddies to safety, fell on a landmine to save his platoon, single-handedly liberated a city from the enemy, and tells you, “Yeah, just doing my job. Nothing more. I’m not a hero. Anyone would have done the same thing in my place.”

She beat the ten-count after getting hit by the worst punch this world can throw. She’s going back out this next round to keep fighting. She’s going back to the scene of the crime because she can. Why is she wasting her valuable time talking to an emotional coward like me?

“Don Pardo, let’s meet our next contestants!”

“Sure, Wink! In this corner, we have Jen. Jen’s a composite of Florence Nightingale, Mother Teresa, Emmeline Pankhurst, Ruth the Moabite, Joan of Arc, and Amelia Earhart! When she’s not busy saving the world, Jen likes to save the world!

“And, in this corner, Wink, we have a piece of jet trash who can’t even save himself from himself.”

“Jen, are you not a little worried about returning by yourself? Or am I out of court by asking? Sorry.”

She smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was resigned and almost hopeless. “I worry every minute. I really worry. It’s the hardest thing.”

“Inevitable question…”

“I promised I’d be there. I really don’t want to, but I have to,” she said, maintaining her smile. 

“This wouldn’t be a promise you’d want to reconsider and…”

“Not this one.” Still smiling.

I knew the answer to this next question, but I asked anyway. “With whom did you make this promise? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“The Lord.” 

Silence.

She’s going to the exact location where she was kidnapped, beaten, and gang raped for days. She’s scared to death. Fortunately, she has a million excuses and another million reasons not to go. Unfortunately, the one reason to go trumps them all. And it is a self-imposed reason.

She’s looking at me with total contempt. She’s looking at a cardboard picture of some clown with a wash-and-wear smile and a big black hole behind it. 

Jen leaned forward. “You never told me about you.” Her smile was, this time, almost mischievous.

“There isn’t much worth saying. Stole some horses. Sorry. Nothing compared to you.”

“Not what Dan said. He told me a few things. I didn’t believe him at first. He told me about a certain soccer game four years ago.” 

The shenanigans at this game are odd and a story for another day. It involved a fight, and I have the scars to prove it.

“It was a moment of madness. Fortunately, the police were very nice.” 

I have nothing. You’re talking to an empty suit. Please, don’t ask. I hate this. You’re a granite statue, and I’m a half-decorated eggshell. An empty hotel with a “no vacancy” sign—an empty hotel with a padlock and a huge vacant sign. Whatever it is, you don’t want to stay here.

Fortunately for me, the conversation turned in a different direction. It was light-hearted and fun. I played the humorous, eccentric young man. I played it flawlessly. Sometimes, during these glorious moments, I felt like the very slick, charming, handsome attorney whose client, the ugly monster I believed was me, was escorted from the courtroom so as not to pollute the jury pool with my abundant lousy juju.

Until she asked, “Why don’t you believe in God?”

Silence.

Why do people keep asking me that? What’s the point? God recognizes that I’m a class-A fuckup. She recognizes it. She recognizes that I recognize that she recognizes that I recognize it.

“Wow. Okay. Right. Well, I gave it a shot when I was young. My parents tossed me out the door every Sunday morning for a couple of years to go to church. I tried to hop on that train, but I don’t think the other passengers were keen to let me on. I gave up and ended up hating the place. Sorry. I haven’t gone back. Except yesterday. It’s not high on my priority list.”

“What is high on your priority list?” 

Silence.

Oh, isn’t this jolly? I don’t have a priority list. Why? I don’t have any priorities. Why, you ask? Again, because, where I’m concerned, nothing is essential. As the man says, “When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.” And I have absolutely nothing. Nothing matters, and what if it did?

Jen didn’t rhetorically ask this. She was, I think, genuinely interested in my priorities. 

I looked at the floor, but I didn’t find any priorities. I knew it was time to redirect this conversation. I glanced at her. “Okay, I’m embarrassed. I could say I left my extensive priorities list in the hotel. You’ve asked me an excellent question, to which I have no excellent answer. Sorry. I have no answer, excellent or otherwise. But I have a question that’s always been in one of the crawl spaces in my brain. I’m asking this out of respect, so please don’t take it outside the spirit it’s intended. If it’s offensive, please tell me to shut up and get lost.”

After a pause, Jen said, “Well, after that lead-up, I want to hear it.”

“I’ve seen a lot of places where people live in misery: Latin America, South America, The Philippines, Asia. And you’ve seen it in Africa. Why would God allow it? Sorry.”

This question was her cue to go into preacher beast mode. The good news was that I was relieved of having to reveal the barren corridors between my ears. Now, I had to listen to a sermon from someone who knew the subject. I was ready to achieve a state of bewilderment. But I knew I wasn’t about to stop her.

She didn’t preach or bark. She was friendly about it. That was nice. “The world started as a paradise. It was perfect. There was no pain. No evil. But people thought they could run the world better than God. People replaced God with themselves. You know, man is arrogant. And evil. Besides, the Bible never says things in this world would be fair, you know. It’s the opposite. This world isn’t Heaven. You’ve noticed. The Bible says we are broken people in a world that’s broken. God didn’t break the world. Man did. The Bible says, ‘For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice.’ Until we all let God in, evil will never leave. We need…”

As she kept talking, my mind churned a thousand miles per hour.

Andrew Lowry. The committee continues to review your kingdom and always finds it wanting. You haven’t done a thing about it. The whole thing sucks. Or, as we like to say at the water cooler, “Mene mene tekel upharsin.” You can look it up, Loser Boy, because the writing is on the wall, and you damn well realize it. We can count your days on one hand. When we’re done, your life is over. It won’t be a significant loss, far from it. Rest assured, no one will show up at your funeral. You won’t die face down in the dirt. Uh-uh. You’ll be discovered with your head squarely up your ass. Are you hearing these words? Take them seriously. Does your life matter anymore? Are you willing to make it matter? Are you brave enough to do it? Are you man enough to do it? 

Jen continued. “‘…for we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.’ We allow evil, broken, Godless people to run the world. Why is everyone shocked that the world is evil? Hello? What did you expect? We made our bed. You know, God is not the problem. We are. We forsake God, let evil rule over us, and then blame God. It’s not God’s fault. Jesus said, ‘For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed evil thoughts, adulteries, fornications, murders, thefts, covetousness, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, an evil eye, blasphemy, pride, foolishness. All these evil things come from within.’ Man needs to stop blaming everyone else…”

Wow, she’s got this speech down cold. How does she remember all this stuff? I wonder if she remembers the whole Bible by heart. Why wouldn’t it surprise me if she did? Hey, I asked the question. I can’t whine about the answer. No matter how long it runs.

“…advertisers and politicians…you know, target our greed, envy, jealousy, and fear. Satan isn’t a red man with a pitchfork. Satan is the weakness and evil in us! Why is there war? Hatred? Starvation? Inequality? Slavery? Easy. It’s not because God fell down on the job. Man did. We are consumed by greed, fear, envy, and jealousy. We kicked God out and brought Satan…”

Hi there. It’s the committee. Again. You must admit, she makes some good points. Since your whole pathetic existence is based on fear, envy, greed, self-interest, and a shit-ton of stupidity, then even you should see she’s quite right. You’re a fraud. Fraud on a massive scale. But, right now, at this very moment, you are face-to-face with the real deal for one of the few times in your life. She’s right here. Three feet in front of you! You can reach out and grab her, although we, on the committee, recommend against doing that. Look at her eyes. That’s what passion looks like. You don’t see that looking in the mirror, do you? Well, you are dull-eyed. You must have noticed. Does her passion scare you? Good. Okay, she believes in God. Does that scare you, too? Good. Who cares what you believe? What you think means nothing. You don’t even have a priority list, Dipshit.

“… if you believe in something, you can live life. Live a passionate life, you know? Ifyou want to keep doubting, I mean…”

Yo! My man, Dipshit! Guess who? It’s the committee. Again. This girl has you pegged, Mister Doubting Douche Bag. Since when was doubt considered a legitimate life philosophy? Don’t answer. Rhetorical. Oh, you think if you doubt everything, you’re in some middle intellectual ground. In the middle? Oh, yeah, you’re in the middle, alright. In the middle of no-fucking-where. Sitting on your ass and sucking your thumb. Wallowing in your doubt, watching the grown-ups go to battle for you. We, on the committee, unanimously agreed that you are our nominee for Spineless Jellyfish, Universal Edition. Plus, you’re boring.  

“…no more than God is the invisible man who lives in the sky. It’s the best we can imagine, but, you know, He’s much more complicated. God is spiritual. God didn’t create us in His physical image but in His spiritual image. The one we can’t see. ‘We look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal.’ Everyone believes in something. If you believe in anyone or anything on this earth, you will feel empty. Because it’s never enough. People and riches. They will always disappoint. You know, a wife may believe in her husband. Then she finds out he’s having an affair. We have to…”

We’re back! We notice you’re sitting here pretending your pious silence indicates you have a shred of intelligence. You don’t. Our unanimous opinion is it is due to your fear that anything you say will reveal your flatulent, inconsequential nature. It’s from your valid concern that any word you utter will subtract from the sum of human intelligence. We just thought we should provide you with an update. You’re welcome.

“…so, I won’t let fear take over. Jesus is with me. Trusting, believing in, and loving Lord Jesus makes me feel good about my future. In the Bible, the Lord says, ‘I know my plans for you. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.’ I can’t control my future, but He will…” 

Sorry to interrupt so soon; we hope you are taking notes. The final exam is tomorrow. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s talking about the future, which reminds us of something we thought you should know. Do you want to see what you’re missing, Dipshit? Well, this committee will tell you. You don’t lack a past, no matter how much you want to forget it. You have a colorful past—a lot of it. You must face and deal with it because that bad boy isn’t going anywhere. Here’s a shocker: you have a future. It’s true. We hate to break it to you. It’s a long one. If you so choose to live a long time. The problem is you don’t have a present. It is high fucking time you stopped sitting in the back row and fully participated in it. The present, that is. Now, look in front of you. This girl is present all the time. We are not altogether uncertain about where you are these days. Get on board, maggot. If you aren’t on the train, you’re underneath the wheel. 

“…the pride of man is shameful, the humility of spirit is honorable, but people are arrogant. Science is important, you know. It is. You know, science doesn’t have all the answers. But God does. Science isn’t complete because we’re not complete. We’re humans. We have five senses. That’s all. People think that we’re perfect and complete. Nope. We are so limited. But, you know, ‘If I can’t see it, it must not exist.’ I’m sorry, but how dare we. Could it be that there’s a world beyond anything we understand? Are people afraid that we don’t have all the answers? Or, that we can’t control the future and we…” 

Ahem! You knuckle-dragging mouth-breathing moron. The clock is ticking, Señor Douche Bag. Do something. First, there was the deed. Or was it the word? The committee has a tough time remembering which came first. Speaking of science, any idea what caused the Big Bang? Wait, sorry. We got sidetracked.

“…faith in science is easy. You don’t have to work on it, you know. 

Oh, yeah. We keep trying to figure out where the first living cell came from. So much to consider.

“…besides, find five hundred people who say they put all their faith into science. Ask them to explain the Theory of Relativity. Or the laws of planetary motion. Archimede’s Principle. Betcha none of them can…”

Okay. Theory of Relativity. Science class. eleventh grade. I swear, I thought I knew the Theory of Relativity. Wait….something about gravity and light bending around a planet, which I can personally verify on accounta the peyote. Archimede, Archimede. I shouldn’t have skipped all those science classes. She comprehends all this crap. Ah, Archimede. You can sit in the bathtub and figure out how much you weigh based on the water that spilled outta the tub once you got in it. It’s silly if you ask us. Get a scale and stand on it. You don’t waste water that way.

“…God’s not your errand boy. Telling God you’ll believe in Him as long as He lets you win the lottery isn’t a prayer. That’s negotiating, you know. How many people say they stopped believing in God because God didn’t give them what they wanted? Like God works for you. Really? How arrogant! Stop praying for what you want. Pray to learn what God wants from us. We all need…”

Stop being a spectator, you loser. You run around because you don’t care. You throw yourself into danger and tell yourself you have courage. You don’t. You do it to say you did it. That’s all. It’s an altogether cowardly way to act, in our view. Care, for once. Speak. What are you, Swiss? Take a stand. If you can, which we, on the committee, doubt.

“…I remember my sister telling me that religion is what happens when people run out of faith. Being religious is easy, just like believing in science. Having faith is hard work. No one wants to put in the work or make the sacrifices…”

Summer’s here, and the time is right. Do it. Make a hard decision. Stand and deliver, you delusional horse’s ass. Decide! Jump, you idiot.

“…the Bible. It’s hard to understand. You must really work at it. It was written two thousand years ago. What does each passage mean to us today? That’s what I ask…”

Look. You may need to walk away. Just admit you don’t have the cojones she has. It is best to understand your, uh, unlimited limitations.

“…Jesus faced the fears and sacrificed his life for me. I can’t turn my back. He saved my life, and I will do his…”

Say it. Say it! SAY IT!

Jen was still at it. “…my fear can’t stop me. I owe it to…”

I exclaimed, “I’m going with you.”

Jen stopped talking for a moment. She looked bemused. “Be serious.”

“I am. I haven’t been this serious in my life. I’m not a believer. Please don’t hold that against me. These things happen for a reason, don’t they? Well, the reason is you could use someone who has your back. And, uh, that would be me.”

“You don’t know what is going on in…”

“Jen, I understand that. I don’t. And I’m suddenly scared. But the world needs you, and you need someone to help the world by ensuring you stay in it.” 

“Is that really why?”

“That’s why. No strings on this one.”

She was pushing back with more enthusiasm. “You hardly know me.”

I had my answer ready: “I don’t know you. But the world is a better place with you in it—that much I do know. I want to keep it that way.”

She paused before saying, “I can’t be in a relationship. It’s not possible.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I’m not looking to be in any relationship. It’s not romance I’m feeling.” 

She hesitated. “Okay. What are you feeling? Honest. ”

“It’s selfish. Utterly self-serving. You jump in the fire because you care so much. I do it because I couldn’t care less. For the first time I can remember, I care—a lot. The thought of another day of indifference scares me more than going into the middle of a civil war. Is it divine intervention? You’d know better than me. I won’t pretend it’s anything noble. All I can say is I care about helping you keep your promise. The feeling is overwhelming. It isn’t very comforting. It isn’t very smart. It’s mysterious. It isn’t enjoyable. It makes no sense to me. It doesn’t need to make sense.

“I’ll stay out of your way. I won’t interfere. I will do what I can to help keep you alive and well and living in hope.”

She looked as serious as I had ever seen. “You can get hurt. You could die. It’s dangerous.”

“I’ve been dead on my feet forever. I just woke up.”

“Can I think about it for a few days? You can, too?”

“By all means!” After a pause, I said, “May I touch on two points?”

Jen smiled, “By all means back at you.”

“First, the offer is genuine. I’m serious on that point. From what I’ve gathered, you could use someone to provide you with cover. Of course, I’ll defer to you, but my mind is made up. If you say yes, then I’ll be there. You have no obligation. Keep in mind I have no agenda, unspoken or otherwise. You owe me nothing. Fair?”

“Fair.” She looked relaxed. “What’s the other point?

“Let’s go see Bruce.”

She smiled. “Let’s go see Bruce.”

It took two hours to walk from the cinnamon roll paradise to the stadium, during which our conversation maintained a level of intensity that would have caused me to go immediately into witness protection. But not this time. I divulged parts of my life that I had never, until that moment, shared with anyone.

For years, the world was a stage, and I was the only person in the audience. During that two-hour walk, I realized that wasn’t the case. 

I was on the stage the entire time. The stumble was that I had, for years, been in rehearsals for a play that never opened.

So, the committee would like to fully comprehend the point of having a play that never lets people in the theater. It’s a rhetorical inquiry on our part, of course, because there is no point. None. Would you like to continue clowning around on the flying trapeze by yourself? On the committee, we are pretty sure your answer is yes because it’s always yes. But, as usual, we’ll give you that option. Go ahead. Answer the question. Are you fully prepared to tell us that YES, you’re a coward and will continue closing the door to your little production?

Well? What’s it going to be? Your answer is due. The clock is ticking. 5…4…3…2…what’s your answer?

I thought, “No. Open the doors. It’s time.”

There’s a lot of relief once you’ve decided not to look back. I was surprised to notice the self-pity, the self-hatred, and the downward spiral ceased. I wasn’t comparing myself to anyone. I was alive. That’s about all that mattered.

Do I have any clue about this person? Very little.  I have no idea what I’m walking into, and this makes no sense.

As the renowned Western philosopher  Charles Barkley has often asked, “C’mon, man. Whadda you doin’ out here?”

Answer: I have no clue. 

We arrived very early at the stadium and discovered the tickets Daniel gave us were for the soccer pitch itself. We were in the pit, on the field. There were no seats—standing room only, which was fine for me but not for the five-foot-tall Jen. I found a fifteen-inch by fifteen-inch box tucked under the grandstand, grabbed it, and we found a spot to stand not terribly far from the stage. I put down the box, and Jen stepped on it; she was my height. 

I said, “That worked out rather well.”

“This is so cool! I could get used to this!”

We had been talking with each other for hours on end, and, at that moment, we were out of topics. We stood in a comfortable silence while staring into the distance. Neither one of us was inclined to fill the void. 

I wondered how Jen learned to process all the chaos in her world. Were there hundreds of dark paths, crawl spaces, and haunted rooms in her mind that needed precise and complex navigation to find the light of day? The easy answer was yes. 

The more significant question was how she solved the dark, complex, and contradictory quadratic equations in her mind with a single Biblical formula—one that was simple but effective. My vague answer was that she did it with focused, mind-over-matter, and highly determined religious fervor. 

I wondered what drove her. What sublime force moved her? One strong enough to return to the scene of the unspeakable crime. You paid a hell of a cost to enter this empyrean domain you and the Almighty inhabit.

Dump the ethereal drama, Dipshit. At heart, she’s a badass. A total badass. How did she get from there to here? Well, that’s the hard part. “It’s simple, but it’s not easy.” 

A sudden roar from the crowd was followed by, “One, two, one, two, three, four!”

It was Bruce Springsteen announcing that he and the band were about to fuck up the stadium.

Again.

—END OF CHAPTER THREE—

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