It was a friend of a friend’s birthday tonight, and we got in a truck and traveled out to a small bar in Centennial, Wyoming. Here’s the gorgeous sunset we saw:
The town is tiny, only boasting about 100 people, yet it has two large bars with good menus. Go figure.
My friend’s friend, whose name is Courtney, likes to roller skate, so I made her a skate-shaped cake of Mexican chocolate cupcakes and sour cream icing. It was very delicious. Look how she enjoyed it:
Here’s a close-up of my masterpiece:
It was a wild and crazy night, largely because of my pink shirt. The men at the bar didn’t like that too much, and started hassling me. (For the record, the shirt is pink, but that’s the only thing that sets is apart from any other t-shirt.) In a town just outside Laramie, which is known for stringing up Matthew Shepard, I was being taunted until they realized that I was with a girl.
Never again will I wear a pink shirt in rural Wyoming. (Is there a non-rural Wyoming?)
Through the mean-spirited heckling, I got into a conversation about God with a very drunken man who said his name was “Goldie.” He said he was 54, but he didn’t look a day over 45, perhaps because alcohol had pickled him to keep him young. Judging from the empty space around him, it looked like most of the bar was avoiding him. But I’m never one to shirk friendly conversation.
It seemed like Goldie had something to prove. He questioned me incessantly about what I believed, scoring me if I got them right.
Goldie – Are you Christian?
Me – Yes.
- Right answer. Are you Catholic?
- No.
- Right on. How do you deal with the myth of Jesus?
- I don’t view Jesus as a myth.
- Good job!
I didn’t like where this was going. I detest litmus-test religious introductions, where the faithful go down a list to see whether or not they can relate to you – even though as an unassuming Quaker, I generally come out OK.
But I kept on talking to Goldie, even though he constantly asked me my age (26), taunt me on it, and then forget he knew my age and ask again.
Despite his belligerence, however, there seemed to be something pleading in Goldie’s demeanor, like a man who had always been wrong and just wanted to be right. In between the grilling about American history and the lecturing of Jesus on extra-marital sex, little phrases kept popping up that made me wince.
Like this one:
“I believe in God, although it hasn’t done me much good.”
Or this one:
“I’ve had faith for so long I can’t ditch it now.”
In these phrases, I saw a man who thought he was on the bottom, and just wanted to be on top for once. He had placed faith in God, expecting a tangible return, and when he didn’t get it, he soured. Now, he sees little point in biblical rules, except to lecture on, and little redemption in faith, except to reflect his hopes against his current situation.
Of course he couldn’t ditch his face in God. If he did, he’d have no one to blame his sorrow on. It’s the apathetic who lose faith, not the depressed.
So when meeting a young man from Pennsylvania, he thought he could show his smarts and make himself feel better for being dealt a bad hand. In his drunken mind, it might have worked for the moment.
