The Budge In sits in a dry county, which means there is no liquor to be had, not by legal or illegal means. I found this out from Myrtle, with whom I have a date every morning except Saturdays at the Train Car. She’s my waitress. She calls me “Randy-honey,” every time, like that’s my name. I don’t mind. Actually, I like it. Myrtle is old enough and white trash enough to be my mother. I didn’t tell her that part, but I did tell her that I was going to adopt her. She laughed so hard she cried and her bun came loose, sending her into further fits of merriment. I think Myrtle could use a drink.
Had I known this was a dry county when I landed here, I’m sure I would have just kept on walking. I couldn’t imagine being without my Southern Comfort a week ago, but here it is a whole week later and I haven’t had a drop to drink or anything up my nose and I haven’t gone on a crazy shooting rampage or anything. So I guess I’m not an alcoholic drug addict after all. That’s a small comfort.
I can’t be sure that the lack of drugs and alcohol is the reason for it, but I’ve been writing. A lot. I don’t know what it all adds up to, but I have at least a half dozen stories in my notebook now. Or beginnings of stories anyway. I’m having a hard time with conclusions, so I just start another one. Mostly about my life, I guess, but other stuff too. It feels good to be writing, finally, 10 years or more after I was going to be a famous writer.
Myrtle encourages me. She seems to think her Randy-honey already is a famous writer or a famous something. The fact that I lived in New York City impresses her to embarrassment (both of ours). I come in here every morning for breakfast and write until lunchtime, and every time I look up, Myrtle winks at me and has a proud twinkle in her eye like I imagine a mother should. (She already has a son, a young boy named Tyler whom she calls Turtle, which only adds to my fantasy.)
The rest of my days I spend in Room 105 at the Budge In, writing some but mostly watching tv. There’s a big showdown going on between the fbi and a religious cult not far from here. It’s just about the only thing on cnn these days. I’m fascinated by the reports partly because August Collins’ father left home on August’s sixteenth birthday to join a religious cult somewhere in Texas. It’s close enough to Houston to make me think that it might be the one. How many religious cults could there be, really?
Wouldn’t that be weird, if it was the cult that August’s father joined? I should try to call August and find out.
Speaking of religious fanatics, I have a new wardrobe, including a well-worn pair of cowboy boots that I got at a church yard sale just up the street. Myrtle told me about it. It takes place every year on the first Saturday in March at the Church of the Pillar of Fire. Strange name for a church, I admit, and the only explanation I could find was a Bible verse listed on the church sign, Exodus 13:21.
I looked it up in the Gideon Bible when I got back to my room: “By day the Lord went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud to guide them on their way and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, so that they could travel by day or night.”
It makes absolutely no sense to me.
The boots and clothes I got (two snap-up western shirts and a pair of Wrangler jeans) belonged to a man named Tom-Ed-may-he-rest-in-peace. Actually, his name was Tom Ed, but Sister Iris, his widower, said that whole string of words every time she said his name so at first I thought it was his name.
I took the shirts and jeans and a couple of polyester slacks that I didn’t buy into the church to try them on in the men’s room. Choir practice was going on:
Jesus is coming soon,
Morning or night or noon,
Many will meet their doom,
Trumpets will sound!
Something like that. Not the most cheery church music I’ve ever heard!
As I was taking off pants #2 and putting on pants #3, somebody came into the restroom with me. But then he was silent.
I stood listening, heard nothing, no peeing in the urinal, no water running in the sink, no knocking on my stall door.
Then a voice broke the silence. “Is that you, Brother Adam?”
I thought maybe it was the Voice of God Himself, since I’ve never heard His voice before. But even still, I figured God would know me from Adam.
I said, “No, it’s Randy.”
And he said, “Randy?”
And I said, “Yes, Randy.”
And he said, “Brother Randy?”
And I said, “What?”
And he said, “You sure don’t sound like Brother Randy.”
So I said, “Brother Randy?”
Then he said, “Who is that in there?”
I opened the stall door, and by this time he was standing right there outside of it. I told him my name and said that the lady told me I could try on these clothes in here. I said “Sister Iris said,” to give my story a little more credibility.
He was very embarrassed, stupid fucker, and he shook my hand and introduced himself as Brother Mel. He was maybe a couple of years older than me, but he was wearing a suit on a Saturday, which made him look old and ridiculous, in my book.
b.m.: Of course, the yard sale! I forgot all about it. Forgive me.
me: No problem.
I bent over to pull on the cowboy boots.
b.m.: I’m the youth pastor here.
I stood up.
me: The what?
b.m.: The youth pastor.
me: Okay—I don’t go to church here.
He laughed nervously.
b.m.: I know that! Not yet anyway, huh?
me: What?
b.m.: We have a wonderfully active youth program here, if I do say so myself, Brother Randy.
me: I’m twenty-nine years old, mister.
b.m.: Please, call me Brother Mel!
me: Okay. “Brother Mel.”
b.m.: You are young in the Eyes of the Lord.
I seriously thought he was being funny, so I joined in.
me: Right, ‘cause he’s what—like 2000 years old or something?
Brother Mel did not get the joke. Or maybe he was letting my blasphemy slide.
b.m.: Do you know the Savior, Brother Randy?
me: Yeah, I’ve seen him on tv.
b.m.: Excuse me?
I was referring to that David Koresh guy in the religious cult on cnn, but I knew he did not and would not see the humor.
me: I’m sorry, who?
b.m.: The Savior, Jesus Christ.
me: Wow. I’m just trying on these clothes, you know? Trying to support the church in that way, if I can.
Brother Mel stepped closer to me. It was intimate if not carnal.
b.m.: The Lord works in mysterious ways.
I stepped back into the stall until the backs of my knees were touching the rim of the toilet and that crazy mother-fucker followed me in.
me: Hey, this is a little weird.
b.m.: Wouldn’t you like to ask Jesus to come into your heart right now?
me: Here?
b.m.: Sure. Why not?
me: In a bathroom stall? That’s not very…ideal, is it?
He was caught off guard.
b.m.: Oh.
me: Actually, “Brother Mel,” Sister Iris is expecting me out there. I don’t want her to think I’ve run off with her merchandise, you know what I mean?
He took a step back.
b.m.: Oh, of course. Sure.
me: And since I’m not going to buy these pants, I’m gonna be taking them off. And unless you’re interested in watching me do that—
He stepped out of the stall lickety-split.
b.m.: No, no, I’m sorry. Why don’t I meet you in the church lobby.
I closed the stall door without answering.
When I came out of the restroom, my arms full of clothes, Brother Mel sprung upright from a slouching position against the opposite wall all smiles. He called me by my church name, “Brother Randy!” I told him to go to Hell as I continued out, stopping him in his tracks.
This morning, when I opened the door to Room 105, I found a religious tract taped to it. It was a funny little cartoon book with the title “Here He Comes!” The cover illustration had a couple of devils running for their lives, I assume, one of them hollering “Noooo!” The story in the booklet is the story of the Rapture, or, as it says on page 14: “The horrible nightmare that the Lord Jesus warned us about!”
On the back was Brother Mel’s name and phone number. I showed it to Myrtle, thinking she would say it was as stupid as I thought it was. Instead, she said, “Well, ain’t that the cutest thang? I love those little books!”
I knew in that moment that I was in the wrong place—am in the wrong place. I’m heading back to the Budge In right now to pay my bill, gather up my things, call a cab, head to the Greyhound station, and catch the next bus to San Francisco.