My brother once told me that there are only three types of people who ride Amtrak trains to North Carolina. One is the smattering of indigent college kids like me. The second is Southern psychos. The third is convicts.
You can understand, then, that I was on edge from the moment I bought my ticket. As I walked down the metal tube of the train car, icy eyes and blank, gray faces greeted me from every side. I glanced hopefully at a middle-aged man in a rumpled corduroy jacket. He placed his book on the potential seat, gave me a threatening stare, and then quickly looked away. I continued along, hoping I’d find an open row. Damn, the place was packed. Then I saw my ray of hope. A generic gray-haired man with a few wrinkles, glasses and a stained dress shirt sat near a window, his mouth agape and his eyes shut tightly. A sleeping companion. Ah ha! I would slip into the seat next to him and when he awoke it would be too late. I’d already be nicely settled and asleep in his formerly private row. Clutch!
I settled down and scratched my stomach, satisfied. He was still asleep.
I had just taken out my book on Buddhism when he stirred and smacked his lips suddenly. My body tensed. How would he react to my appearance?
Blinking and sitting up, he exclaimed, “Well! Carl L. Brown Jr.!” and reached up his long nailed hand to grab my pectoral. Giving a little yelp, I retracted in horror.
“Mr. Brown! Pleased to meet you.” He gave me a nod and a large, yellow, toothy expression.
“Ah.” I grabbed his extended hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you too.” I quickly re-opened my book, hoping that I’d still have a chance at a private ride.
“What’s that?!” he asked with a smirk. I explained calmly and quickly that I was a theology major from D.C. and I was interested in Buddhism and I’d need to finish this book by the weekend. I tried to make it clear that I would be very busily reading for the entire ride, VERY BUSY, thank you very much, sir.
He was silent for a moment, and stared straight ahead. I went back to “The Bodhisattva Way of Life.”
“Now, why would you read that?” he asked, squinting at me. “You’ve heard of the Bible? Have you been saaaved by the Word?”
My heart sank. This guy wanted to talk, and he wanted to talk religion. “Yes, I’ve read some of the Bible. I’ve been Catholic all my life, but I think the truths in other religions are fascinating and help to enrich my own belief.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“What?”
“That’s unfortunate you call yourself Catholic. You been raised outside the Church of God. You been taught wrong your entire life.”
That son of a bitch!
He pulled out a pocket Bible immediately. “Look in James,” he said. “Right here, son: ‘There is but one Church and that Church is God’s Church.’ Cain’t deny it; says it right here. If you don’t see it, you haven’t been saved.”
Crap, crap! I was sitting next to a fundamentalist. All I needed to do was stretch and say I was going to the bathroom and the bastard would never know. I could avoid this shit-storm altogether.
I glanced around quickly for another open seat. None open; just stone faces and icy stares. Losing hope, I said, “You know the Bible well, then?”
“Been studying all my life. Learned to read it from my father.” I was suddenly intrigued. My theology major was getting the better of me. Here was a chance to learn about something I’d never been exposed to:psycho-Christianity. Granted, my mind wasn’t quite open to the legitimacy of his approach, but I wanted to hear more.
“So you could quote something for any question I ask?”
“Hope so.”
“Anything in there about homosexuality?” I knew I was digging my own grave. He quoted me the usuals: Leviticus 20:13 and 18:22, Judges: 19:22-25.
“Right there. Gotta believe it or you ain’t saved. Homosexuals must be dee-stroyed ‘cause they are dis-eased. And that disease can spread an’ spread unless we weed it out.”
My initial shock gave way to frothing rage. I threw my best historical and contextualist arguments at him. He was visibly dazed, and then pondered my argument. Then he said: “Well, you just ain’t saved.”
We debated that a bit more, and he told me that women should be meek and servile, and that God is just and fearsome and sinners will burn. We talked about his son and how he ain’t saved neither, then he told me about his trucker job, and then I began slowly stabbing my thigh with my pen.
Anyway, after six hours together (the train broke down), I couldn’t take the company of my fellow Christian anymore. Wild-eyed and jumpy, I moved up to the breakfast car. There I had a coffee and chatted with a nice lady from Boston who calmed my nerves. She had two kids, could never seem to keep her weight down, and liked Bob Dylan. She didn’t know much about religion, but was interested in learning more about it. I suggested she switch seats with me.
