But I didn't say "Shut the fuck up"

Did you ever find Jesus at the laundromat?

Neither did I.

"Minding my own business" might be cliche, but it's the only possible description for what I was doin' that afternoon. My laundry was in the soak cycle, and I'd parked myself on a chair outside the laundromat to get some writing done. I keep to myself in situations like this. I really don't like it when strangers feel the need to chat me up, especially the grimy, sleazy men I see so often when I'm laundering. Yes, yes, I find you irresistable, now that you've pulled your month's worth of dirty clothes from the cab of your truck and are wearin' your least-dirty flannel shirt, and your ball cap with the sillhouette of the naked ladies on it, and your dirty fingernails that give you character. Take me now, before I melt into a large puddle of desire and somebody throws sawdust on me to absorb the moisture.

Alright, maybe I'm a little defensive about that, but one can only be gap-tooth propositioned so many times before the walls go up. Take the hint, guys: though you may find it hard to believe, I did not come to the laundromat for romance, or even to give you a blowjob in your truck. Call me old fashioned, but I really do just wanna wash my clothes and get the fuck out.

So there I was, with my clothes a-washin', my notebook in my hand, and what I like to think of as the "Don't even THINK it" expression planted on my face. There were three guys outside with me, but at first, they kept to themselves, and all was well. They were a little bit older, and two of them stood while their companion was wheelchair bound. I must have relaxed the hard-ass bitch look on my face, because after a few minutes, I noticed that the guy on wheels was inching closer to me. As he got nearer to me, I was able to size him up out the corner of my eye: the dude was pretty large, and something was definitely wrong with him, as his eyes were huge, bulging, and lookin' in two totally different directions. He had his wallet and a bottle of Sierra Mist tucked into the front of his pants, and all I could think was that I was glad I had no reason to receive any cash from him, because, well, ew.

Finally, he was close enough to talk, and I cringed inwardly as I imagined how the conversation would go. What came out of his mouth next wasn't quite what I expected, though.

"Hello, young lady," he began - the "young lady" part was not a bad start, if he'd just left it at that - "my friends and I are from _____ Baptist church in Statesboro, Georgia. We're here on a mission to help addicts." Did he think I was an addict? How could he have known? He then said, "Can I ask you a question?"

I kind of grunted, not a distinct "yes" or "no" grunt, but just an acknowedgement that he'd spoken.

"If you died today," he continued, "do you know where you would go?"

Awwwwwwww, fuck. Why didn't I see that comin'? Now, folks, don't get me wrong - I know lots and lots of very nice, rockin' people who are religious; they don't try to pull me into church, and I don't try to pull them out of church. We understand and respect one another. But nothin' will raise my hackles faster than some jackass who feels the need to chase me with a long-handled spoon and try to shove his or her deity of choice down my throat. When that person is a stranger, I find it even more offensive, presumptuous, and just plain rude. In my mind, to walk up to a stranger and ask "If you died today, do you know where you would go?" is just as uncalled for as approaching someone on the street and asking, "Do you prefer your anal sex lubricated or unlubricated?" It's not my business, and it's beyond the limits of good taste, even to somebody like me.

So, there were a lot of really cruel responses to that on the tip of my tongue, but the little shred of decency that's lodged itself in my brain where I can't quite get at it kept stoppin' me and sayin' "Hey, that guy's all fucked up and in a wheelchair. You really gonna tell him to bite your alleged scrotum?"

I answered as nicely as I could, "When I die? There will be a seafood buffet."

If it's possible, that response made his eyes bug out even a little more. I'm pretty sure that was not the answer he expected, not in the least. He sort of fumbled for words, and then all he could say was, "A seafood buffet?" His buddies had caught the conversation and were also starin' at me like I was some exotic and slightly repulsive creature that had just climbed in the back seat of their new car and taken a dump.

"Sure," I replied. "I'm confident that Jesus is savin' me some crab legs."

The three would-be convertors exchanged a look that said, "Oh, a difficult heathen."

My new friend on wheels decided to try a different direction, with no questions for my impertinent answers. He explained to me that Jesus had died on the cross for my sins (I wanted to raise my hand and explain that I had really not begun to sin quite yet when Jesus died, but he continued too quickly for me to interject), and that I needed to realize I was a sinner and give my life to Jesus, and there were only two choices for me: heaven or hell.

Finally able to get a word in edgewise, I countered, "What about purgatory?"

He looked like I'd slapped him across the face with my tits. "There's no purgatory. There's heaven everlasting, and there's hell forever."

"Well, I'm Catholic," I explained sweetly, which is true only insofar as I was raised Catholic, "and we have purgatory."

Now, in my experience, the word "Catholic" to people like this has the same effect as a holy water shower would have on a vampire. The wheelchair backed away from me almost imperceptibly, and I half expected him to make a cross with his fingers and hold it up between us for the protection of his own soul. "There's no purgatory," he repeated, clearly even more worried about the salvation of my soul than he'd been even a moment before.

At about this point, the owner of the laundromat came to my rescue and pretty much stepped in and changed the subject. That seemed like as good a time as any for me to make my escape, so I moved to my car and sat with the windows shut.

Though I'd poked a little fun at him during his spiritual shakedown, I couldn't be overtly mean to the man in the wheelchair. What I really wanted to do was to stand up and say, to all three of them, "Why does God have to be harsh and vengeful? Why couldn't Jesus have a sense of humor? I thought God loved us all. You think God can only deal in black and white, and isn't complex enough to tread grey areas, too? I think you disrespect God when you promote such a negative image. You'll be hearing from His lawyers."

But I'm perfectly content for these fellows to continue believing the way they believe; I just wish they had the same courtesy for me, or any other laundromat heathens they happen to encounter.