My wife and I went to a local wood yard to pick up firewood, as we normally do this time of year. It’s a massive lot, the kind of place you could get lost in and never find your way out, with two-story piles of timber laying on what must be a half-acre of land. It’s also a family-owned business, but I always joke that it’s “the ex-convict firewood place”, because the men who work there, tossing logs into strangers’ cars and scaling piles of splintered wood all day, are pretty rough.
Upon arrival at this yard, we backed our Toyota up to a mountain of olive wood, where I opened the back hatch, ready to receive our autumn bundle. For a few minutes, we were alone. This is pretty typical. The employees are sometimes helping other customers deeper inside the labyrinth, but will eventually find you if you’re patient.
And sure enough, after a few minutes a man appeared around the corner of a log mound and noticed we needed help. He was barrel-chested, sun-battered, and had a bushy salt-and-pepper handlebar mustache. His overall vibe gave me the impression he would be at home strolling the recreation yard at San Quentin.
When he got to the back of my car, I politely informed him that I’d like $75 worth of olive wood – a large bundle. Usually these transactions are quick and easy. The man will snort and puff as he throws wood into your car, then you pay him in cash (with a tip, if you have any humanity), and drive away as he stands blinking into the sun, bathed in the dust your car has just kicked into his face. But today wasn’t going to be that easy.
“Olive wood,” the man said contemplatively, wriggling his hands into leather work gloves. His lips barely moved underneath his mustache; his eyes focused on some far away point in the distance. “Now that’s a fine wood.”
“It burns well,” I agreed.
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ?” he said suddenly, eyes darting to meet mine.
“This is going to be a normal interaction,” I thought to myself, and tried to muster a friendly smile, because he wasn’t going to like my answer. “No,” I said. “But I grew up Episcopalian, so… I, uh, know who he is…”
“What?”, he grunted, seemingly agitated by my answer. I don’t think he knew what the word “Episcopalian” meant.
“It’s the Church of England,” I offered.
The man shook his head like he was trying to knock an evil thought out of it, and started loading the first of many logs into my car. I looked through the window at my wife, who quite obviously found this person as strange as I did. I braced for what was to come over the next few minutes, because people who ask if you believe in Jesus don’t usually let the conversation die with your answer. There is always more. And so it was with this man, who, over the next fifteen minutes, would load a log or two into my car and then stop to talk. The encounter dragged on in this way for probably fifteen minutes.
“I’ve spent most of my life in prison,” he told me after the first few logs. “I pretty much grew up in the California Youth Authority. I was abused when I was younger. But then I started abusing other people.”
“Oh dear,” I said meekly, not knowing how else to respond.
A few more logs. “When I turned 18 I went to state prison. All I could ever think about was hurting people. I wanted to hurt people so bad – and I did. I would think about just taking their skull and slamming it into concrete, just splintering it, destroying their face and obliterating who they were. It’s all I could think about, I just wanted to cause pain…”
I allowed my eyes to creep back to my wife in the front seat. Her expression was one you might see on a man experiencing his first prostate exam, or a person who has looked up from collecting bugs only to see they are about to be struck by a freight train. I realize years of institutionalization doesn’t cultivate the best manners, but did this guy really have to tell me this shit in front of her?
More logs. “Any time I was lucky enough to be out of prison, I’d always fall in with some organized criminal stuff. ‘Will you kill for me’? They’d always ask. ‘Will you die for this’? Yes, yes, I said. Every time.”
I looked around at the towers of firewood that enveloped us like a wooden city devoid of people. There was no denying the obvious: this would be a great place to beat a married couple to death with a log.
I noticed the man had stopped loading wood, and was looking at me with a serious expression on his face. “But you know what? One day I found him. I found Jesus Christ, man. And he told me I don’t have to be like that no more.”
That was a sweet thought (I guess…), but all I could think about was how weird it is when Christians say they "found Jesus”. They speak about him like he’s Waldo, or a lost hiker. “The Son of God was located today after a three-day search involving park rangers and local police. He had wandered off-trail at a popular ski resort and gotten turned around. Authorities say he spent three days eating acorns and doing pushups to stay warm, and that it’s a miracle he’s still alive. They report Jesus is in good spirits after his ordeal and simply wishes to return to his father…”
“I’m glad he helped you,” my wife chirped from the front of the car, her fear palpable.
“Yes, that’s so nice he helped you, uh… feel better,” I forced a smile. I didn’t really know how to react to all this, so I guess I was trying to pretend his was a journey we had all taken at some point. “Yes, yes, I remember wanting to torture people to death too, ha! Boy was I crazy before I got involved in the youth group…”
The man didn’t really seem to hear our encouraging words. He was caught up in the telling of his life story, which continued on.
“Now I dedicate my life to Him, you know? And I don’t want to hurt people no more. That’s why I work here – these people are nice enough to hire a guy like me, help me stay straight. It’s a blessing,” he said. After pausing to reflect, he went back to loading logs. There were just a few more, and I could practically taste freedom as I watched them go into the car, one by one.
“We just might live another day,” I allowed myself to think. But this was premature.
“You know about the book of revelations?” the man asked, yet again stopping his work.
“Yes,” I replied. I should have known it was going here – it always goes here.
“Check it out, man. I learned that like, soon those who are aligned with the devil are going to have a mark put on their forehead. That’s so we can all tell them apart. But us Christians are going to be persecuted by them, and it’s going to be a dark time, you know? But we gotta stay strong… gotta stay faithful to the lord God, because those will be the end of times, and it’s the final test.”
“Right…”
“And if you look around right now, you can see it’s already happening. It’s everywhere, which means we’re close to the end…”
I am dimly aware that some people – drug abusers, the homeless, Soundcloud rappers – have been tattooing their faces lately, but other than that, I don’t really see many people with marks on their forehead. And are Christians being persecuted? Well, they certainly like to tell us so… but outside of my house I usually see it the other way around, if I’m honest. Actually, I was feeling a little persecuted myself right now. All I wanted was some firewood, and here I had to listen to this shit.
I wondered what it would be like if I pretended this man had just converted me into a Christian. How much would it make his day if I took him by the hand, looked into his eyes, and said “thank you – brother. I have strayed from the lord, but your words have reminded me that I am living in sin. I need to go back to church. Actually, I have a favor to ask… although I’m a little embarrassed, but… will you pray with me? Honey, get out of the car, we’re praying with the log murderer…”
Instead, I took out my wallet and began counting my money, eager to pay this maniac and get out of there. I was horrified to learn I had only brought $75, and had nothing for tip. Surely this would be the thing that snapped this man out of his streak of good behavior and reminded him that people were worth hurting. When he was finally finished loading the trunk, I hurriedly handed him the money, folded up so that he couldn’t count it before I was safely in my car.
“Hey – thank you for your honesty,” I said as I turned around. What the fuck was I talking about? I was anything but thankful for his honesty.
“Remember bro – Jesus is lord, okay?” he called after me.
“…Yeah,” I said, hustling into the car and closing the door behind me. My wife was still wide-eyed, bewildered and clearly happy to be alive. I fired up the engine and beelined for the exit.
When we finally made it to the road and were safe from Jesus and his mustachioed acolyte, I broke the uncomfortable silence in the car.
“You know what I loved about him?”, I said, “is just how grounded he was. I mean he really gets it.”
That was a few weeks ago. Since then, our supply of firewood has dwindled to a mere four logs. Soon, I will have to go back. I may get lucky and encounter a different employee, but if not, I’ve already been working on my backstory in case I am once again confronted by the log murderer, and he wants to know where I’ve been.
In this fictional history, I recently joined a Pentecostal church, where I’ve learned to handle serpents and speak in tongues. I’ve informed my wife that she will be bearing us a littler of 13 male children, all with blond bowl-cuts and named things like Isaiah, Jedediah, and Bartholomew. I will tell the man I’ve started canning beets and asparagus, building an underground bunker in my back yard where I intend to fortify my brood against the blood-drinking atheists when the Night of Judgement finally comes, and we must stand atop a hill of corpses and defend ourselves with AR-15s until the rapture takes us to heaven.
Or, I thought, maybe I can just start getting my firewood at the grocery store.
Comments