…because my cousins said they’d meet me there, and then they stood me up, so I was in a bad mood. I was heading towards the Burnside Bridge, hoping to catch a 20 bus up to Powells for a little book-and-coffee action to soothe a cranky soul.
And that’s when the evangelist decided it would be a good idea to sneak up on me and yell in my ear.
I did what any woman walking alone would do when subjected to someone sneaking up behind them and shouting in their ear, I jumped near out of my skin and ran forward a few steps (out of grabbing range), then whirled to see who my attacker was, bag swinging in a wide arc.
Mr. Evangelist was standing there with a big smirk on his face, holding a giant sign. “That’s right, sinner!” he declaimed. “God is trying to get your attention!”
I had a vision, then, of going home, making a nun’s outfit from another century, hanging a rosary from my waist. In this getup, I would march into the nearest convenience store, purchase a carton of cigarettes and a cheap lighter. Then, I would return to the Rose Festival, buy a beer, and follow these gentlemen around, a little dumpy, fat, chain-smoking, hard-drinking nun. And I would listen intently to these gentlemen, and laugh and laugh and laugh.
I entertained the fantasy for a while, because I’m broke and jobless and could, justifiably, have myself a little break from reality (plus I have about ten yards of black cotton in the basement, leftover from a quilting project).
I finally decided it was too much work, and told Mr. Evangelist, “First of all, I am saved, washed in the blood of the lamb, and second of all, you, sir, are a jackass”, flipped him off, and headed off to Powells angrier than before.
“Find me a Buddhist,” I muttered under my breath. “I’m ready to sign back up.”