J.P.U.S.A.

It all started with a wedding. Ski was going to school at Western Illinois University. There was a wedding in Chicago. The child of a long time vendor of the Wet Pet Shoppe was getting married and the Gavigan clan was invited. Ski got the last minute call that he was the appointed emissary.

He came into town completely unprepared. He resurrected his father’s 70’s zip up the side pleather boots and stopped by my house and borrowed my green zoot suit. He looked ridiculous, so of course at the wedding he met a girl, went home with her and made hot monkey love all night. (Of course, “all night” in my book is longer than 12 minutes.) The next morning this girl, Christine, invited him to go to church with her. Never the one to pass up an opportunity to offend the Almighty, Ski still in the zoot suit, went along. It was one of these contemporary churches, all hip and shiny. He pretended to stay awake, hollered out a few “Amens” and was rewarded with after church sex in the car behind a grocery store. Thusly began the long distance “romance” between Ski and Christine.

Every time Ski came into town, he dragged me along and forced me to spend time with Brenda, Christine’s super Christian, not puttin’ out room mate. One look at me and Brenda decided that I was a heathen and instead of trying to show me the light of the Lord with her supple body, she simply treated me like a man with one foot in the fire. This went on for a couple months. If Ski came into town and I wanted to see him, I had to double date with the Church Lady.

One weekend Ski came into town and said, “We’re going to breakfast with Christine and Brenda.” I protested, but who was I to prevent him from getting enlightened? So went headed downtown. Ski cleverly waited until we were in the car to inform me that we were also going to church. I was understandably displeased, but he told me it was an inner city church. I had images of James Brown at the pulpit and conceded that this could be an interesting cultural experience. The girls were living on the north side in a neighborhood called Edgewater. Edgeofcivilizationandthelastplaceacoupleofwhiteboysshouldbe was more like it. We went up to their apartment. Christine squealed and giggled. Brenda burned a hole in my soul with one glance. We left the apartment and began walking through this neighborhood that at 10am on a Sunday still felt very dangerous. We walked under the El tracks and turned into an alley. My typing hand to God, there were bums sleeping in the alley. We gingerly climbed over their Ripple soaked bodies and headed into certain death. At the end of the alley was the entrance to what turned out to be an old gymnasium. We walked in and were met by a few hundred folding chairs and dozens of hippie throw backs. We were greeted enthusiastically by someone who was probably named Star Child. We plopped down in the oh so comfortable chairs and Christine began to tell us that this was JPUSA. Jesus People USA. It was a commune. It was also the home of the Rez Band, a moderately successful Christian Rock band. (They still exist. http://www.resurrectionband.com/) She also informed us that the service tended to run a couple of hours. Now I love Ski, but he was closer to meeting his maker than he realized.

The room filled up and eventually some Jerry Garcia look-a-like strolled out onto stage, wearing a tie dyed t-shirt, saddles and a ponytail. He was the pastor. I started to glass over. This was too much for even me. During the service, as the faithful felt the spirit, their arms would shoot up into the air, or they would jump up or run down to the front of the stage. After an hour or so, I closed my eyes and I think I dozed. I was awaked when Brenda elbowed me in the chest. Later, I was startled by a flash of light and feared that the End of Days had arrived. It turned out to be Ski, taking pictures. To this day, I have never seen the photos. I assume Jesus ruined the film.

The climax of the service was when Pastor Jerry announced that they were going to sing the Days of the Week Song. He explained that when the song reached the day of the week that you found Jesus people should stand up. “And at the end of the song, we’ll see who’s still sitting.” And then they ripped into the Days of the Week Song:

“On a Monday I found Jesus!” pop, pop, pop up went a few dozen people. “And on a Tuesday he found me!” pop, pop, pop. Thirty more. The song went on, pop, pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop. Everyone jumped up, hands extended up to the ceiling as if they were trying to catch a swinging trapeze. The song came to its inevitable Sunday conclusion and there were four people sitting; Me, Ski and two guys in wheelchairs who were reaching for the sky like they had a gun pointed at their backs. And everyone, including the wheelchair guys, was looking at us. Think of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Think of the last 20 minutes of Night of the Living Dead. The only difference was at the end of Night of the Living Dead, the black guy got shot. We weren’t going to be so lucky. The service concluded a few minutes later and I made a dash for the door like…well like an Atheist trying to get out of Christian Hippie Commune.

We left the alley and Ski told me to take Brenda to breakfast as he and Christine had some catching up to do. They headed off to Nookieland and Brenda and I walked to the nearest Salmonella factory of a diner. We sat down staring at each other. I was trying to decide what blunt instrument on the table I would use to take my life and I think Brenda already had hers picked out. So we left. We walked slowly back to the apartment, giving Ski and Christine the 12 minutes they would need.

I am pretty sure that was the last time I saw Christine and Brenda. I think Christine found some nice Christian boy and ended her relationship with Ski and hopefully Brenda fell down a deep well. But I have to say that JPUSA has never left my memory. Every time I see a photo of Jerry Garcia I am back in that gymnasium and I get a little scared. Pop, pop, pop.