What can YOU say in six sentences?
The guy approached me as I was leaving the liquor store with my cigarettes, a mini bottle of Wild Turkey, and a six pack of off-brand condoms; the single man's brown bag survival kit.
He was wearing a soiled t-shirt with a fast food logo printed on it, soiled sweatpants with a college logo printed on them, and worn sneakers, loose, untied, almost falling off every time he took a step toward me, like they desperately wanted to stay behind and leave this man to his treadmilling, endless quest to nowhere.
He handed me a CD tucked neatly in a paper sleeve and told me to let Jesus save my soul.
Melodies from Heaven-The Gospel of St. John in 155 Songs was printed on the sleeve in water-smudged, runny letters, probably etched on to the paper by some yellowing inkjet relic.
I gave him two bucks to spare myself a sermon and grabbed the CD out of his twitchy fingers, throwing it in the glove box of my car, the guy's toothless grin shrinking in my rearview mirror.
And so there it sits, waiting in my glovebox, the key to my salvation bought for a fraction the cost of condoms (which remain laughably untouched, by the way) and cigarettes (long since smoked), waiting for the day I finally take it out and give it a listen.