Bartender, Another Round of Kool-Aid for my Friend

You know how people come and go and you wonder about where they went and how they’re doing? I had this next door neighbor, a teenager, Jason, who lived with his mom, his aunt and his grandparents. I used to call them the perfect clichés. They smoked like chimneys, drank like fish, and fought like cats and dogs. Nice neighbors but Jason seemed like he didn’t belong to them.

One of those kids loaded with talent, charm and good looks, he had a steady stream of girlfriends. He played junior hockey on a team in Canada until an injury took him out of the sport that could have been a career. He played the drums as skillfully as he played hockey and would knock on our door to make sure the drumming wasn’t too loud. No one asked him to check with us. He just did it on his own.

I’ve only seen Jason a couple times in the three or four years since his family moved; each time was at a grocery store and each time he was living and working at a different place.

Yesterday, I saw Jason at the coffee shop I frequent. He was sitting at a table, looking very studious with a textbook and some papers spread out in front of him. I’m thinking, I’m so glad he’s in college. I wonder what he’s majoring in?

A man joined him who also appeared to be studying from the same textbook. I don’t know how much studying Jason was able to get done because they kept talking. Who is this man ruining Jason’s chance to get into med school? I wondered if the man, in his fifties, was a teacher or a tutor. Then I realized they weren’t studying microbiology but bibles.

On my way out of the coffee shop I said hello to Jason and asked him where he was living now. But to talk to Jason, it seemed I had to talk to the guy he was sitting with first. The man reached a hand out to me and introduced himself. I have to tell you about this handshake because I don’t care how happy anyone might be that Jason is studying The Word, he’s studying it with the creepiest man I’ve ever met.

Had it been one of those handshakes where our hands bob up and down for an entire paragraph, I would have just written it off as OCD or IIA,  Introduction Incompetence Anxiety. I can accept that. But it was one of those handshakes that doesn’t move. Not the usual squeeze or the axe chop or the wood-sawing type. It was more of a hand hug. He hand hugged me. He hand hugged me right through how Jason and I know each other and a name exchange. Words came out of his mouth but all I heard was, “James Jones. Kool-Aid. Are you from Upper Wonderful?”

“No.” Sure. Pick a town like Upper Wonderful, where if you’re not from here, you’re an outsider.

“Where are you from?”

“Margaretville, New York.” I said, knowing he wouldn’t have heard of it. I figured it might throw him off his game a little.

“Margaretville. That sounds like a small town.”

“Yea. The high school was tiny. It was this big.” I say, holding my finger and thumb three inches apart.

“What did you do on Saturday nights?” He really thinks I can remember that far back?

“Drank Boone’s Farm and tipped cows.” I never tipped a cow because I thought it was mean but I figured he probably wouldn’t know what cow tipping was and I might get my hand back while he fumbles for his next approach. I was right.

He let go of my hand and searched his mind, looking for where he would lead this back to whatever line he uses to lure people into his cult. I put my hand in my pocket and took a couple of steps back, looked at Jason and nodded goodbye.

Later, I saw Jason in the parking lot. I was relieved he was alone. I could talk with him about that creepy guy. Tell him to get away before he gets in too deep.

He said, “Aren’t you a believer?”

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