Unbidden Memories

WAY back in the mid 80s, I was working at a copy shop with an adorable little blonde, blue eyed woman. We must’ve been close to the same age but she came off as though she was 15 and Mom just popped her out of the Easy Bake Oven. It seemed obvs that none of life’s nasty-ass vicissitudes had, at that point, left a mark on her.

Debbie had a perky as all fuck attitude. ("Debbie," NOT her actual name. NO clue what it was. I mean, rilly now, how’m I supposed to recall some rando’s name from four decades ago?)

She gave off serious nothing-bad-has-or-will-ever-happen-to-me (except maybe a cavity but just one) vibes. Sure, she was nice enough (if you go for the always smiling, innocent as a newborn fawn, vacuous American Doll schtick) but then I discovered her dark side—she was an enthusiastic member of an evangelical cult that met at the Boston Garden each Sunday.

Cake is unimpressed

American megachurches use stagecraft, sensory pageantry, charismatic leadership and an upbeat, unchallenging vision of Christianity to provide their congregants with a powerful emotional religious experience, according to research from the University of Washington. (source)

God as a drug. God as a glitzy status symbol, as a flash disco or high status social club. God as a sequined promise that nothing bad will ever happen to you (as long as you keep those donations coming). God as a product that’ll make you rich, attractive and cherished. God as magic mushrooms, ecstasy and China white rolled into one.

I don’t know if there are any big box cult centers in Boston now. I doubt it, primarily because rents and real estate are insanely expensive here. Also, if a homeowner has paid a hot mil for a South End condo, I would imagine they’d not be keen on having their neighborhood overrun by charlatans, chumps, patsies and other assorted suckers every Sunday morning.

Frankly, I was stunned that pure, not-so-bright, little Debbie applied for a copy job. I thought all those white American Jesus propagandists kept to themselves unless they were ‘witnessing’ (always in groups) to us misguided heathens. Was she a plant sent to infect us obviously devil worshipping and vaguely demonic copy jocks? Could be. Her handlers had clearly failed to read the room—we were not the sort to be taken in by such a shallow pool.

Little Debbie didn’t last more than a few months, if that.

That was 40 years ago. I expect she married a fellow Jesus fucker, moved to rural Kansas, spawned a dozen insufferable Future Republicans of America (who went on to birth hundreds of future MAGAts) and, possibly, learned how to macramé and can squirrels for winter din-dins.

I could be wildly wrong. Perhaps instead, she embraced her intelligence, backbone and dreams of being more than some dweeb’s bangmaid and broodmare. She might’ve gone on to be a high powered lawyer for the American Civil Liberties Union—working for truth, justice and equality for all.

Nah. It’s a nice dream though.