June 17, 2003
I found myself in downtown Reno last weekend. I was home for my 10-year high school reunion, and I am happy to report that much of the Wooster High School class of 1993 has spent the last decade breeding like rabbits on any oyster farm. Kids were everywhere, a fact that alarmed me considering that the last time I saw most of these kids' parents, they were running around in red polyester with what appeared to be pizza boxes on their heads.
But that's a story for a different time. The story for today is that I spent Saturday night at Fitzgerald's Hotel Casino (for reasons that are yet another story).
After getting to my room on the 13th floor (yes, the Fitz has a 13th floor, unlike most hotels, which are run by people who probably avoid stepping on sidewalk cracks, for fear that they'd break their mothers' backs), I realized that I had left my cellular phone in my rental car, a Suzuki Grand Vitara -- a midget-looking SUV thing that was NOT what I expected when I reserved a mid-size car -- that I had just left with the valet.
Muttering to myself about how my former classmates' children must have somehow killed all my brain cells, I ran back down to the valet in hopes that my car would still be there. Alas, I was too late. I explained my situation to the valet, and he politely offered to go get my phone -- while informing me it would be quicker if I got it myself. I agreed, and he gave me the keys.
He also informed me that the vehicle was parked on the top floor of the Fitzgerald's parking garage, which is not connected to Fitzgerald's. As a matter of fact, it's across the street and across the railroad tracks, caddy-corner from Fitzgerald's. (Hell, if you can have a 13th floor, why can't you have a unconnected, across-the-street parking garage?)
Thus, I ran across Virginia Street, and that's when I saw him: The Preacher.
OK, I guess I heard him first, yelling at passers-by that, for all intents and purposes, they were all heathens who were going to hell without passing go and collecting $200.
Then, I saw him. He standing on the sidewalk near the railroad tracks, holding a Bible. My guess was he was about 5 foot 7, about 260 pounds, with a big, round belly that would have made Santa Claus look like Kate Moss. He was not dressed like a man of God, unless God is into polyester clothing that one would find in the bargain rack at a thrift store.
I shook my head, and continued on to the parking garage. I took the elevator up, retrieved my keys, took the elevator back down, and headed back for the Fitz, walking right by The Preacher.
Being curious, I stopped to watch and listen to him for a second. He was full of anger, spouting out harsh words to the pedestrians about how their lives were evil. He shook the Bible at one young woman, and shouted, "You need to be READING THIS!"
She smiled and replied: "I have read it!"
"Well, read it again!" he retorted. She smiled and kept walking.
After that scene, I continued walking, too, and made my way back to the hotel. The whole scene baffled me; clearly, The Preacher wasn't converting anyone. If anything, he was closing peoples' minds to spirituality by being such a loud, obnoxious hate-monger.
It reminded me of a scene from my college days at Stanford. In the spring, a traveling preacher and his family always came to campus, parked themselves in the main plaza and started spouting their religious fervor for a few days -- much like The Preacher downtown, only skinnier and better-dressed.
The preacher would always shout his "you're all going to hell" rhetoric, sometimes drawing a crowd of students who wanted to debate. It was an interesting show, one that never gained any converts.
One day, I learned how truly ineffective the preacher's words had been. I was walking to the student union one afternoon while the preacher yelled -- only he seemed shaken a bit, as if he were nervous, and would only look up and straight ahead. I looked, and at first glance, nothing appeared any different. A crowd of 15 or so people watched -- then I realized some of them were giggling.
Then I saw that within several feet of the preacher sat two young, attractive students. They watched the preacher, smiling, seeming to be in total concentration of his every word.
Oh, yeah. They were both completely naked from the waist up.
Amen to that.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan in exile in Arizona. Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.