"Jesus can't have my soul--I traded it to my roommate last year for a cigarette!"

I go to a Baptist university. And not just any Baptist university, but none other than the largest Baptist university in the world, Baylor. And Baylor is all about their Christian image. Even so, a great number (maybe half maybe more) of Baylor students conduct themselves in the same manner as would any red-blooded American college student at a secular university. So we are not all Bible-thumpers. Even so, there are some Baylor students that will accost you as you make your way innocently across campus and badger you with inquires as to the condition of your immortal soul. Some of them are very persistent and will continue to preach to you until you either agree to go to their Bible study or you move to break contact. A “hey, I gotta get to class, see you later.” will usually suffice. I prefer a smile and “I traded my soul to my roommate last year for a cigarette so I guess I’m just fu**ed, huh?” This will stun the young zealot momentarily and allow you to effect your get-away. And yes, they throw dry parties with punch and soft drinks and all that. It was into one of these parties that I stumbled one glorious Saturday night.

It was the night of the big Margarita Festival concert that is held in Waco every year. This particular year Cross-Canadian Rag-Weed, Pat Green and Willie Nelson were performing. Naturally I am drunk off my ass. I have been slamming margaritas since noon and it was now about 9:00 post mortem. I somehow managed to smuggle a full bottle of Jose Cuervo into the concert and was taking swigs from said bottle while Pat Green put on his show. At 10 Willie is supposed to show. It’s 9:45 and for some reason I decide I don’t want to be at this concert anymore, even for Willie. The friends that I’m with are incredulous that I would bail on the show right before the headliner. They refuse to leave. Sputtering curses, I defiantly abandon my compatriots. It’s time to fly solo baby.

Well, it’s time to walk solo anyways because I didn’t drive. As I made my way towards the exit I see the souvenir stand where concert t-shirts are being sold. I stumble up to the stand and push my way through the mass of sweaty Wacoans until I am right up at the counter. My vision is out-of-focus and I’m seeing double but I spy what looks to be a cool Pat Green shirt. I point to the shirt and ask for a medium. I have to scream because the stage is nearby. The vendor informs me, with screaming, that there are no mediums left in the shirt I want. I tell her to give me something, anything in a medium. She puts a Cross-Country shirt on the table in front of me as I reach for my wallet. She is momentarily distracted by another customer and walks a few steps away, with her back towards me. Foolish woman. I snatch the shirt and disappear into the fog of humanity.

I’m on my way to my friend’s house where there is a party in progress. Half full bottle of tequila in one pocket, stolen concert shirt hanging from the other. I see what appears to be a party going on in the lawn of a fairly large house on University Parks. Typical scene, people milling around, cups and cans in hand, chatting, and laughing. This, by all outward appearances, is a party. Why not join these merry people and share my tequila with them? Surely they will give me beer in exchange. Hell, maybe I’ll meet a girl. I walk right into the middle of the group, thrust my bottle of Jose into the sky like a trophy and shout at the top of my lungs, “WHO HERE WANTS TO TAKE A TEQUILLA SHOT!?”

Silence…a cricket chirps…someone drops their cup…I am puzzled by the reaction. I don’t understand. Under any normal circumstances such a proposal would bring forth cheers of drunken joy and appreciation. I should be a hero right now.

50 people are staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed right at me as I stand in their midst, still pointing my bottle skyward with a huge shit-eating grin on my face. My grin fades as I realize that all is not well. One guy cautiously approaches me as if I might, at any moment, fly into a drunken rage and skull-f**k every one of them with my bottle of liquid sin.

“Hey man...” he says timidly “there is no drinking here…”

Reality hits like a freight train. Church party. The cups: lemonade. The cans: soft drinks. The party-goers: stone f’ing sober. Well, I certainly didn’t see that one coming. Although any sober person would realize that throwing a party in the front lawn of a house on University Parks would be an unwise thing to do. Cops and minors and all that.

Slowly, I lower my bottle and place it back in my pocket. “Umm…uh…sorry man, I didn’t know. I just came from the Margarita fest concert.” as if my previous participation in a lecherous sin-fest of decadence, drinking and apostasy would excuse my behavior. He stares at me and timidly steps forward, an inquisitive look in his eye. I notice this look. Instantly I’m in flight or fight mode. I glance from left to right, trying to find an escape route. No good, I’m too drunk to see anything I don’t squint at. Damn, trapped like a rat. I squint at the approaching figure. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead and into my eyebrow.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks softly.
“Uhh… sure man, what’s up?” is my nervous reply
“Have you ever thought about what will happen to you when you die?”
I pretend to ponder this question as I look for a tactful way out. “Uhh… well… I guess so, I mean…”
“Jesus died for your sins. He loves you very much and…”
I’m not listening to a damn thing this guy is saying. Instead I just nod and act like I understand. I notice that other people are slowly approaching me. The noose is tightening. Shit, they have me cornered. Looks like tact is no longer an option. Fortunately I have a contingency plan.

“Hey man” I interrupt. He smiles at me warmly, waiting… I raise my voice so that other people around can hear. “Jesus can’t have my soul! Hell, I traded it to my roommate last year for a cigarette!” He is stunned. Works every time. He opens his mouth as if to reply but no words come out. I make a run for it and don’t look back.

I finally got to the party and shared my experience with my fellow drunk college students. Finally I was back behind friendly lines. I proceed to get righteously drunk(er).

A couple days later I see that same guy from the church party at the library. He sees me too and the look on his face is priceless. I smirk as I walk away, leaving him utterly and hopelessly convinced that I am going to hell.