I
t was a warm, breezy night as I wandered through Library Mall toward my apartment, on my way back from one of my regular Chicken Wrap and Mojo-binges at the Union. As I passed the water fountains and headed towards the bookstore I knew what lay ahead of me. The crazed, pushy pamphleteers would be out in full force, ready to cram every piece of the world's worries right down my throat. This is the point at which I usually take a few moments to mentally prep myself for the roughly 30 seconds of verbal onslaught awaiting me. Before I even made it to Amnesty International table I noticed something was awry— there was something noticeably missing from the regular ""sanctimonious"" feel usually present at Library Mall. At first glance, everything seemed the same, and then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Stanley, the most zealous of the aggressive, evangelical picketers on State and Lake Street, must have discovered what I had feared he might: that not one of the many passersby gives two shits about what he has to say. I don't know why, but my day didn't feel complete without chuckling to myself at the shouted forewarnings of eternal damnation awaiting my seemingly depraved soul.
I didn't think much more of the situation until a few days later when a few friends and I stepped into a local pub, and there, red-faced and slumped over the bar, was a very downtrodden looking Stanley. A tattered Bible lay symbolically at his side as he downed a frothy Guinness quicker than I'd ever seen any thirsty Irish man. This was my opportunity to get to know a man who had many a time stared me right in the eye and told me endless flame awaited me. He seemed more approachable without his makeshift sign quoting the more terrifying parts of the Old Testament, so I took a seat and introduced myself. Stanley had a vacant look in his eyes, obviously upset over his recent life realization. He was slow to respond to my hello. ""Hello young blasphemer,"" he said as he grabbed his Bible and moved it away from me nervously. ""I swear no one in this God-forsaken town knows that retribution is on their doorstep."" I agreed, scared that if I didn't it would cause an unnecessary scene (I've seen the look Stanley gets in his eye at the sight of sacrilege).
""Not even Tina the homeless lady stops by anymore to achieve salvation, and the lord almighty knows you college kids won't listen to a friggin' thing I say."" It seemed like Stanley was finally coming around to the fact that State Street quite possibly could be the worst place in the Midwest for his daily rant.
I couldn't help but feel sympathetic for the poor fellow, so I added my two cents. ""Have you ever considered spicing up your evangelizing?"" I asked.
""Spicing up?"" Stanley seemed taken aback, ""The last thing this city needs is more spice; I want to see repentance damn it!""
I cautiously proceeded. ""Do you have any skills, Stanley? Could you maybe make your angry rant into more of a song and dance, or at least shout your views in a funny accent or something?""
He looked disgusted at the idea.
""Dancing is the devil's work, and besides I don't have a creative bone in my body... I can scream revelations word for word pretty loud in any direction, but that's about it. You damn kids and your sex, drugs and Rock N' Roll... maybe I should have moved to rural Alabama, there's plenty of well-mannered, educated people down there.""
He threw back a shot of Wild Turkey like it was nothing, and with that Stanley let me know that he had to be on his way. He did some strange genuflect before he left the bar and said he had to go home to repent for the massive amounts of alcohol he had just consumed, and fill out an application for a gas-station attendant position.
So don't be surprised when picking up a pack of cigs or a coke, if the clerk begins speaking in tongues and spewing scripture as they hand you your change. State Street may never be the same without the mildly amusing antics of Stanley, and his famous ""Holier-than-thou"" picketing; I know I will miss being harassed indiscriminately as I cross the street, or at least until I hit the ""Freedom from Religion"" booth.
Flustered by crazy evangelicals? E-mail Andrew at aplahr@wisc.edu to share your thoughts.
