In the spring semester, a guy named Scott entered the dorm. His upper body shriveled with Muscular Dystrophy (the fascio-scapula-humeral kind), Scott was the grinning preacher boy from Shreveport who played golf, loved to fish, and took it as his personal mission to ‘redeem’ Dave from the pits of Hell he evidently teetered on. But Dave wouldn’t have it. He seemed to instinctively know just when Scott would show up….and he’d disappear outside for a smoke. The rest of the God Squad figured Dave felt convicted of his sinful life. Perhaps. But I also think Dave just didn’t like the smell of spiritual arrogance.
One night, Scott catches Dave and I in our room (217 to be exact…up the stairs, 2nd door on the right.) Dave is sitting on the window sill, smoking what must have been his 5th Marlboro since dinner. We’re listening to Phil Keaggy’s The Wind and The Wheat album. The March of the Clouds is playing and Dave is ruminating about what it must have been like to be one of the angels looking over God’s shoulder during The Creation.
Scott busts in the room. “At least you’re listening to some ‘Christian’ music for a change…” he says.
Dave gets up and puts on some Dead Kennedys. (I don’t remember the exact album.)
Scott says, “Dave, you really need to give your life to Jesus, man. He loves you.”
No response from Dave.
“Dude, are you even listening? You know Jesus died for you, right?”
“He knows what you’re going through…… He knows what it’s like…. He knows your pain…”
Scott rolls up his sleeve and shows Dave a scar on his left bicep. “This is where they took out live muscle to test it for MD. …in all that pain, Jesus was there for me.”
Dave then rolled up his sleeve to reveal a small bullet wound on the back of his shoulder. “You ever been SHOT? That’s pain.”
Scott then lifts his shirt to reveal his ribcage, a mere collection of rib bones with a thin veneer of skin stretched tightly across the middle. Like someone had a backyard BBQ and wrapped all the leftover bones in flesh-colored Saran Wrap for the family dog.