Over the course of the past month or so, I’ve been going out on the road with our outside salesman here at work and calling on customers. As most of you know, I work for a tire distributor and essentially, I’m the one that sells tires to tire stores. Anyway, me and our outside sales guy, Milton, have been visiting all these little podunk tire stores and auto shops that litter the Buford Highway area of Atlanta. These shops are predominantly Hispanic or Korean and for some odd reason, I do a pretty decent job of dealing with these folks. Mostly, it’s pretty uneventful, just, “hey, how ya doin? Buy some tires from me” crap, but every now and then you get a ringer…
Yesterday (Monday), Milton shows up at our office and says to me, “So I hear we going out on the road again?” “Uh, really? Nobody mentioned anything to me about going out today. I’m not exactly dressed for it.” I responded. One of the few good things about my job is that typically, I can wear whatever I like. Yesterday I was wearing camo shorts, blue and orange shoes, and a long sleeve Powell-Peralta skateboard shirt from the 80′s with skulls on it. Not exactly the pinnacle of professionalism.
I do a fine job of looking like a jackass on my own, I really don’t appreciate anyone helping me along with that. That’s exactly what my ass-hat boss did though. So me and Ol’ Milton head up Buford Highway and hit up a couple of little Hispanic tire stores. No problem there, they don’t judge. Then we see this shithole tire store and I recognize the name as one of our accounts that hasn’t bought from us in a long time.
This is the guy's business card. Seriously. It has his number on the back.
We pulled in and navigated our way around the endless piles of shitcannery that were everywhere and entered the building (shanty would be a more apt term). We talked to the owner/sea urchin and went through the whole tire pricing spiel and all that nonsense. He handed me his business card and that old familiar WTF feeling washed over me again.
The old guy asked me if I was a Christian. I responded in the affirmative. “You answered that mighty quick. Are you Christ-like?” He asked. “I’d have to say that’s up for debate.” I responded. He asked, “Do you know John 3:16?” “I sure do.” I answered and rattled it off. I was playing this guy’s game and doing a damn fine job of it too, I might add.
He asked me what denomination I was and I told him I was a Southern Baptist. I actually am, but I’ve spent enough time dealing with folks of this nature that they are either happy because you’re the same denomination they are or they just think you’re crazy and won’t risk you going all Kanye on them. So always tell them you’re Southern Baptist. He said I was probably ok. Then he asked Milton what he was and Milton responded that he was raised a Methodist.
“I didn’t ask what you were, I asked what you are now.” The old-timer said. Milton responded with, “Well, I’m a Presbyterian now.” His only comment to that was, “At least you ain’t Catholic. You can’t trust no damn Catholics.” He then went on a 10 minute rant about how he witnessed to a Catholic right there in his shop and pointed out all the flaws in Catholicism. Lo and behold that Catholic swapped to the one true denomination right there on the spot; the Power and the Glory for ever and ever Amen.
“You know Jesus was a Baptist, right?” He said to me. “I thought he was Jew.” I responded. “Yeah, he was, but he became a Baptist when John the Baptist baptized him.” He said back to me. “I reckon you’re right,” I said. “But I’m no theocracy student, I don’t know all that stuff.”
Then Milton asked him what he thought of Charles Stanley (a big shot preacher at a large local church.) “He’s a damn traitor!” The old-timer exclaimed. I expected some Earth-shattering revelation here, but instead what I got was, “He used to preach under the King James Version of the Bible, and denounced the NIV (New International Version), but now he’s preaching from it!” I knew what he was referring to, but I failed to see how this qualified Charles Stanley as a traitor to the faith. Unfortunately, I took the liberty of asking him.
“What version of the Bible were you baptized under?” He asked me. “The King James Version.” I replied (without actually knowing for sure, but since he’d already made a big deal about the NIV I figured I oughta say the KJV. Bam! 2 for 2 on the loaded questions). “That’s good. The KJ Version of the Bible doesn’t capitalize spirit and the NIV does. What does that mean?” He asked me. I replied, “It makes it a proper noun.” He got a pretty good chuckle out of that then replied, “Spirit, with no capital letter refers to man’s spirit. Spirit with a capital letter refers to the Holy Spirit. See how that could change the meaning a little bit?” “I suppose so.” I responded. Fortunately his phone rang and we were able to take our leave.
All in all, a fairly interesting day. We spent 45 minutes at his esteemed establishment and then spent the rest of the afternoon hawking tires in car dealerships. I’m sure it was something to behold for the Parts Manager at Hennessey Cadillac to see a kid wearing camo shorts and a Kevin Harris t-shirt walking into his office trying to sell him something. Perhaps my cajones alone will command some business.
Update: The old guy who preached to me ordered some tires today. The lesson to be learned here is this: Whenever someone in the tire business asks you what denomination you are, answer “Southern Baptist,” and when they ask what version of the Bible you were baptized under, answer “The King James Version.” See there? Never say Ol’ Biloxxxi didn’t teach you a thing or two.
Author’s Note: Before anyone gets too worked up, I am not mocking Christianity. I’m simply picking on an old man who thinks that tiny differences between denominations are the difference between Heaven and Hell. I’m sort of a “hit the high points” Christian, and I’d rather not get into any theological discussions with anyone. I’m pretty comfortable with my afterlife outlook.
