All I wanted to do was get a cup of coffee. In line and talking to the woman standing in front of me was the least of my concerns. As an on-air talent for a radio station, it’s not abnormal for fans to catch me somewhere and want to chat. And most of the time, I engage. Today? Today, I was not in the mood to talk. But my usual outgoing, personable self refused to let me have some time to myself.

“Do you think Jesus was right?” I heard that statement and wondered what she meant. I wasn’t sure she was talking to me until she tapped my shoulder. “Well? Do you think Jesus was right?”

“I’m sorry? What?”

“Jesus.” Her purse was slung over her shoulder, wrapped like a bandolier to prevent thievery. “Do you think he was right? Eating and drinking. Partying with all those people.” She used air quotes to emphasize those. I shrugged. She pointed to the kid with the rainbow mohawk standing two people in front of me. The café was loud enough that unless you were standing on top of the person next to you, they wouldn’t hear you. Good thing, too! That kid looked like he’d been in a fight the night before. Several cuts on his knuckles and a few yellow, purplish bruises gave his pierced face a well-worn look. A couple were swelling atop a tattoo that I couldn’t figure out. It must’ve been some kind of tribal art piece. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five.

“I’m sorry? Those people? You mean like punk rockers?” The line inched forward, and so did we. I thought my question would be the end of it. But it wasn’t.

“Of course. And the gays, lesbians, alcoholics, drug addicts. You know. Those people.” She did the air quotes again.

“I’m not sure that Jesus would refer to them as those people. I’m pretty sure he said to love one another. That includes all those groups you just mentioned, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I’m sure he got it wrong.”

“The Son of God got it wrong?”

Her face reddened, and she went quiet. “Jesus didn’t mean them.”

I wanted to fight with her, but Jesus wasn’t wrong, and attacking her would be too. Instead, I countered, “What does Jesus say in Matthew 22:39?”

Still red-faced, she reached into her Vera Wang bag and pulled out a large, weathered Bible. If I had to guess, it would’ve been a King James Version and not a New King James – the older one that is barely understandable. Quickly, she flipped through the pages, the line moving again, this time about a foot. “And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love they neighbour as thyself.”

“I guess that means him,” I said, mohawk sauntering past the two of us, her looking uncomfortable holding the Bible in her hands. “And her.” The young lady working behind the counter had half her head shaved bald, the remaining hair dyed a bright, florescent greenish-yellow, with a nose ring through her right nostril and a small chain connecting it to her right earring. She had a few visible tattoos on her arms, only viewable when handing the drink to the next person in line. “Oh, and especially those two.” Two men held hands at the counter, smiling at each other, waiting patiently for their drinks. “Or was Jesus wrong?”

She threw her Bible back into the bag and made some kind of exasperated exclamation; I couldn’t make out what it was, but at least I was now in front of her and could order my drink. The guy at the counter reminded me of what my friends and I dressed like in the early 90s in Portland – black jeans, a graphic t-shirt of Nirvana, partially covered with a red flannel lumberjack-looking shirt. I’d be willing to bet that he wore black combat boots. A swoop of hair covered his left eye. “What was that all about,” he pointed back to the line where the lady and I had words.

“Jesus.”

“Cool,” he grinned. “What can I get for you?”