About six years ago, I was driving through Southern Indiana with my wife and kids. It was one of those strange trips to visit distant family–a wedding of some cousin or another that we wound up going to at the insistence of my mother. The wedding was in Indianapolis, probably one of the least interesting cities in the US, it was nice–we ate, we drank, and it was over. Now we were taking off for a family adventure.
For some reason, we decided to head west, towards Terre Haute, and then south, towards Evansville. Why? Mostly because they were there–dots on the map that would otherwise have been avoided–as we were learning, for good reason. There was really wasn’t anything there.
It was weird to be a Jew driving through these areas. Not that I’m religious or anything, but this was an area that feeling Jewish and feeling completely foreign were one and the same. I probably would have been more comfortable in Saudi Arabia–even as I was being hung, burned, beheaded and stoned.
We passed through a town called Westphalia–about half way to Evansville. We figured that this was a good place to stop for lunch, so we pulled into the quiet little one-block main street. Next to the hair salon, called “Curl Up and Dye,” we found the “Country Charms Cafe,” a twenty-seat place with a counter. The kids, always loving a seat at the counter, begged us to go there.
We walked in and all 6 people sitting there turned and stared at us. We were clearly “city,” clearly “Los Angeles.” My son was wearing his “LA Coroner” T-Shirt, my daughter her Dodger’s cap and I had my LA Kings Hockey shirt on. It was like we dropped in from another planet.
“Mary,” one of the old men twanged, “seems as if we’ve got some people who are a bit lost here.” Mary said, not replying to the man, “don’t mind Barney, y’all come on in and take a seat. Where you folks from?”
We bellied up to the counter. “Los Angeles,” I answered. For some reason, I never answered “LA” when someone asked where I was from. A weird habit, but one that has stuck with me. “Los Angeles?” Mary said with a whistle. “Barney” she quipped “make sure you lock your doors–these folks are from Los Angeles!” Turning back to me, she asked “what brings you to little old Westphalia?”
“Just traveling” I answered. “We were at a wedding in Indianapolis and decided to take a bit of a journey.”
“Well, welcome” Mary said. We proceeded to have a wonderful, if rather bland, lunch. At the counter, where a stand of books was sitting, and I noticed a book entitled “Winning Jews to Christ.” I had to buy it. Mary noticed that I picked it up and looked at me a little funny. Before she said anything, I said “I know a lot of Jews in Los Angeles, this may come in useful.” She smiled and nodded (I don’t think suspecting my birth faith), rang up my purchase, and we left.
At that point I realized that we were probably the first Jews to eat at the Country Charms. Deep, deep in my heart, I realized that we were lucky not to become “Country Charms” ourselves.
We were on the outskirts of Evansville as dinner time approached. We passed the normal complement of strip malls, fast food places, and chain bars. “Fat Tuesdays,” “Wednesday’s Child,” “Fridays,” “Saturday’s Sundaes” all went by. One place caught my eye, though, and I steered the rental car into the parking lot.
It looked a lot like a McDonalds, but there was something very strange about it. Instead of golden arches, there were these two intertwined golden crosses. Instead of “Billions Served Daily” it said “Thousands Saved Daily.” Instead of McDonalds, it said “Brother Joseph’s” and under it, in script, “Burger Heaven.” On the window, it highlighted a sale that was going on “Save $2 dollars and be saved at the same time! 2 Big Saviors now only $2.49.”
My wife looked at me as if I was crazy. She started saying that “the kids would really love Fridays… can we go there?” “No,” I said. “Lets get some local color.” We walked in.
As soon as we walked in, this fresh faced young man said “Welcome to Brother Joseph’s Burger Heaven! How can we save you?” He led us to the ordering area, where I read the menu aloud to my wife and kids. My wife’s mouth was open–in amazement.
They had sandwiches with really strange names “The Big Savior,” “The Apostle’s Delight,” The Blessed Fisherman,” and the “Spirit Chicken Sandwich,” among others.
Wanting to look not too foreign, I ordered a “Last Supper,” which included “the Big Savior, served on a bed of Manger Fries, and a medium drink.” It took me a minute to decide between a Diet Cruci-Cola and a Holy Sprite… I took the Cruci-Cola.
The girl behind the counter was a fresh faced lass, not more than 17. Her skin was very white, but was punctuated by an excessive number of birthmarks that almost seemed to draw out constellations. “The Big Dipper” I thought, “maybe Orion.” My momentary lapse was interrupted by my wife… who finally settled on “Mary’s Meal,” which included the Spirit Chicken and a bed of Manger Salad. She took the Holy Sprite.
My daughter wanted the Nuggets of Faith and Onion Peals “they really ring your bell!”–she also wanted a chocolate Pentecostal Shake–so I ordered one for her.
My son was entranced with the holy bible action figures. I couldn’t pull him away from them. He wanted the toy, so I ordered him a Baby Jesus Holy Meal with a vanilla Pentecostal shake. Inside was a “Crown of Thorns” action figure… wound it up and it dragged a cross across the table, crown of thorns going up and down on its head. My son, not knowing any of the story, though that the toy was a hoot.
We sat down and ate, listening to the horrid white gospel music. There were several other families there, all looking as if they were filling themselves with the holy spirit. Lots of it. There was a sheet on each of the trays describing “BroJoe’s,” it’s history and what goes on there. I began reading:
“BroJoe’s,” it started, “was established in Evansville in 1996. Our mission is to feed both the stomachs and souls of our customers. At BroJoe’s, you will enjoy great food, great fellowship and great value. Be sure to check out our Prayer Breakfast menus–full of wholesome food for the whole family. And for those late nights, or early mornings, our drive-thru windows offer Midnight Services. BroJoes currently has restaurants in ten states in the southern midwest and upper south. “
“BroJoe’s is the Evangelical Fast Food of Presidents. President and First Lady Bush dined at our Louisville location twice during their stay in Kentucky. The President said ‘I support faith-based dining and I support Brother Josephs!’”
“BroJoe’s is also a great place to work” it continued. “We offer competitive salaries, benefits including faith healing and spiritual guidance and an opportunity for both financial and spiritual growth that is unrivaled in the evangelical fast food industry.”
“When you see the sign of the Golden Crosses, you are sure to have a great meal, served in a spotless environment–the sort of place that Jesus would eat if he were on this earth. So come on in and fill yourself with food, fellowship and fun! Brother Joseph puts the FUN back in FUNdamentalism”
At the bottom, in smaller letters, it said “2014 Soul Winning Gold Medalist–the Evangelical Restaurant Association” and “Board Member of the Conclave of Evangelical Diners of America.”
Still enjoying the vibe, I finished my Big Savior. It wasn’t bad, but it was no “In-and-Out.” The manger fries were crispy and well done, just like the straw that Jesus was laid on, I’m sure. As I began wrapping up my refuse to put in the trash, a little clear plastic wrapper containing what looked like a fortune cookie dropped out. On the clear plastic, it said “TastyTract™–finish your meal with a sweet prayer.” I couldn’t resist. I opened it up the wrapper, split open the cookie and began reading… “Winning Souls and Having Fun, Come Work at BroJoe’s!” “Hmmm,” I thought. Quickly, I popped the cookie into my mouth and put my fortune on the tray.
Trash now away, we walked to the door. “May Jesus travel with you” said our greeter. As my Big Savior sat in my belly like a bowling ball and the fries began to repeat on me, I was able to say, honestly, “I’m sure he will.”
We got to our hotel, a thankfully normal Holiday Inn. I called Southwest and found out that we could get out on an earlier flight–a whole day earlier. Thank God! The next morning, we got up at 4am, got to the Indianapolis airport by about 8am. We passed five BroJoe’s on the way, not once stopping for a Prayer Breakfast. We were safely on our way back to Los Angeles by 10am. LAX never looked so good to me. That night, we celebrated our trip–surviving and returning–and went to Canter’s Deli. Pastrami never tasted so good.
From the Perspective of the BroJoe’s Manager
I see these folks drive up every once in a while. Usually, they are on some cross-country trip or visiting distant relatives. They show up in a big rental car–usually a Crown Vic–pale and thin. Never lifted a bale of hay in their lives.
Generally, it is the Jew that comes in here. Never seen an Indian (dot, not feather) or an A-rab. But the Jews from New York or Los Angeles treat us like we’re a roadside attraction. They give us their judgement today, but God will provide his soon.
Anyhow, these guys walked in–about 1 in 10 do–and ordered up a meal. Not interested in our message, but at least they liked the food. God’s work is tedious sometimes. But, at Brother Joseph’s, we’re always working to win souls. We like to think that the way to a man’s soul is through his belly–the bigger the better.
On their way out, I gave them each a seed cap and a smile, knowing that they had their first taste of Jesus. They’d be back for more.
From the Perspective of the Hotel Manager’s Son Across the Street
Every morning, my parents wake me up to clear out the garbage that has accumulated on the hedges out front. We came here five years ago, prompted by my uncle, Sri, who has a motel in nearby Fort Wayne. Yes, the Chatterjee family, my mom, her mom, my dad, my sister Asha, my brother Venkat, and me.
The first few months at school, we were treated strangely, teased and made fun of. Particularly Asha, who wore a bindi to school. They gave her the nickname “Dot,” which has stuck… at first, my dad was furious… but then we figured it was good to just roll with it. She even had a “Dot” name tag that she wore when working the desk.
Venkat had applied for a job across the way, at this burger place, but was turned down. It wasn’t until a few months later, when uncle Sri explained to us that this was a place run by fundamentalists, and that they never hired brown-skinned people for anything. I shrugged.
Every once in a while, a foreigner would drive up. In this town, foreign means someone from New York or California. I wished that they would have pulled in over here, as I’d love to have another kid to play with–another kid from a foreign land like I am. I looked out the window, longingly, wishing that they would come by the Westphalia Motel and swim in our pool. But like always, they went to BroJoe’s.
From the Perspective of God
Every once in a while, someone from down there kicks up something funny. Apparently, there are a bunch of beings down there who think that we have a day-to-day role in what goes on. Then they do stuff thinking that we’re listening.
Don’t they get it? Us creative types hate to manage. Have you ever worked for a creative genius? Did they manage you worth a crap? Point made. They think they’re special, like they’re the only thing that we created. If they only knew … their little world was a botched effort–but the good news is that the blueprint for their miserable little planet made it to the waste basket on a bank shot from 20 feet. Not bad for office paper basketball.
Anyhow, someone in the maintenance department was down doing some work when they came upon this place–Brother Joseph’s Burger Heaven. Now they’re worshiping their creator and their cheeseburgers at the same time. Shit, I’ve created a thousand better places—worlds with sensible folks living in them—since tossing them into the can. How freaking weird.
I almost got fired from creative because of Earth and the cluster-fuck that it became. Clearly, I failed the engineering section, because I left it to the imagination of these sorry beings to believe that I’m something more than a mid-level creative executive in the Universal Agency. Ah, well… this one will continue to bite me in the ass for a few more centuries–at least until they self-destruct. But until then, they remain my biggest failure—but it was my first month on the job.