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(You kids, Google. It’s Old, Weird America.)
    â€œWhat would you write if you wanted a little Christian gal to love you for the rest of your life?”
    Luckily, one of the Native Americans had just smoked up in the sweat lodge—they had one at all federal pens—and was too stoned to make his way to the canteen. Stoned enough to trade me two balloons for all my lunch meat. It was one of those good deals in life that sometimes happen. There’s no rhyme or reason. Unless, of course, it was my Savior looking out for me. Without me even knowing I was saved.
    For me, Jesus isn’t just the Lord. He’s my buddy. He’s a pal. I would like to go bowling with Jesus. Maybe go fishing. I bet, if you’re like me, you think Jesus would even be fun on a date. You, me, and Jesus. On the roller coaster of life. He is always with us. Because that is what being a Christian is. I love you, even though I do not know you, if you love Jesus the way I do!
    Then I signed it: See you in Church. Your buddy, Buddy.
    Almost as if he knew, Pastor Bobb sent a guard down to collect my effort the second I’d finished. Twenty minutes later, another guard told me to roll up. I’d done nine months on a two-year jolt. But I didn’t ask any questions until I found my newly free ass planted in the back of Pastor Bobb’s Escalade. Terminal Island had disappeared behind us in the rearview before he uttered a word. “Son,” he said, “you have a future in Christ.”

THREE
    Junkle
    Pastor Bobb had me cut my teeth on tests. Simple Q&A. Meat and potatoes stuff.
    I AM A: (select gender)
    MAN seeking WOMAN
    WOMAN seeking MAN
    There were no other options. Gay, obviously, was not on the radar. Even though there was something gay-esque about the weirdly rouge-y male models they used for the “regular guys” in the hand-holding photos that garnished the Dating Q&A. Did couples really walk in meadows? Share ice cream cones? Stroll on the beach? My life had certainly been an aberration, but then, this wasn’t Junkie Singles. (“Junkles!” I just want a man who won’t steal my wake-up! ) There was no doubt a gaggle of Christian dope fiends as well. That hadn’t occurred to me. Though soon enough it would.
    Meanwhile, I was living in a Tulsa halfway house and crafting Q&A in the Christian Swingles Center, just down the street from Oral Roberts University, about which all I know is that its founder used to heal sickly Christians on TV. “Touch the screen, my lambs! Touch the screen!” And once, in the eighties, he climbed a tower and announced to his flock that God would call him home if folks did not send him eight million dollars. He climbed back down with $9.1 million. Because that’s how things happen when you love the Lord. He wanted to build a 900-foot Jesus. Who didn’t? I certainly didn’t wonder about it at the time. What I wondered was what his parents were thinking naming their little boy Oral. Did they even know it was one of Freud’s classic developmental stages? Maybe his brothers were Oedipal and Anal.
    My first big breakthrough was the slogan. Or tagline, in the vernacular. The hook . We’d been asked to come up with something that would capture the heart and soul of what Christian Swingles stood for. I finally hit on Find God’s match for you . To me, it was horrible. When you thought about it. So horrible that it was kind of perfect. If you couldn’t find a match, then, it surely followed, God must not have wanted a match for you. God must want you as lonely, miserable, and hopeless as you probably were in the first place if you came looking for a life partner—or a life —at a Christian dating service. I honestly thought the slogan was cruel, but Pastor Bobb said he’d be the judge of that. And he judged it to be perfect.
    â€œSon,” he said, “the Lord truly gave you a gift. You are a regular Louis