Three Cowboys Walk Into a Bar…
I had seen them both earlier that evening at the Red Dog Saloon and Bowling Alley on Mane Street while I was eating a brick-oven pizza made by cowboy Chris. Now we’ve crossed paths again down the street at Pappy & Harriet’s.
Pappy & Harriet’s is a legendary Western club where more than 200 people pack in most nights for music and special events. Over the years artists like Paul McCartney and Robert Plant have made surprise appearances on its small desert stage. Tonight there’s no live band—just a DJ spinning a playlist—but the place is still sold out.
Unable to get a table near the stage, I settle for a free bar seat in front of a television screen streaming the DJ at his turntable.
I’m glancing up at the screen and scrolling on my phone, minding my own business, when a voice behind me says:
“Hey—I met you at the bowling alley. You said you’re from San Diego. I’m from Rancho Peñasquitos.”
He introduces himself as John. He’s out tonight with his best friend Shawn. Both are locals.
After some small talk John tells me he lives on fifteen acres in the desert in an old house his grandfather built. His grandparents had filed for the land back in the early 1960s under a homesteading claim—fifty dollars and some paperwork.
“I love it out here,” he says. “I’ll never go back to San Diego.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-eight.”
Shawn is twenty-five.
“I’m seventy-three,” I tell them. “Old enough to be your grandfather.”
John studies me for a moment.
“You seem like a solid, stable guy,” he says. “What advice would you have for us?”
Shawn orders another drink and leans in, trying to follow along.
I pause and think: What do these guys actually need from me?
“Well,” I begin, “how’s your 401(k) retirement plan?”
Neither of them has one.
“My advice is to start a Roth IRA and max it out every year.”
They shrug. Neither seems particularly invested in the system. Maybe gold. Maybe silver. Definitely guns. Shawn tells me everyone has to watch out for themselves.
“What else you got?” John asks.
I pause again.
Then I click into pastor mode.
“Listen, guys. I’m going to leave in about fifteen minutes. So here’s my best counsel: Love your neighbor as you love yourself. That’s what the Good Book says.”
John leans forward.
“Who’s your neighbor?” he asks, almost like he’s testing me.
“Your neighbor is the person next door,” I say. “And also the person who ends up right in your path.”
John nods. He likes this.
Shawn does not.
“You gotta look after Number One,” he says. “If you don’t look after yourself, nobody will. I mean, I’d take a bullet for John here. But you can’t rely on other people.”
He sounds like he’s speaking from experience.
“Let me give you an example,” I say.
“When you fly on an airplane, the flight attendant tells you that if there’s an emergency, oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling. First put your own mask on before helping others.”
They both nod—they’ve heard this before.
“But the point isn’t to save only yourself,” I say. “You put your mask on first so you’re able to help the person next to you who might not be able to do it.”
John immediately agrees.
Shawn still looks unconvinced.
“You need to go to church,” I tell him. “Go with John.”
John admits he was raised Christian and used to go to church.
“Any good churches around here?” I ask.
“Not on Sundays,” he says, “but there’s a Bible study on Wednesday nights that seems pretty good.”
He turns to Shawn.
“Come with me?”
Shawn hesitates.
He tells me he wasn’t raised believing in God. It’s hard for him to believe. He’s not that interested.
Then he adds something honest.
“I’d love to believe in God,” he says. “But I wouldn’t want to give up drinkin’.”
I laugh softly.
“Don’t worry about giving up drinkin' right now,” I tell him. “Just take one small step in the right direction. Open your heart a little. Go with John this week. See what happens.”
John seems pleased.
Shawn remains skeptical.
“Three minutes,” John reminds me, keeping track of the advice clock I set earlier.
So I stand up to leave. I remind Shawn that my name is Michael, and I was named after the angel Michael. Your dear friend John is named after a disciple of Jesus named John. Your name--Shawn--literally means: "God is gracious" or "Gift from God" and is the Irish derivative of the Hebrew name John. So you too are named after a disciple of Jesus!
I place my hands on Shawn’s shoulders, look him in the eyes, and pronounce a blessing over him:
“The Lord bless you and keep you, Shawn.
The Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you, Shawn.
The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, Shawn, and give you peace.”
“Amen?”
I have no idea whether Shawn will remember this conversation or blessing in the morning.
But John stands up, smiles, and gives me a big bear hug.
As he leans close he whispers in my ear:
“Thank you. I got this.”
At 11 p.m. I walk back to my van and settle in for the night, stealth-camping under the desert sky in Pioneertown.
