Sounds like the beginning of a typical salvation story: “Wayward boy hears the voice of God, answers the call and changes the world.”

And I suppose if I had listened, it might have been just that. Or if I had been in the middle of doing some charitable good deed it would have been more expected. Or if the call had come from a burning bush in the wilderness, I might have been more disposed to stop what I was doing and pay attention. But that’s not how it happened.

Instead of listening, I was there to talk. Instead of a charitable deed, I intended to hurt someone. Instead of a burning bush, there was a peculiar old gardener who seemed to appear out of the bushes.

I was in Las Vegas with a collector named Jerry Slocum. He had invited me along because of the number of legs I had broken on behalf of the Teamsters. The home I visited belonged to a man who owed Jerry some money and was late in paying it back.

The man wasn’t home, so I decided to enjoy myself while I waited. He had a pool, and since Vegas is in the desert, a swim sounded refreshing. I didn’t have swim trunks, but I had no problem with skinny dipping.

I climbed out of the pool and stood there, wearing just my boxers, when I was surprised by an elderly black man who came out of nowhere. He wore a tool belt with clippers, so I assumed he was the gardener.

He fell to his knees in front of me and spoke those words, “You are a special one, chosen by the Messiah.”

“You’re out of your mind,” I responded. “Get off your knees.”