Missionary Position

So yesterday evening just after dinner, my family and I are all sitting and watching our regular Sunday night TV shows when there is a somewhat timid-sounding burst of knocks at the door. We all go silent, unsure if we really heard a knock, or whether it was the dog bumping into something upstairs and making noises or what. My teen-age son looks out the kitchen window (this is the only way to see who's at the door of our apartment). He says there's a guy in a suit standing there.

Great, I think. Some kind of salesman—probably looking to sell vacuum cleaners or insurance or maybe religion or something. Just to be clear, I have, on occasion, been known to buy a bit of candy or cookies from a child going door-to-door, but only because a) I'm in the mood for a snack and if b) I'm OK with the music program or Girl Scouts or whatever it is the kid is trying to promote. I don't like the fact that some of these organizations exploit kids in this way, but it's hard to say "No" to a child standing there with a box of cookies in her hand and a look of hope in her eye. 

Also, I fucking love Samoas.

Anyway, as I was saying, I generally don't care for the whole door-to-door thing. First of all, if there's something I want, I will go and get it. If I need insurance (which I don't, as it happens), I'll go shop for it. If I need a new appliance, or steaks delivered to my door, or bottles of knock-off fragrances or magazines or anything else, I will either go get that thing or order it online. I don't need some asshole interrupting family time, TV time, video game time, dinner time or any other part of my personal life with a sales pitch. So, I'm already miffed when I go to answer the door in my pajama shorts and tattered T-shirt.

I open the door, and there are two young men in suits and ties standing there.

"Yeah?" I inquire.

They stand there staring at me, mouths agape. Perhaps they were surprised someone bothered to answer the door. Several seconds pass, and neither of them says a word. They just stand there like a couple of idiots.

"What do you need?" I ask.

"Umm … we're missionaries—"

"OK," I respond. "Bye." And I then proceeded to close the door firmly in their idiot faces.

After a few minutes, my son went back to the kitchen to get something, and looked out the window again. They were still standing there. What, were they in shock? Were they just confused? Or were they performing some sort of prayer or incantation to either save or curse my soul?

I like to think they were putting some kind of sign on my door-post, like those old hobo signs that hobos used to let other hobos know where they could get work or a good meal, or to watch out for a nasty dog and such. Maybe they were putting a warning to other proselytizers that there was a doomed non-believer inside … like a Satanist or *gasp* an atheist! Watch out, the warning would signify, the guy in this apartment won't let you finish your spiel. Best move on.

But seriously, why does this happen? Why must I be interrupted by stupid "missionaries" at my door? And seriously? Missionaries? In the Midwest of the United States? Like there's the remotest possibility that there's anyone in this country who hasn't heard about JAYZUS and his wonderful plan for the salvation of my soul and the disappearance of my cash and my ability to think coherently.

Now, I used to be more polite to these people when they came around. I mean, I understand they have their beliefs and they probably really do think they're helping somehow. But you know what? I don't care.

I don't begrudge anyone their personal beliefs, no matter how far out they might be. But the minute you decide you have to go around and push your stupid superstitions on complete strangers, then you've lost the right to politeness. If you want to go hold a meeting—put up flyers or web ads or whatever and invite people to come talk about your beliefs, then great. If you want to go on the internet and find people who are interested in philosophy, theology, discussions about gods and the origins of the universe and other such topics, then that's OK, too. You can even go strike up a conversation with someone at a coffee shop or someplace public, as long as they don't mind. If you want to go out into the public square and chant about Krishna, Buddha, Jesus or whatever, I'm fine with that. Have fun doing it. I'm all about freedom of expression. Put up religious art … as long as it's not on public property. 

But, if part of your "calling" is to pester total strangers who have expressed no interest in you or your beliefs at their private residences, then fuck you and your stupid imaginary sky friend. You'll get the same respect and consideration from me that you've shown to me, which is to say none.

My Time With Che

NOTE: This is a work of fiction: I have never actually worked in a supermarket.*

Working nights at a 24-hour grocery/superstore is a great way to experience a broad range of humanity. There are the midnight stoners with their ungodly bouts of the munchies. There are the drunks who come in looking for booze because all the bars have closed. There are travelers who are having car trouble, or maybe just need some place to freshen up. There are the old veterans and middle-aged ladies in their nightgowns and slippers who like to shop when there are no crowds. There are also bored teens with nothing better to do - especially on Friday & Saturday nights.

One Saturday night/early Sunday morning, we were cleaning up the shelves in the book department when a hausfrau in a lime-green muu-muu approached us.

"My son wants that new book about some wizard or something ... I dunno. Whole thing smacks of Satanism to me. Is that book safe? Or should I get him a Batman comic, or something?"

I started to respond, "Well ma'am, we don't carry comic books - most grocery stores don't anymore. As far as the book goes, I doubt there's any real danger of-"

That's when Che rose to his feet and silenced me with a wave of his hand. He stood there with that middle-distance-looking stare of his, like he was posing for a heroic movie poster or something, and said, "I am not Christ or a philanthropist, old lady, I am all the contrary of a Christ ... I fight for the things I believe in, with all the weapons at my disposal and try to leave the other man dead so that I don't get nailed to a cross or any other place."

The woman just walked away.

Then there was that time when we were both on break - we were eating a late dinner, and out of the blue Terri (a lovely girl on whom I had a crush at the time, and was planning to ask out later that night) rushed into the break-room in a huff.

"If that creep Frank hits on me one more time, I swear, I'm going to file a lawsuit!"

Frank was the late-shift manager. He was an old married guy, but he had a reputation for hitting on the ladies who worked register. As he was also in charge of hiring them, he made sure they were all attractive.

I walked over to Terri, gave a her pat on the back and said, "I wouldn't blame you if you did. That guy's a total creep. You know, if-"

Then Che interjected: "Along the way, I had the opportunity to pass through the dominions of the United Fruit, convincing me once again of just how terrible these capitalist octopuses are. I have sworn before a picture of the old and mourned comrade Stalin that I won't rest until I see these capitalist octopuses annihilated."

Terri and I just looked at him for a minute.

"OK, Che," I said. "Thanks for that."

Turning back to Terri, I said, "You know, I bet I could get Joe to give up some security tapes as proof of what Frank's been doing. You're not the first to complain, you know. In fact-"

And there was Che, again. He had climbed up on one of the break-room tables. He raised a fist, which knocked one of the drop-ceiling tiles out.

"If you tremble with indignation at every injustice, then you are a comrade of mine."

"Huh. You know, Che, you actually sorta made sense that time."

Poor Terri was lost and confused. She leaned on my chest while I patted her back. This was working out better than I'd hoped!

"It's OK, Terri. You wanna grab a cup of coffee with me after work? I bet we can figure out a way to get that guy good."

"Calica keeps cursing the filth and, whenever he treads on one of the innumerable turds lining the streets, he looks at his dirty shoes instead of at the sky or a cathedral outlined in space. He does not smell the intangible and evocative matter of which Cuzco is made, but only the odor of stew and excrement. It's a question of temperament"

Terri pulled away from me, disgusted by Che's inappropriate description.

"You know what?" Terri slowly backed towards the door. "It's OK. I'm going to talk to my mom in the morning. Thanks."

And she left.

"Not cool, Che!" I whirled on him. "You know I like Terri! What the hell was all that talk of poop in the streets? Who's Calica, anyway? And what the hell's wrong with you, man?"

He jumped down off the table, put an arm around my shoulders, and said, "The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall."

He gave me a hug and kissed me on both cheeks. I followed him, light-headed and confused, as he walked through the stockroom and out the back door. He hopped on his motorcycle, and winked at me as he kick-started it.

"If they attack, we shall fight to the end. If the rockets had remained, we would have used them all and directed them against the very heart of the United States, including New York, in our defense against aggression. But we haven’t got them, so we shall fight with what we’ve got."

"Umm ... yeah," I replied. I gave him a small wave. "See you, er ... Comrade?"

He drove off down the alleyway behind Beacon Street, and that was the last we ever saw of him.

*Also, Che Guevara is dead.