Spirit in the Morning

I have an unusually effective morning routine that deposits me at the bus stop with a temporal accuracy that staggers the imagination -- especially if you're familiar with my antics.

I wake to the piercing trill of a $9 travel alarm and a stream of expletive that would shame a group of merchant seamen. The swearing is not all from me. It seems my continual abuse of the sleep button on my travel alarm makes it the most annoying device in our house: while it manages to interrupt my sleep, it fails to penetrate the thick layer of cotton my brain so comfortably nestles into during the night. I slowly come to my senses during the next half hour, as I attempt to continue my sleep while waking to hit the snooze button at five-minute intervals.

At some point I gain enough consciousness to realize that I should be getting out of bed. I turn off my alarm and stumble drunkenly down the stairs in my underwear. By the time I get in the shower I'm usually awake enough to sing whatever tune I have stuck in my head, and depending on the length of it, I'm left with just enough time to dry off, brush my teeth, get dressed, and grab some granola before racing out the door. If the bus is late I spend my time petting the Crazy Cat Lady's dog.

Now all this, with the possible exception of the swearing, is probably similar to your own morning routine. But I mention it today as a preamble to something more. You see, I live in the 'hood, yo, and sometimes interesting things happen while you're waiting for the bus. Sometimes a strange man shows you his genitals. Sometimes you get approached by a prostitute. And sometimes a newer-model black sedan will pull over to the curb and a nicely dressed older lady will approach you and attempt to give you a copy of The Watchtower.

This happened to me a week ago. No shit. Seriously, I shit you not.

The conditions were exactly right for a Jehovah's Witness to appear: the bus was late, the Crazy Cat Lady's dog was inside, and I was alone at the bus stop. When I saw the car drive by, I thought it was either some well-to-do business person racing at a break-neck pace through the 'hood in hopes that those bad kids wouldn't be able to steal his hubcaps, or it was some pimp or drug dealer making his early morning rounds ("Any drugs for you today, ma'am?" "No thank you." "How about a ho for your husband?" "Well, we're between paydays right now -- maybe next week."). When it stopped by the back alley, I thought maybe they had business with the Crazy Cat Lady -- it's not inconceivable. Finally, when the woman walked right up to me, I hoped she was only asking for directions, but I suspected she wanted to save one of the poor, unfortunate souls living in North Central.

JW: Hello there.
Me: Hi.
JW: Would you be interested in this magazine?
Me [looking down at The Watchtower]: Absolutely not!
JW [unfazed]: All right. Have a good morning.

I immediately wondered if I handled things properly. I wanted to be polite, but totally dismissive, the way I would act if she'd handed me a copy of Cat Fancier or Ebony. As she walked away, I felt like yelling venomous, hateful things after her, letting her know how vehemently opposed I am to her religious evangelism. I wanted her to realize how wrong it was to target me -- regardless of how badly it looked like I needed "salvation" -- just because I was by myself at a bus stop. The Campus Crusade for Christ used that same tactic on me when I was at the U of S; it did nothing to increase my interest in Christ, but it did continually interrupt my lunch. And really, the God I believe in wants me to eat in peace.

So instead of putting her on the business end of an angry tirade until she fled in mortal fear, she returned to her vehicle verbally unmolested and drove off. No need to save me a seat out of your 144,000 heavenly passengers, ma'am: if I do go, I'll probably be flying standby, anyway.