In which our hero spits in God's eye. Again.

At the train station this morning, a scruffy looking man sat down in the middle of the staircase causing the river of people, rushing up behind, to break to either side of him. He was a boulder in a rapids, agitating the raging tide.

I have a scruffy looking man just like him in my head these days, roiling my brain and preventing smooth flow. I hesitate to say I have writer's block, as I reserve that phrase for my actual writers benchmark — publication. I have... LJ block? Blog block? A pressing need to get out of Dodge for a few days? I don't know. Not the best thing to have in the instructional design biz.

For the past several weeks a man has been standing outside the train station holding copies of The Watchtower at chest level. A human podium waiting for someone to step up and testify before Jehovah.

The man has three suits. One is flat brown the color of the rubber baseboards found in every hallway of every government building the world over. One is the color of blood from an arterial spray; shocking, frightening red. One is the blue of neon; of the afterimage on your retina after lightning has struck one inch away. He wears his suits in rotation each day -- brown, red, blue, brown, red, blue.

Sometimes the man brings his son with him and they stand together on the sidewalk, each holding this month's copy of God's National Enquirer. His son wears a suit as well; I think he has only the one, in a geometric pattern. The man's son never looks happy.

It strikes me that this is a very passive tactic for a Jehovah's Witness. Usually one finds them on one's doorstep just after one has stepped into the shower or just before one has finished cleaning up the bloodstains from a homicide for insurance money. In other words, always at the most inconvenient time. But then, for an agnostic like me when is religion convenient?

Perhaps the man is a new convert and has been tasked with the difficult challenge of pulling in converts from the dour tide of humanity on its way to the rat race known as the search for the elusive (and in my opinion completely fictional) American dream. Perhaps the man hesitates, not knowing how to breach the not-had-my-coffee-yet wall erected between him and the wage slaves. Perhaps he's just not sure he's really ready to be a Jehovah's Witness. Perhaps he doesn't have a bicycle. Regardless, I always say good morning to him as one lost soul, looking for salvation, to another.

Today the man had a young woman with him. She was wearing a chaste white blouse, but with a daring short skirt. Perhaps the man is learning what sells magazines. Perhaps he's taking lessons from the Mormons.
  • Current Mood: godless heathen
It has come to my attention that I work with a Jehovah's Witness. I surmised this when I saw her Jehovah's Witness organizer and prayer book. Not much gets by my clever eye!

Unlike the boy, she appears fully bought in. It makes my fast and loose use of swear words the object of occasional dirty looks and scowling. I wish I cared.
Oh my god, your entries are so good, they're almost better than coffee. I hope the blog block doesn't last because that image of that man there with his Watchtowers, in his three suits and his son and then the woman... mmm. Yes!