January 16, 2002
  outside my door

EVANGELIST, n. A bearer of good tidings, particularly (in a religiuos sense) such as assure us of our own salvation and the damnation of our neighbors.

-- Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

I have this personal conviction that companies conspire with each other behind our backs, creating databases of names and addresses of laid-off employees that they then sell to telemarketers, solicitors, and religious evangelical groups like the Church of Latter Day Saints and Jehovah's Witnesses.

Not a single day has passed since I was laid off that I haven't been accosted in my own home by credit card companies, missionaries, salesmen trying to put themselves through college (straight of the inner city, and you can help, yes, you, by purchasing or renewing a subscription to one of the magazines on my list!), and once, a desperate technician from WebTV who really, really wanted to install a free WebTV try-it-for-a-month package.

My roommate and her boyfriend, both from Southern California and therefore accustomed to the wiles of door-to-door proselytizers and useless-commodity-hawkers, are both aware that I have a serious problem with house callers who want stuff from me. Namely, I'm incapable of saying no. We didn't receive our first solicitor until five or six months into our tenancy at this apartment; the powers that be no doubt wanted to make sure that we were financially solvent enough to hold on to our rented real estate before trying to squeeze money out of us. It was evening when he knocked on our door; primetime TV was on, and my roommate and her boyfriend were finishing up dinner on the sofa.

"Who is it?" my roommate asked, while I peered through the eyehole.

"I don't know," I said, and gnawed on my lip.

"Salesman or something," her boyfriend supposed.

"Just don't open the door."

"But he knows we're at home," I said regretfully, "and it would be rude."

He was a young man, early twenties, "from San Jose," he said in his practiced salesman's chat. "I'm trying to put my way through college, and I'm doing it through a program sponsored by the San Francisco newspapers. I'm participating in a course designed to demonstrate that I'm a responsible and convincing salesman."

"I don't want a newspaper," I objected, feebly.

He paused and peered at me. "I'm not selling newspaper subscriptions, ma'am," he said, smoothly. "You see, the way the program works is that I collect twenty-three dollars from the people I speak to who have found me a good representative for the organization that I work for. Here's my identification card, if you'd like to see it. Now, that twenty-three dollars is accepted by check or credit card, and I give you in return a signed copy of a receipt. At the end of the program, the amount of money that I've managed to collect is tallied, and the money is refunded in full to you, the donor. I then receive a recommendation to receive a scholarship from the newspaper company. That will help me pay for my college degree and eventually find a career in the working world."

"I don't get a newspaper?" I repeated. I was, yes, suspicious. More importantly, I was desperate to get rid of him. It was cold out; my roommate, in an attempt to rescue me, had asked me partway through this remarkable speech to close the door. Social coward that I am, I complied by putting myself on the wrong side of the door. The outside.

"No newspaper, ma'am," he told me, glibly. "All you need to do is fill out a check and make it out to San Francisco Examiner, and I'll give you a receipt."

"I can't give you cash?" I asked, fading but hopeful. Perhaps a bribe. . .

"A check is preferable," he said, firmly, thus eliminating the last resistance. "Made out to the San Francisco Examiner."

Defeated, I puttered back inside and filled out a check, for which I received his voluble thanks and a receipt.

He left.

One week later, I started getting a newspaper subscription to the San Francisco Examiner. I cancelled it.

They sent me back a check for $22.25.

Bastard son of an inbred howler monkey was a liar.

The word spread through the muddy waters of the street-hitting world: there's a pushover at Apartment 105, 152 Jackson Street. I can't count the number of times I answered the door, only to discover that it was religious people, who want to spread the word -- their word -- to my unenlightened soul. Knowing better, I still opened the door, unwilling and unable to be rude enough to not answer despite knowing what was in store.

In the evenings, it was the salesmen: make-up, bonds, charities, magazines. All were polite but persistent, with the exception of one purported charity collector who became quite rude when I managed to summon the backbone to say no. My friends informed me that he was probably a con-man; no true charity collector is ever rude.

At all hours of the day, it turns out, the preachers and ministers and Mormon Elders (all younger than I am, all white, all male) wander the streets. They split up the neighborhood on the street corner -- I know this for a fact, because the Norwegian caught them at it, one Sunday -- and disperse to inject a little bit of God in the unemployed or relaxing sinners of Redwood City.

I imagine them thumb-wrestling for the privilege of knocking on my door.

As of last week, I stopped answering the door; I cowered at the ring of the telephone, and only divine intervention (or my cell phone number) enabled anybody to get in touch with me.

After a particularly relentless and ruthless saleswoman managed to convince me to buy a subscription to ESPN Magazine -- a purchase I sent to Flamingo, by way of salving my conscience -- I sprinted to Office Max and bought a No Soliciting sign. This has effectively halted the pavement peddlers from knocking on my door. Unfortunately for me, it appears that No Soliciting only covers those people who want my money. People who want my soul don't seem to feel that this prohibition applies to them.

Today, after unwarily opening the door to empty trash, only to come face to face with a beaming, holier-than-thou evangelist I believe claimed to be from Jews for Jesus, (explain that oxymoron if you will), I stalked back to my computer and got my revenge on the whole lot of them.

As of 3:50:02 pm today, I am an official, certificate carrying, holy-book-of-your-choice thumping Minister for the Church of Universal Life.

Jus' call me Reveren', chil'.

I am now officially licensed to perform marriages, funerals, and . . . well, other things. If anybody wants to come visit my confessional, feel free. I can keep a secret. (Unless it's funny.) I can comfort the sick, give non-material consolation to the needy, and smite the wicked. Also, I can get a discount on cool ecclesiastical stuff like, oh, I dunno. Educational software about the Meaning of Life, "Ministry in a Box", a Minister's Manual, that sort of thing.

I'm excited. I'm feeling full of the power of God. I have been granted every right "to officiate, perform, and/or initiate -- except circumcision." I have joined a church that has only two tenets - "to promote freedom of religion and to do that which is right. It is the responsibility of the individual to determine what is right as long as it does not infringe on the rights of others and is within the law." How can you not get down with a church like that?

Hallelujah. I'm looking forward to my new life in the sheltering arms of the Divine.

Most of all, I'm looking forward to the next evangelist who comes knocking at my door.

Me: "I'm sorry. I appreciate your hard work and intent, but I'm a minister, so I'm already truly committed to the church I belong to."

Holybutt At Door: "Oh, really? You're a minister? That's wonderful. What faith do you belong to?"

Me: "The Church of Universal Life. I filled out a form online. They sent me a certificate through email. Have a nice night!"

God and me, we have a plan.

You, too, can become an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church! No fees, no tests, no commitments! Join now, and watch your parents' blood pressures soar!

From your friends at Universal Life Church; 20 million ministers created since 1959.