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FRESH
YARN PRESENTS:
Witness
Protection
By
Scott Saltzburg
PAGE
TWO:
 Being
caught in a fib just seemed to make him more agitated. His voice
developed a hard, angry tone, kind of like W.C. Fields on helium.
"No, you see, you can't have these! I need these! I don't have
none for you!" I made a mental note of his deplorable, white-trash
grammar for my ongoing salesmanship scorecard.
The
man walked off in another direction and tried to ignore me. I never
give up that easily. Remember, I'm a professional waiter.
"Well then, where can I get a magazine? Where's your
headquarters?"
"You don't need to know."
"What's the big secret? Do you have a phone number?"
Now, I had absolutely no intention of calling headquarters and getting
the big Jehovah boys involved. I'm not a complete wacko. But I had
every intention of continuing to goad the man mercilessly until
he told me the truth.
"I ain't giving you nothing. Nothing to you, no sir."
That did it. Not only was I really steamed, but also slightly offended.
After all, the Jehovah's Witnesses don't have a reputation for being
choosy with the type of individuals they preach to, yet here was
a member in good standing trying to convert seemingly everyone in
greater Southern California…
EXCEPT for ME!
"What the hell is your problem?" I screamed. "Why
can't I have one stinking little magazine?"
"I'm
not gonna because I don't want to," he answered. No, no, you're
not a believer."
"How can I be a believer? You're not giving me a chance to
be a believer! You won't let me read about it!" I replied.
So there I stood in the middle of downtown L.A., screaming a bloody
fit because this Jehovah's Witness had the gall to not try and convert
me.
Even worse, the man was a rock. The screaming seemed to have the
opposite effect I intended, and he drifted into an autistic-like
shell so impenetrable that he no longer even acknowledged me.
That's when I slowly started to take in the situation, and realized
that, next to the court where the original infamous O.J. trial took
place, I had become the top tourist attraction in the area. I felt
increasingly naked and embarrassed as I starred in this odd little
piece of performance art on the sidewalk. I had become L.A's resident
village idiot.
Caught up in a wave of shame, I quickly gave my adversary the requisite
finger and rushed to my car, seething with rage. I constantly played
the events over and over in my head, trying to figure out what the
hell just happened:
The nerve of that guy! "Don't have any magazines left."
Liar! What would Jehovah think about that? Isn't there some rule
against lying? And then that whole thing about me not being a believer...
Then I stopped.
He had me pegged. The truth was, the only thing I believed was that
anyone with blind faith was a moron. In my estimation, a person
committed enough to hawk their religion on a street corner ought
to be committed. No, I was always much more cautious and
hesitant. Remember, I was a waiter. I waited in lines, I waited
to become a writer, I waited for something to happen in my life,
I waited for something to believe in. We were two ends of the spectrum.
And that's why I know that somewhere out there, Mr. Jehovah's Witness
is on a sidewalk, his faith firm as ever.
As
for me… I'm still waiting.
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