I fantasized of delivering a speech to my boss that began, “I may not be punctual, but at least I’m consistent,” and ending with something terribly witty like, “Screw you, I quit.” I grinned anxiously imagining this far-fetched scenario. When the train finally lurched into the station, I vowed to decompress as I entered with my newspaper and orange juice in tow. Unfortunately, my mental bubble bath lasted only one stop. Twenty more groggy commuters entered the subway car; among them, a disheveled man the size of a Plymouth boarded the train and began a puritanical rant.
“Jesus is the answer!”
This spurred a momentary flashback to my youth in Atlanta, Georgia. Raised as one of the few Jews in a sea of Gentiles, these biblical force feedings, although unpleasant, weren’t uncommon. With my move to New York City three years earlier, I’d hoped to leave them behind permanently. But, nostalgia and philosophies aside, I was trapped. He proselytized to a truly captive audience. We all rolled our eyes and sighed a collective “ugh.” I said to myself, “Shit, doesn’t this intimidating man carting around a Bible larger than my head know that I need to relax?”
I
fantasized about confronting him, just as I had before with my boss. I
was startled when I heard my own voice actually say aloud, “A
religious person, in theory, should be thoughtful of his fellow man.
Sir, please stop or at least lower your voice.”
He grew even louder and cried, “Sinner, you need to be saved!” Further
astounding myself, I stood and exclaimed, “Excuse me, everyone! I can’t
read the paper because that inconsiderate man is preaching louder than
I can think.”
The evangelist hollered a psalm from his Bible.
I countered with a movie review from my newspaper. He screamed “Jesus!”
and “eternal damnation!” I shouted “zombies!” and “yummy brains!”
Competing with fervor to prove our points, he roared, “All men should
repent for righteousness!” I loudly countered with “Dawn of the Dead eschews
pretense in favor of nonstop action!”
Flushed and agitated, I finished and sat down. I was amazed, smiling straphangers applauded; some committed the NYC taboo of patting me, a complete stranger, on the back.The irate preacher exited at the next stop after hearing the man adjacent to me say, “Ironically, you both were kind of telling the same story. I mean Jesus came back from the dead too.”
Finally when I got to work, my frowning boss approached. I neither repented for being late nor hurled epithets at her. I told her of my morning, she surprisingly laughed and let it slide. The guy did save me after all.
Daniel Berman is a freelance writer, producer and actor in New York.You can visit him at www.DanielDannyDan.com.
