I’m driving home from the coffee shop when I look out the window. The neighborhood is bathed in a soft, early morning glow. Everyone is still asleep. Bursting cherry blossoms bristle in the crisp spring wind, the sidewalks peppered with the pop of purple coneflower. Suddenly, the sky yawns, big and blue and beautiful. As I soak in the view, I feel slightly unsettled. Fingers coiled around the steering wheel, I examine each passing house: the one with a brick porch that’s a different color from the other bricks. The one where the shutters have a half-moon carved above the slats. Espresso wafts through my Volkswagen as I coast down the lazy, bohemian boulevard. I notice if the front door has a screen, a brass knocker pinned at the top, or is propped open and ready to greet whomever may come moseying along. It’s going to be a perfect day for preaching, only I escaped the cult seven years ago, and I don’t have to knock on another fucking door for the rest of my life.
Every Saturday went like this: wake up at 7:30 am, take a nervous shit, gather my Bible, a stack of dog-eared magazines, and haul ass to the Kingdom Hall. With a mealy granola bar hanging out of my mouth, I relish my last moment of silence in the car. Next, sit through an obligatory pep talk about saving humanity, then brace for the blistering heat, or cold. On route to the “territory”, I jerk my car into a Quik Stop and dry heave. Twenty minutes later, I pull up to WASP country, irritated stares already peering through their fancy blinds. Jehovah’s Witnesses door-to-door preaching is a nuisance at best, certainly for the disoriented homeowner jostled awake by a religious zealot, but also for the one doing the knocking. I used to pray, not for salvation or world peace, but for rain. Please rain, I thought, and spare us all.
I grew up in Dallas, Texas. Like a vampire, I recoiled at the sun, pining instead for cool, overcast skies. I rejoiced in a thunderstorm and was known to frolic in a puddle. More importantly, rain meant those crazy people wouldn’t be out proselytizing. Rain was the sole qualifier, the one get-out-of-jail-free card we had. Phone witnessing would take its place, the Jehovah’s Witness equivalent of telemarketing. Hello, you live in a gated community, which is why I’m giving you my unsolicited religious advice through this method instead. Finally, there was letter writing: hand-scribbled junk mail punctuated with scriptures and stickers that came across overly wholesome and somehow age-inappropriate. I, however, risked the guilt trip that came with opting out of these alternatives, and went back to bed. Preacher on the streets, sinner in the sheets, indeed.
But, if it was beautiful, not a cloud in the sky, you were screwed. Destined to spend a rare, sparkling two hours now tarnished by the drudgery. No one wanted to talk to us, and if we were honest with each other, we didn’t want to talk to them. We descended on neighborhoods to shove our ideology down strangers’ throats on their own doorsteps. At least some of us knew this was wrong, but the door knocking was mandatory; anyone who didn’t report for duty would answer for it later. People cursed, slammed doors, or would notice us from their lawns and quietly head inside. I hated blue skies and sunshine because it meant I would be seen in the daylight doing something that, in fact, put me in a very dark place. I was isolated from the rest of the world, and each stunning, panoramic morning only served to spotlight how lonely I really was.
Sunny days are very different now. Lounging in my plastic Adirondack chair in a tattered bikini, I welcome the warmth on my cheeks. (My face, pervert.) I’m enjoying my little patch of land uninterrupted, happy to let my neighbor do the same. No more doors to knock down, souls to save, and when I take a shit, it’s for the pure joy of it.