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the church ladies come around once a week now looking for my daughter. she made the mistake of talking to them once or twice, opened the door, and now she’s on their list of souls to be saved. but she’s hiding in the other room so they get me instead. they are nice enough if a bit intense, but not pushy, not preachy, and I can’t bring myself to be mean to them. so I take the pamphlet, listen politely as they flip the well-thumbed pages of their bibles to read me a verse that talks about this very topic (whatever we’ve been discussing), allow them to make their low-pressure pitch. I’m nodding yes, muttering “uh-huh, uh-huh”, as if I was paying close attention, which I’m not. and they anticipate that anyone on the receiving end of this would be getting antsy by now, and without my having to give them signals to that effect, they cut themselves short; they’re respectful of my time, they know better than to press too hard, only stay about five minutes total. they are masters at this game. I’m not even playing the game; I’m cutting them a lot of slack. we both know they’ll be back next week and every week after that until one of us is dead or I’ve joined up with their group (they never mention it but I think they’re Jehovah’s Witnesses). my patience isn’t even beginning to be tested and yet they’re already saying goodbye, walking back down the steps. and I go inside, start re-heating my leftover chicken wok dinner, and I ask myself: what would Bukowski do in this situation? curse them to their faces? make an obscene proposition? offer them each a beer? would he take the pamphlet of bible verses if only to wipe his ass with it? would he haggle theology with them? brag that he could kick Christ’s butt? play devil’s advocate by elucidating the Blakean wisdom of indulgence in carnal excesses? and would the church ladies keep returning, stoically, week after week for this vile abuse, invigorated by the near impossible challenge of converting him? I really wonder how he would handle these church ladies. I’ll probably just keep answering the door until one of us dies or moves or gives up. I’ll try not to insult them but I can’t guarantee that won’t happen. maybe they’ll catch me on a bad day and I’ll let them have it, or, in a fit of perversity, I’ll act insane, make loopy prophetic claims, citing the Book of Revelations and mixing in some of Philip K. Dick’s Exegesis for good measure. or maybe I’ll take a cue from my daughter and learn to hide when they ring our bell, something I can’t picture Bukowski ever doing. he’d think it’s a show of cowardice. no, whatever Buk did, it would be a statement, and a big one at that. whatever I end up doing will probably be an evasion, some quiet, non-committal act, and they’ll never really know if they were close to snagging me or not.
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