Yesterday, halfway through the an intense fourth round of the men's 400 meter backstairs I heard the doorbell ring. I wasn't planning to answer the door because I believe the doorbell is a primitive device representative of the deep distrust that lies latent in American culture. Not only are they condescending to the visitor, reducing the entirety of his character to several taps on the xylophone, but it also creates an inaccurate measure of status. For some reason most people acquiesce to the notion that the more intricate a doorbell sounds the higher a person sits on the social ladder. This same philosophy has been transferred to cell phone use. Despite my strong convictions, the doorbell ringing was relentless, and I decided to meet this mysterious visitor.
My visitor was a skinny dark-skinned man with shoulder-length hair. His pastel tie did little to distract from the wrinkled white shirt tucked loosely into his faded blue jeans. I noticed that he was gripping a stack of pamphlets, but before I could ask him about the papers he began to speak.
"Hello sir," he said, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?"
Wow, what a question. I mean I never thought that Jesus would be a savior.
"Holy shit man," I answered. "You mean to tell me that the Mexican guy down the street with the funny looking five-year old is my savior?" I could hardly contain my excitement. To think that a guy in my very own town could save me.
The man looked confused. He raked his hand slowly through his dark hair as if to catch something in the soft thicket.
"No sir, I believe you are mistaken. See I am from the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and I would like you to join me in religious devotion." He was speaking quickly, and had I not poured whiskey into my morning coffee his words may not have been so potent. I saw through his pretentious civilities to reveal the true motive. He wanted to rumble, and I sure was ready.
"I see, sir," I said, backing my words with a raw sting of sarcasm. "Well I say my God is the savior." He wasn't shocked by my statements. He wasn't even disgusted. Instead, he smiled and threw the stack of pamphlets to my feet.
The next seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds were probably the most physically draining of my entire life. He began with a quick jab to my lower back. I countered with a kick to his shin, then grabbed him by the shoulders. We rolled on the floor for a few minutes and then began eye gauging and biting. By the end I had a road map of black and blues leading to a cracked incisor. He was equally "tore-up" to the point that he couldn't even think about getting tipsy in the club later.
After the initial fighting was over, we realized the futility in continuing the hand to hand combat. Without any words exchanged we shook hands, made sweet love, and waved goodbye. I watched him drive to the next house still soar from his half-nelson.