I was recently visited by the men of The Watchtower. Flouting pamphlets of Earth's demise, they approached my door. Sitting upstairs in my 'loft' apartment, I heard the doorbell ring and scurried down the stairs to greet what I thought was one of Mom's clients or the UPS guy. Imagine my surprise (and theirs) to find two well dressed men in business attire, asking to talk to me. "Well, good morning gentlemen," I said, decked out in my usual sleep ware combo: sweat pants, tank top, bandana, bath robe. I'm not sure if I had even brushed that morning. No matter, these were men at my door, asking me questions.
They began with their usual spiel, hello, we're from The Watchtower, Jehovah, Revelation, blahtidy, blah, blah. They asked me if I was familiar with their organization, and I said, "Oh, yes. I used to live in New York and have seen The Watchtower headquarters in Brooklyn, just across the water. They were impressed by this. I coquettishly mentioned my love of New York and how much I miss living there. One of the gentlemen (not the cute one with the great gray tweed pants, but the less attractive one with the discolored teeth - damn you protocol!) asked if he could read something to me. I leaned and batted my eyes, expecting to hear him recite the vows he had been rehearsing for our upcoming nuptials. Without a moment of hesitation, he instead went into his well-rehearsed recitation of 1 John 2:17: "The world is passing away and so is its desire, but he that does the will of God remains forever." They continued to chat about how the world is evil and it's ending and asked if they could give me one of their pamphlets. "Oh, yes, please," I replied, taking the city-disaster-scene inscribed brochure from their eyes. "What's your name?" they asked me. "Bradley," I said, gleaming from head to toe, "I hope to see you boys again."
As they drove away in their flashy silver economy car, I let out a cackle befitting an overweight sea-witch, howling like a mad dog. When my mother saw the pamphlet in my hands, she just laughed and walked away, leaving me to laugh sadistically at the unsuspecting boys I had just tortured. Returning upstairs, still cackling, I felt like Bette Davis, warning the boys it was going to be a bumpy night.
They never called back.
Their visit has stayed with me the last couple of days, not only because I framed the flyer on my bedroom wall, but because their visit had me feeling like myself again: wry, ornery, dangerous. For you see, I am back in the Broad Meadow again, the city and I needing some time apart. It has not been easy to leave my single person's life in the Big Apple and return to a small town in Indiana, living with my family in a spare room, humbled as I sort my shit out. But do not fear, for as those boys showed me, the pluck and vigor that marked my New York existence, the sticky-sweet bitchiness that I served customers for three years, still remains, perhaps even stronger, clearer than before. And don't worry, you'll be hearing from me again soon. Sorry I went away for a while. But the Bradley is back.