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Mormons I Have Known And Loved
The bodega, crowded at midday, offered a broad array of delights, both gastronomic and spectral. People of all races and ages gathered here to check out the ménage and scrutinize the sandwich boards. I was no exception, and today I scanned the assemblage, my eyes keenly surveying and my mind probing. Then, she walked through the door and adroitly found her way through the crowd toward the counter. Cute butt, although she dresses like a Mormon missionary… maybe she’d like to try a little missionary…
There was no real queue, as such, everyone just more or less gathered at the glass-covered butcher’s cabinet, alternately pointing and gesturing as they relayed their orders to the attendants. There was no pushing or shoving, and all the patrons seemed to be content with whatever order was haphazardly established. After deciding that it was her turn, my new Mormon missionary friend raised her hand into the air. In a voice slightly louder than I might have perceived necessary, she said, “I’ll take a Reuben, but not too much coleslaw, okay, Henri? And for God’s sake, go a little easier on the horseradish, today… oh, and I’ll try the marble rye, for a change…” Immediately, key ring still dangling from her little finger, she opened her wallet and extracted a bill as she waited. Then, her Foster Grants firmly affixed to her eyes, her head suddenly moved as if on a swivel as she assessed the room. She’s hunting, too…
The crowd yielded, person by person, as I subtly pressed against them. I was close enough to encounter her fragrance as she reached for her freshly prepared and scrupulously wrapped sandwich. Patchouli…? Surely not… I’d known only one other woman who wore it, and both the scent and the woman were unforgettable.
As she handed Henri the bill, she didn’t wait for change. She didn’t take a bag… she plans to eat here.
“Pardon me, but I’m in a bit of a hurry… I’ll give you fifty dollars for half your sandwich.”
I saw her eyes flash right through her glasses and her head moved up and down just a bit. She’s checking out the merchandise. “I’ll tell you what, Pallie, for a C-note, you can have the whole damn thing.” The sandwich-filled hand struck me in the chest, maybe a little bit harder than I might have anticipated. She’s definitely not Mormon.
I gave her my crookedest smile. “Well, yes, that’s true, but then I wouldn’t have the opportunity to sit with you for a short time, would I?”
Her face, expressionless at first, suddenly gave way to a hint of a grin. It faded as quickly as it appeared, but I saw it, nonetheless. She said nothing but walked over to a vacant table by the window and sat down. Without waiting for an invitation, I, too, sat down directly across from her.
“Tell me, Mr. Moneybags, how is it that you deem me worthy of your time, not to mention your no-doubt hard-earned although probably-overstated repository of cash?” The tape had now been peeled from the white paper wrapping, her long fingers surgically folding back the edges and revealing the two-tone brown honeycomb of the rye.
“Well, since you asked, I have a thing for Mormons.” That oughta do it… she’s curious…
“My… you are perspicacious… most men tend to think I’m Buddhist. I guess it’s the eyes… so I’m a Mormon, huh?” One rapid movement later, the glasses sat on the table and her distinctly-Amerind eyes stared directly into mine.
“No, never Buddhist… you’d look great with your head shaved, but I don’t think those bulky robes would do justice to your figure. I’m sure the Noble Eight-Fold Path is your journey, though, at least peripherally.”
“Perspicacious and a philosopher… my, my…” A grin.
“Yes, but don’t forget about the ridiculously wealthy part. It’s no longer enough to be just a pretty face in this society.” My turn…
“Oh, of course not… I can’t speak to the veracity of the ‘wealthy’ part, but I can vouch for ‘ridiculous’.
Immediately, I threw my hands out in front of me, palms up in supplication, as I tried to evoke the best hurt-puppy look I could possibly convey. “Ridiculous, you say? Is that statement worthy of a nice Mormon girl who is about to embark on an epicurean soul-journey with the handsome stranger sitting scant inches from her?” Give it up, girlfriend, you’re mine and you know it.
Impeccable red nails lifted half the sandwich into the air and offered it to me. Without hesitation, I craned my neck forward and lunged my mouth towards the sandwich. Just as dexterously, she jerked it back, holding up her index finger and shaking it in concert with her head. “Ah, ah, ah… for fifty bucks, you have to feed yourself. I might be a Mormon, but I’m not your mommy.”
I took the sandwich with my hands, pretending to be irritated. “It’s probably best this way… Lord only knows where your hands have recently been. Don’t Mormons have some ritualistic pre-meal custom involving touching themselves?”
“I think you have me mistaken for one of your Catholic friends who Cross themselves before saying Grace… Mormons only use their hands to pick their noses and scratch their butts. Care for my pickle?” She took a slice of gherkin into her mouth and licked it fully before offering it to me.
“Uh, no… would you like mine?”
“And if I say ‘yes’?” Absolutely no expression… very alluring. The time is right...
“If you say ‘yes’, then it’s your lucky day. Today happens to be Mormons-Ride-Free-Day…”
“But how do I know that the driver knows the route?”
“Because you’ll be helping the driver along the way, making sure he’s doing his job professionally.”
“What if the bus isn’t clean? No rider likes a dirty bus.”
“You’re free to inspect it at your leisure, and we can wash all parts until they meet your satisfaction… and it’s not a bus… it’s a limo.”
“Interesting… is this the express?”
“Oh, no… this limo stops at only the right places and never ever exceeds the speed limit. In fact, most of the ride will be quite leisurely-paced.”
I felt her bare foot at the base of my crotch, her toes rubbing against me. “Can I correctly assume there’ll be Dom Perignon on board?”
“Aren’t Mormons supposed to be non-drinkers?
She stood up and whispered in my ear, “Yes, and they’re supposed to be chaste, too.”
“Then why are we having this conversation, pleasurable as it is?”
Now she looked me up and down and grabbed my hand as she stood. "To tell you the truth, Brigham Young never did anything for me.”
Okay, so she isn't Mormon, at least not in the strictest definition of the word. However, she does wear patchouli. One for two will get you to the Majors any day, especially if you can sustain it like she can. Maybe I can find it in my heart to overlook our religious differences, just this once. I'm nothing if not open to possibility...
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