Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,125
The clock.
Then he gestured to the pimply faced boy next to him. “And this is Elder Nigel.”
Elder? I’ve never understood why ze Mormons call each other “elder.” I’m pretty sure they can’t be the oldest in their community.
I tried to speak but my mouth had gone bone dry.
“We’re from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Do you mind if we come in to share a brief message?” Gabe asked serenely.
In a hazy daze, I nodded.
They plodded in with their black backpacks and bicycle helmets, like the Messiahs that they were.
After planting themselves on the sofa, Gabe said a short prayer. Then he gabbed on and on about Jesus Christ and God’s plan for us, punctuated with by the use of scriptures from both the Bible and The Book of Mormon.
It was all gobbledygook and gibberish to me. I was in a complete trance.
All I saw was Taylor hair.
Taylor eyes.
Taylor lips.
GAK! Tay Tay was in my house!
Minutes later, the A Team trudged up the stairs and flounced into the living room. Zahara took one look at Gabe and howled like a wolf. “It’s Jacob Black!”
Monica fibbed, “Quienes tu pappi ? Donde estas corazon?”
Gabe and Nigel rose ceremoniously to their feet and introduced themselves in a very formal manner. Nigel actually said he was ‘enchanted’ to meet them. Enchanted? ENCHANTED? Who says that?
The A Team just ogled like a bunch of groupies.
Five minutes later . . .
And ogled. At Gabe of course, not at Enchanted Nigel.
How shameless! Where was their pride? Have they no dignity?
Half an hour later . . .
The Messiahs hopped on their bicycles and rode off into the orange sunset, silhouetted against the red and yellow glows, like Chariots of Fire.
I hasten to add, before Gabe departed, he asked if he could see me again.
Bursting with joy, I almost leapt in the air. I must have swept Gabe away with my womanly charms. Hah! I am a man magnet. And he wanted my digits!
Well, actually, what he said was, “When can I share the Word of Jesus Christ with you again?”
“Worrrrd,” I said coolly and all thug-like. “Jesus is da man. Come by anytime. What about tomorrow?” I asked flippantly, in a non-eager, non-desperado manner.
Gabe whipped out a notebook and scribbled something down. Glancing up, a smile spread over his angelic face. “We’ll be back.”
“Hasta la vista,” I muttered under my breath.
After the A Team had slouched off home, Mom emerged from her ‘office.’ Mom works at home for Jet Blue, which means she sits in front of her PC, in her bedroom, wearing Pajama Jeans, fluffing and folding laundry, talking to folks on the phone. She books tickets, handles cancellations . . . um something like that.
“Wassup mammochka?”
Mom asked, “How was school?”
“Good. I’m thinking of joining the Mormon Tabernacle choir.” Then I displayed my amazing soprano tenor. Puffing out my chest, I busted out Ave Maria, Plácido Domingo style.
Mom simply chose to ignore my aria. She headed for the fridge and started preparing a margarita. “Honey,” she said absently, “what do you get when you play the Mormon Tabernacle Choir records backwards?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “The Satanic Verses?”
Mom raised her margarita glass. “One thousand different recipes for non-alcoholic margaritas.”
“Is that a virgin margarita? Can I have a sip?” I asked, eyeing her bright amber drink.
“Of course not, but I can make you a Mormon Tequila Sunrise.”
“What’s that?”
“Coming right up,” Mom tinkled gaily.
Five minutes later, she handed me a cocktail glass. Sipping tentatively, I said, “It lacks a certain panache. Is this Kool-Aid?”
“Not just Kool-Aid. It’s Kool-Aid and orange juice. And there’s some sour gummy worms in the bottom.”
I drained my glass to the last drop and chewed up the gummy worms. “Seriously Mom, I’m going to join their choir. It’s my calling.”
She lifted an inquiring brow. “Which Mormon boy is it this time?”
Mothers . . . Pssh! They think they know us so well.
I promptly changed the subject. “What’s for dinner?”
Mom yanked open the freezer, pulled out a loaf of bread and slammed the door with deliberate force. Plopping the rock hard loaf onto the kitchen counter, she exclaimed, “Sandwiches! We’ve got fresh bread.”
After my dinner of stale bread and deli meat, I retired to my room. Firing up my laptop, I ripped open a bag of pretzels and searched for Gabe on Facebook.
Gosh. I felt like a stalker.
A Mormon stalker.
What is wrong with me?
Snacking on pretzels, I began scrolling down my Facebook newsfeed.
Suddenly, I stopped and gawped. My Aunt Marla was giving a