What day is it again? Oh yes, it must be Monday since this morning I was serenaded by a Native American wearing full chieftain regalia playing a reed pipe to the tune of How Great Thou Art on my way through the Grand Central Station subway terminal. Judging by the amplification of the windy notes, he had remembered to bring along his portable karaoke machine microphone to ensure that even the rats in the bowels of the tunnels could hear the fluttery strains as they scrambled through puddles of mire in search of that perfect breakfast morsel. Goodness, I love consistency. Being an over achieving, type-A, borderline compulsive personality I am naturally drawn to routine. I cling to order, habits and patterns. So I cannot help but grin with contented satisfaction when I am able to confirm the days of the week by the religious stimulus around me on my morning commute to work.
In fact, if the past several months serve as anything to count on, tomorrow on my way through I fully expect to have a Watch Tower tract shoved at me by one of the two old ladies stationed near the turnstiles wearing their best pearls and heels, because it will be Tuesday and that is their day of promotion. Which then leads me to Wednesday, one of my favorites, when I am accosted by the man wearing a sandwich board reading, “YE SHALL BURN, AND BURN, AND BURN.” Burn for what, he never really says. But he makes certain that I know that I will. I always wonder if the twine holding his costume fast to his shoulders scratches the skin at his neck. It looks like it does. Yet every third business day of the week he is there to proclaim his personal version of Truth. Thursday is a quiet day with only a solitary solemn gentleman standing in the midst of our commuting throngs with his arms stretched out to either side holding pamphlets for Scientology. I have yet to see a single person snatch at the information before eagerly pouring over the contents relating how to become a thetan according to Hubbard. But the man still comes with his papers. Every Thursday. Friday tops all because that is the day that the various religious promoters are all there at the same time, standing a few feet apart while nervously eyeing one another’s territory. The force of their unease is palpable. But wavering or moving to a different spot to sermonize would be unthinkable. Which works out for me, because my day would feel just a little off if they were not there to greet me like a theological cocktail of sunshine.