Bigger and Better

By Liz Ulin 

It’s really a drag that most people Brian knows will eventually end up in Hell.  He consoles himself sometimes with the thought that it might not be so bad.  After all, people can make friends almost anywhere if they try.

His father, the Reverend Bartholomew Crowley, disagrees.  He finds no consolation in the potential of friendships made in Hell.  Day after day he is tormented by the legion of unfortunate souls lost to his nemesis. Walking to church each morning, the flames of Hades lap up along the curbs of his suburban neighbourhood, waiting patiently for their next meal.  It’s all the Reverend can do to save, maybe, one a month.

As with all long-term visions, Reverend Crowley’s hinges on recruiting the youth of his persuasion, and key to his mission has been the Young Evangelicals of Hope (YEH!).  This soul search-and-rescue team brings together Evangelicals, Pentecostals, devout Catholics and a couple of Jews for Jesus from all over Montreal. 

The group’s central activity is its weekly soul drive, scouring the city in search of godless innocents.  Competition during these Sunday afternoon events is stiff.  Each soul snatched back from the Devil is worth serious credit on Judgment Day.  And that that can come in pretty handy.   After all, no one can tell when they might be stranded on a desert island without a Bible, or enticed over to the dark side for a few years in college.  A redeemed soul or two can really tip the scales.  Brian thinks he might have gotten one last year.  It’s hard to know.  The lady on the sidewalk might just have wanted his shoes.

It’s Brian’s best friend, Joseph Kaufman, who proposes the group’s new Bigger and Better campaign.  He’s inspired by a similar event run by Catholics in Toronto.

“It’s genius,” he explains. “You each start with twenty-five cents and go door-to door.  At the first house you trade the quarter for something bigger and better, like a book, then you go to the next place with the book and trade it for something even better, like like a lamp.  So after, maybe, fifteen trades, you’ve met tons of people and scored tons of awesome stuff.”

Reverend Crowley is thrilled. It has the flavour of a Loaves and Fishes initiative.  Plus it’s unique, low budget, and prophetic literature could neatly accompany each trade.  And they’ll surely reel in countless poor souls, not to mention plenty of fine items for the spring auction. Genius indeed.

Brian congratulates his friend.  It’s not always easy for Joseph, even though he’s club president and has most of the good ideas.  He’s a Jew for Jesus.  His mom’s always grumbling and making snide remarks about his religious awakening.

“But what can I do?” she tells anyone who’ll listen.  “The boy’s sixteen; there’s no talking to him about anything.  A single-mother chooses her battles.”   And everyday Joseph reminds her that she’s lost this one.

***

So on Sunday, 2:00PM sharp, Reverend Crowley commands over seventy of his troops into the bowels of the inner city for their Bigger and Better campaign. 

“You will do well to remember,” he says, “that mingling with the less fortunate has been found to be most fruitful in these endeavors.”  And though he concedes the quality of auction items may suffer with this strategy. “It is the Christian route.  For the way to Him is through sacrifice.”

Taking the Reverend’s advice, partners Brian and Joseph choose a prime territory on Hôtel de Ville near the expressway. The number of lost souls lurking within these dilapidated triplexes and rooming houses promises to be huge. 

Exhilarated, the young men march forward, armed with 300 pamphlets and a quarter.

“You ready?” Joseph says.

“Ready.”

Brian stabs at the first bell, swiveling his hips. “Here come the Soul Men.”

Joseph offers him a high five. 

They wait a minute, then another, but no one answers.  The boys shrug and begin to leave, when suddenly, the door flies open. And there they meet the wary gaze of a young woman, cigarette in hand, clad in a red negligee.

“Yeah?” she says, her tone oddly magnetic.

Brian stammers through his pitch and eagerly presents the literature.

Taking it reluctantly, the woman scans the page. She idly wonders how many converts they get with this technique.  Her own technique elicits spontaneous testimonials all the time.  ‘Sweet Jesus’ is a favorite.

“It’s from the Loaves and the Fishes story,” Joseph says, “from the Bible.”

The woman looks up. “Listen, I’m not religious or nothing.” She hands back the pamphlet.

“It doesn’t matter,” Joseph says. “God’s message is for all of us.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls a long drag off her cigarette.  Brian and Joseph share a glance as the smoke curls down into the temple of her beautiful body. The Devil’s playground.

 “It’s never too late!” Brian blurts.

She fixes her sharp eyes on Brian’s milky face. “Too late?”

“To…” Brian casts around for a delicate way to put it. “To… to find the right path.  I mean… to Heaven.”

The woman seems to smile, or perhaps grimace.  She reaches out to run a polished nail lightly along Brian’s soft cheek.  He feels his face go flush.  Her finger reaches his lower lip and stops.  Brian realizes his mouth is open, and silently curses his mother for convincing him that rainbow-coloured braces could be cool. 

“Bigger and better, huh?” she says, removing the finger.

Brian nods. 

“Ok then,” she says, snapping up the quarter in his hand.

As the boys look on, she reaches beneath her nightie and wriggles out of a tiny pair of white lace panties.

“Here you go,” she holds out the silky gem, “a little bigger and a lot better.”

Brian stands paralyzed. Joseph leans away.

The woman stuffs the crumpled garment into Brian’s empty hand and gives it a squeeze.  “See you in Heaven, baby.”

Brian repeats, “Heaven…” as she disappears inside.

Somewhat dazed, they head down the stairs. Brian turns to his friend. “Gimme another quarter!  We have to start again.”

“No way,” Joseph says. “That’s not the spirit of the campaign.”

 “We can’t trade this!” Brian says, waving the panties like white flag.

“We have to.” Joseph slaps his arm down. “God’s testing us.”

“Testing us with ladies’ underwear?”  Brian weaves a sweaty finger through the tangle of silky lace.

“He works in mysterious ways,” Joseph says, casting a glance over his shoulder. 

Brian swallows hard and stuffs the panties into his pocket.

The next several residents are unimpressed with the boys’ Christian offering.  An older man in a yarmulke threatens to call the police.  “You think I’m going to Hell?” he shouts.  “You go to Hell!”

Brian notes the whole Hell thing is usually a stumbling block for people.  He suggests they skip over it. 

“Why?” Joseph says. “It’s only fair to tell them.”

Brian’s not sure but he doesn’t feel like arguing.  In Bible class once, he posed the possibility that people of different religions might not automatically go to Hell when they die.  Maybe Christians meet Jesus, and Jews, like Joseph’s mom, meet Messiah (whoever that is…), and Muslims meet Mohamed, and Buddhists meet Buddha, and Hare Krishnas meet Harry—like that.

Slamming his fist on the desk, his father told him to get the out of damn Fairy Land.  Even Joseph thought it was a twisted joke.  Brian knows better now. There are some things you should just shut up about.

Climbing up the next winding staircase, the boys grit their teeth.  Will they have to return that afternoon with the panties as their only contribution to the spring auction?   Brian imagines presenting them to his father.  Surely the Lord is more merciful than that? 

Eventually, at number 32, Sylvester Bertrand provides a ray of hope.  Standing in the man’s doorway, Joseph politely repeats their well-worn spiel.  Brian holds out the underwear.  Sylvester asks them in.

“Where’d you get them things?” Sylvester quizzes. 

“They’re from the lady at number 25,” says Joseph. 

“Sandra?” Sylvester’s eyes light up. “They’re Sandra’s?”

“She took them off right in front of us,” Brian says, “so yeah.”

Sylvester snatches the garment from Brian’s hand, rubs it against his stubbled chin and hurries away.  Scanning the contents of his dingy living room, Sylvester spies an item he’s been trying to unload for some time.  Its presence haunts him.  The memories it generates sicken him.  Superstition alone has thus far prevented its disposal.  He glances at the pamphlet and caresses the lacy elastic waistband.  This must be a sign.  Today is the day.

Returning to the vestibule, he thrusts a small urn at Joseph.

“There,” he says, herding the boys out the door, “bigger and better.”

“Thank you, sir!” Joseph says, cradling the ornate jar. “What is it?”

Sylvester steps back into his apartment. “You mean what was it.”

Joseph and Brian look down at their new acquisition and then back at Sylvester.

 “Mother,” they hear, before the door snaps shut.

Joseph’s hands turn to ice as he discovers the gold plaque.  He’s holding a dead woman.  Would finding Mrs. Bertrand a good Christian home count as a soul saved?  Technically, the person should probably be alive.  But maybe this was a loophole. 

“Of course it counts,” Joseph says.

Brian shakes his head. “But it’s not her choice.  She’s already dead.”

“So? Now her son gets to decide, and that’s what he wants. I’d do it for my mother.”

Brian shrugs, glances at the urn, and thinks about Mrs. Kaufman. It’s really too bad that she’s going to burn for all eternity in the merciless flames, or maybe float aimlessly in Purgatory.  But knowing Joseph’s mom, it’s the aimless floating that will kill her.  Brian hates to admit it, but she’d probably be better off in Hell. At least there’ll be stuff to do there: keep the fires going, coordinate shifts, maybe give Satan a bit of an argument now and then.  Mrs. Kaufman would be good at that.  She’s a lot like Joseph.

Brian follows his friend down the street. 

“At least we got rid of that underwear,” Joseph says.

Brian kicks at a stone.

“Come on.” Joseph moves ahead. “It’s getting late.”

Joseph, himself, doesn’t worry much about his mother’s soul.  Sure she’s making a fuss about Jesus now, but that won’t matter in the long-run.  Joseph’s not stupid enough to bring it up in Reverend Crowley’s Bible class, but he’s got a plan.  After all, the Mormons get away with converting dead people.  And what makes them so special?   He knows better than anyone, sometimes you’ve got to be flexible.

As Joseph presents the urn to the residents of 34, 36 and 38 Hôtel de Ville, they are horrified, terrified and amused respectively, but there are no takers.  Number 40 is more open-minded.

A collector of fine antiques and bric-a-brac, Sam Gilbert knows a good thing when he sees one.  With a keen eye for resale, and unburdened by sentimentality, Sam surveys the item with interest.

“What you got there, boys?”

“It’s an urn, sir, from number 32.” Joseph hands it over.

“Number 32? That’s the Bertrand place,” Mr. Gilbert says. “Christ, this is Mary Bertrand!”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was one hell of a funeral.  No expense spared.  This thing must be worth…”  Asking the boys to wait on the staircase, he pops back inside.

Unfortunately, as a serious collector, Sam is loath to part with any of his own possessions to acquire the treasure. He extends his search to the back balcony.  What might masquerade as bigger and better than the remains of Mary Bertrand? 

The vicious 30 lb. interloper, Gargoyle, lies sprawled on the fire escape. Such a criminal beast this neighbor’s cat, defecating in Sam’s flowerpots and lunching on his feathered friends.

Sam re-emerges in the entryway.  “Here you go, young man,” he says, heaving the struggling feline into Brian’s arms.  “It’s a shame to part with him.”

“You’re giving us your cat?!” Brian says.  Gargoyle growls and squirms.

“Anything for our Lord,” Sam winks, tapping on the YEH! pamphlet as he closes the door.

Sadly, the next few prospects are downright hostile to the boys’ new package of eternal salvation and pet ownership.  Gargoyle grows increasingly agitated, scratching the side of Brian’s face and tearing his new YEH! t-shirt.

 Octogenarian Ludmila Lapadoski finally turns the tide. Listening attentively through her peephole, Ludmila’s heart warms.  Back in Poland, she had been religious herself once, before that incident with the priest.  She decides to open the door and pokes her head outside.

“My cat!” Ludmila shrieks. “My Gargoyle!”

Gargoyle struggles more fiercely.  Brian digs his fingers deep into the cat’s hide.  Ludmila grabs at the animal’s head and pulls.

“It’s not your cat!” shouts Joseph.  “We just traded it for Mrs. Bertrand.”

“Help me! Help! They steal my cat!” cries Ludmila.

In a screeching frenzy, Gargoyle rips into Brian’s torso.  The boy curses and throws the savage fur ball over Ludmila’s head into the house.

The old woman glares at the psychotic intruders.

“You are work of Devil,” she hisses, spitting at their feet.

***

Slumped on the curb, Brian removes his shirt and wipes the blood trickling from his cheek.  Joseph plops down beside him.  Several residents bustle by.  A dog stops to sniff.

“They’re all Godless freaks around here,” Joseph says.

Brian pulls off his YEH! cap and holds it upside-down in hands. “Whatever.”

Then suddenly, “plunk”, a quarter drops into the empty cap.  The anonymous donor hurries on.  Joseph is elated.

“It’s a sign from God!” he says, picking out the coin. “We can start over!”

“A sign?” Brian says. “What about all the doors slammed in our faces? And the underwear, and the ashes, and that satanic cat?  Those weren’t signs?” 

“That’s stupid. Ask your father.  He’d know this was a miracle; anyone would.”

Brian throws his cap into the gutter. “You just see the signs you want to see.”

“I’m entitled to my opinion.”

“Yeah, that’s the point, Joseph.”

“What is?”

“Maybe we’re all entitled.” 

“What’s the matter with you?”

Brian gets up off the sidewalk and starts walking.

“Hey, where are you going?”  Joseph says, brandishing the quarter.

Brian heads back down the street. The sun beats against his bare back.  He wonders if Sandra might still be home. 

People can make friends almost anywhere if they try.

“Heaven,” he says, under his breath.