Please Don't Go to Hell
Erin Douglass
The other morning, as I trundled east with 12 other bus-riding regulars, a middle-aged Korean woman hopped on board.
I watched her take a seat a few rows down. Figuring she was Just Another Ordinary Commuter, I returned to my magazine.
Silly me.
A stop or two flashed by in silence. I read, sort of. A head-phoned passenger switched cds. A mother tightened her child's sagging hood.
Suddenly, with all the sideways surprise of a grasshopper, the woman sprang from her chair. Clamping her hands on the back of a seat, she started to speak.
I couldn't tell you what she said, because I don't understand Korean. But it was loud, imploring, and deeply felt. God's name was being dropped. And hard. Or an ex-husband damned to eternal bathroom cleaning.
The other passengers shuffled uncomfortably. A baby fussed. Unfazed, the woman preached on.
Curious, I glanced over. I couldn't make out her face, but I sure could read her bright green vest. Emblazoned across the back in all-capped, iron-on glory were the words: "PLEASE DON'T GO TO HELL."
Excellent, I thought. We're actually being given a choice in the matter.
With a jolt, the woman switched to English — sort of. "Pray, pray, pray," she intoned, shaking her perm and gripping the seat back. "Jesus, don't you go to hell!"
I can't speak for the others, but it seemed like out of all of us, he was the one she least had to worry about.
Meanwhile, Spanish started to trickle into the sermon. "Ma'am," said the driver, looking annoyed in his mirrors. "Ma'am, please sit down."
This didn't seem like a time for Ma'ams.
"Ma'am?"
Ignoring him, the woman turned to face the back of the bus.
Suddenly, I had the best seat in the house — and a clear view of the vest. Pins the size of saucers blared "Jesus!" from her chest. Zippered, stuffed pockets hung low as ripe fruit. There was even a detachable fanny pack.
Eyes squeezed shut, the woman gestured toward three teens on their way to Belmont High. Her words got faster. They stared and chewed their gum, but they also didn't laugh.
And then, as abruptly as she began, the woman stopped. Sucking in breath, she slowly turned to the front of the bus. No one said a word.
With one hand, she unzippered a pocket and pulled out a thick wad of pamphlets.
I was thrilled. Literature From the Mother Ship. Hoping to get some insight into her on-the-go theology, I sat up straighter and looked expectant, trying to catch her eye. I may not be able to understand Korean — or Korean-Spanish-English hybrids — but leaflets I can read.
Smiling wide, the woman stepped into the aisle. She handed a pamphlet to the nearest rider, a young Latina in lacquered jeans, who nodded and took it. Sister Vest smiled even wider, bowed her head, and moved to the next needy soul.
Overall, her reception was pretty surprising. Those passengers I pegged as most likely to accept frowned at the offering and shook their heads. Those I thought would snicker openly took two pamphlets, just to be kind.
As she moved closer, my heart pounded. I wanted the chance to be Chosen.
It never happened. The bus lurched to the corner and the driver barked, "Vermont!" Turning on her heels, the woman yelled something in Korean, followed by "Thanks you very much!" Then she plunked down the steps into the gray, early day.
The rest of the ride seemed unnaturally quiet after all her eager praising and pleading. It also seemed less colorful. Whether or not any of us understood, whether or not any of us agreed, she'd certainly spread some spirit around the place.
And she'd shown us one hell of a vest.