Like most people, I did some dumb things when I was young. And when I was 20 years old, my youthful stupidity was peppered with religious arrogance when I became a missionary for the Mormon church. I was called to serve a two year mission in the Republic of Peru where my divine, pre-ordained mission would be to convert the wayward Catholics of an entire nation to my particular brand of Christianity.
About a year into my stint I was assigned to work in the mission office as the financial secretary. Working in the office meant I didn't have to spend nearly as much time proselyting, and that was a much-welcome relief. I spent eight months in that position, and loved every stressful, gray hair-inducing minute. It beat the hell out of wasting my time trying to convert Catholics.
Back in that time a cellular phone was a new luxury in northern Peru. The mission president carried a mobile phone everywhere he went and was never concerned about the number of minutes he used or the size of the bill. The mission had a second phone that we office Elders would use when we were out running errands, which was constantly, as six of us boys had to manage all the supplies, materials and logistics for the other 200 missionaries working inside the mission's borders. So, our monthly cell phone bill was ginormous. (OK, apparently the word 'ginormous' is in my computer's dictionary. Weird. I was expecting one of the red squiggly lines.)
Now I don't exactly remember why, but for a couple of months there were huge errors on the bill, and as the financial secretary, it was my job to head down to the phone company and fix the problem. The customer service department was crammed into the basement of the phone company's downtown building, a dark, cave-like office packed with people waiting for their chance to complain about their phone issues.
Working behind the desks lining the walls of the department were a slew of young, beautiful, female phone company employees. Each of them wore the official women's uniform: A tight blouse and matching short, body-hugging skirt. With hormones raging through my virgin 20 year old body, the prospect of waiting in that office for an hour or two suddenly didn't seem so bad. I took a number and stood waiting, my Peruvian companion and I chit-chatting about nothing terribly important.
But after a good hour of waiting, my patience was wearing thin. This was the second or third time the company had screwed up the bill and I was tired of getting jerked around. By the time my number had been called for service, I was pretty miffed.
Our attendant was obviously overworked and tired. Her hair pulled back in a tight bun, she was no doubt sick of hearing complaints about mistakes that were not her fault. I don't remember the details of our conversation, but I was ticked off and she was exhausted. I don't even remember if the issue got resolved or not, but I let my bad mood show.
After a few minutes of arguing, she pointed at the black tag on my shirt which bore two names: my own and that of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. In a condemning tone said, "You know, you wear the name of Jesus Christ on your shirt. I don't think he would be so upset about this."
Without a nanosecond of hesitation, I shot back at her, "You know, Jesus Christ never had to deal with you."
Simultaneously I saw her shock and my companion lowering his head in embarrassment. Our meeting didn't last much longer. I don't know where that response came from, but her attempt to insult me was the last straw.
I left the building with my companion a few minutes later. Thankfully I never had to return to that office. Something tells me she wouldn't be converting to Mormonism anytime soon.
And yes, as much as jerk I was, the story still makes me laugh.
