Fiction:

Jensen and Ernstein

by Mark J. Stoddard

Summer is hot in Brisbane this time of year. Always is. An old swagman I met in Townsville told me that it’s always the same in Brisbane in the summer. This is my third summer in Queensland, my second in Brisbane, and my last month in Australia. It hasn’t changed. Just like the people. I found that out myself.

The airport in Brisbane is the only thing that has changed in two years. When I first arrived, there were only three Quonset huts, five palm trees, and a broken wooden fence. Monday when I went to see my friend off, I noticed a change. They have a new terminal made of stone. There are two palm trees in large stone barrels on either side of the passenger ramp. I took a picture of Ernstein between them when he left. He was finally going home. He told me he was glad. I told him I knew what he meant and envied him. He said he hoped his mother would notice a change in him. He said two years make a lot of difference, especially to 19-year-olds. Twenty-one meant a lot.

Oh, one other difference at the airport. There is a large chain link fence around it.

Tuesday I drove to the airport again to watch the big planes take off and to meet a new companion. I got to see one huge 707 heading for the U.S. It was beautiful. I thought I was going to die of thrills when the engines shook the terminal as the plane took off. My heart went crazy as the “big deliverer” streaked east. Beautiful. Fantastic. Only 30 1/2 days left. I took a deep breath, held it, closed my eyes, and smiled, then slowly let the air out. I looked down at the mission president’s letter. Jensen. I was to meet Jensen. Jensen was 19, two years younger than Ernstein. I watched him enter between the palms, and I couldn’t believe he was so young.

“Good afternoon, Elder Clemens.”

He thrust out his hand, grabbed mine, and crushed it. I smiled and yanked my hand out while it was still mine.

“Hello,” I answered. His smile broadened with my response. I guess he was relieved to know his new companion was human. My hand knew it! He trotted toward the baggage claim. I ran after him. He reached the baggage clerk before I could. He grabbed the wiry man’s hand, crushed it, and with a large smile on display proclaimed that he was Elder Jensen and how did you do and had his luggage arrived. The thin man pushed up a smile and rubbed his hand.

“Right, mate. How are you? Your bag’ll be right in. Ta.” He turned and walked to his desk by the revolving baggage claim table. He sat down and peered over his horse racing paper, the Daily Mirror.

I grabbed Jensen and asked him if he had seen his baggage yet.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “here it comes. The large blue Samsonite fortnighter is mine. It weighs exactly 44 pounds. The rest of my clothes are in my overcoat. That’s why it’s so heavy. You were probably wondering why.” He smiled down at me as he finished his speech. For the first time I realized he was four inches taller than I was.

I forced a smile back.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Elder Clemens, will you grab that flight bag? It’s light. Thanks.”

I picked up the Pan Am flight bag beside Jensen. The bag was empty except for one thick paperback. It was the Book of Mormon.

“I feel bad about you seeing that, Elder Clemens.” He said my name like it was a novelty that he was anxiously trying to get used too. I still haven’t gotten used to the elder bit. I envied Ernstein. Jensen went on.

“The bag was full. It holds 15 books. My family and relatives in Salt Lake gave me this bag with copies of the Book of Mormon in it at the airport. I sold them all on the plane, all but this one.” He picked it out of the bag, rolled it over in his hands, and put it back. “I must have been meant to keep it.”

I yawned, grabbed the bag, and told him to follow me to the car. I started in the lead, but after four steps I was running after him.

He talked all the way to the flat.

That night I learned that he had been the fattest baby born, vice-president of his high school, and president of his seminary classes all four years. He had memorized 60 scriptures and all of the missionary lessons. He also promised his parents that he would baptize 24 people in his two years. He asked me who we would baptize this week. He frowned when I told him no one. I then told him we were going to bed. He agreed, finally.

Wednesday morning he volunteered to cook breakfast. We went to knock on doors at 9:00 A.M. Outside it was 90 degrees with 80 percent humidity. I was used to it by then, but my tall, thin, blonde companion was shocked by the heat. He winced as we stepped out of our cool basement apartment into the hot Brisbane air. As usual the sky was blue—no clouds, no breeze. We walked four blocks to a new street. It hadn’t been tracted for nearly two years. I was the last missionary to knock on its doors. It had been my first street. It had been awful. All old people and not interested. Everyone of them poor. The street was a waste, just like this area. And they stick me back here again with only one month until I’m out. I was a greenhorn the first time, but now I had a greeny to take care of. And in Brisbane. I hate Brisbane.

Jensen talked all the way to the first home. When we were walking up to the door, I sprung my trap.

“Jensen, this is your door. Go to it,” I announced. He looked at me slightly dazed. His eyes squinted in the bright sun. The perspiration had already soaked his white shirt under his arms. He carried a Book of Mormon in his right hand.

“Do you have any pamphlets?” was all he asked as he looked back down at me. I told him yes—one “Joseph Smith’s Testimony,” three “The Word of Wisdom,” and seven “Why Mormons Build Temples.” People liked them.

“How about a ‘Which Church Is Right’ pamphlet?” he queried.

“I never bring them. Puts people off. Makes them think we are pushing religion.” I settled that question.

He shrugged his shoulders and arrogantly walked up the final steps to the door. He twisted the knob of the doorbell. Australians have cheap doorbells. They are like our bicycle bells.

The door was pulled open, and an old man with a pipe looked down at us.

“Yes, sirs, can I help you boys?” he drawled in his Australian accent. Jensen quickly answered the inquiry.

“Yes, sir, you may.” The big smile was all over his face. I stood patiently by his left side.

“My companion, Elder Clemens, and I are talking to the good folks on this street, and we wonder if we might chat with you today?” His tone was sweet and phony. I could see I was going to have to change him. That’s how Ernstein had helped me.

The old man stared back without a smile.

“What do you want to chat with me about, mate?”

“Well, sir,” Jensen flowed on, “we are representatives of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and …”

The door slammed. I turned to go.

“Wait, Elder Clemens,” he stated. He turned and rang the bell again. I quickly turned to run. He grabbed my arm. “One more chance, Elder.” He didn’t even say it like a question.

“Look, Elder,” I pleaded, “don’t bother the old guy.” I tried to talk sense to him. “He doesn’t want to hear. Let him alone.” My tone now was firm.

I was interrupted when the door suddenly opened. The old man was framed in the doorway like Quasimodo. Jensen began acting again. I could tell it was all an act.

“Sir, I am sorry if you think we are bothering you, but if you will only let us explain why we are here. Have you heard of the Mormons?” His tone got softer as he spoke.

“Leave me alone, son.” His voice was deep, and I knew we had really annoyed him.

“I will, sir, but not until I tell you I care about you.”

I couldn’t believe it. The old man couldn’t either. He went quiet and looked unbelieving. He then bowed his head. I started to speak to avoid a further catastrophe.

“I am sorry, sir, and we will be going …”

Jensen cut me off.

“I mean that, sir. You see, sir, we believe you are our brother, since we are all children of God.”

He paused on “God” and waited for the old man to respond. The old man’s head was still bowed. He began to raise his head at the sudden silence, but Jensen continued.

“We feel it our duty and responsibility to tell you our message. It is a message of love and happiness. Please let us share it with you. Please, sir.” He was straining now. I put my finger through the back belt loop of his new pants. He didn’t respond.

By now the old man’s head was turning back and forth and his pipe was in his left hand. A cane in his right hand held him up. He was taking deep breaths, so I knew he was furious. I thought he was going to have a stroke right there. I pulled on the belt loop twice. Jensen turned his head around slowly. I did an instant double take as I saw his face. There were tears in his eyes. He turned his head away as I began to twitch the left side of my lips in disbelief and disgust. What a phony he is. I wanted to yank him off the porch that second, sit him down, and set him straight. The old man stopped me. He looked up. He was barely able to say what he said.

“You,” he paused and then continued in a deep voice, “you mean that?”

Jensen stared back.

“Yes, sir, I do.” He stood a little taller and went on. “I know our message will only bring you happiness. I know it’s true.” His tone was soft, but emphatic. He paused for a second, maybe two, and then fed him the same line we always use. “You see, sir, we come to Australia on our own time and at our own expense for two years. I couldn’t bear to tell a lie, especially for two years.” He sounded very convincing, but he wasn’t. He continued, “We only want to make you happy. If you want us to leave and let you alone, we will respect your wishes.”

“Yes,” whispered the old man. “Please leave me alone.” His head was bent again. Only the soft bald top of his head was showing. I knew it—he wanted us to leave. We were wasting his time. I pulled on Jensen’s arm. He turned around and grabbed the Joseph Smith pamphlet out of my pocket.

“Okay, sir, but will you read this?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It is short. It contains part of the message we have.” He waited for a reaction from the old man, but ended up breaking the silence himself. “Our phone number is on the back. If you want to hear more, please call us. We won’t keep you any longer.”

The old man took the pamphlet between his pipe and fingers, and we left.

When we were past the gate, the door to the house shut. I turned on Jensen. I let it flow.

“What were you trying to prove back there?” I snapped at him. “He wasn’t interested; he told you so. Not only that, you wasted our only Joseph Smith pamphlet on an old man. He’ll just throw it away. He can’t even read.”

Jensen’s head was now bowed and his shoulders were slouched. He apologized and followed me to the next door. I showed him how to do it on the next door, but they weren’t interested.

I got a letter that night; it was from Ernstein. It about blew my mind. He told me all about his first date. Oh, he also said his mother hadn’t noticed any change.

Jensen was quiet for the next three days. I think he was homesick. But today we got a phone call. That old man wants to talk to us.

Illustrated by Richard Brown