A little Danish gets him off the hook (08/16/06)

It was probably 1972, though I can't be sure.

We were living in Indianapolis at the time, right in the heart of the inner city, and my sister Louise was coming for a visit.

She was arriving by bus, and I was assigned the job of picking her up and transporting her to our tiny apartment.

Now, anyone who was ever in a metropolitan bus station in the 1970s knows they're not some place you want to spend much time. I have no idea what they're like today, since bus travel in this country has dropped dramatically.

But at the time, the Greyhound station in Indy was a grimy, cold-hearted place. Panhandlers and grifters dominated the landscape. Travelers, numb from the long ride and long wait, looked like zombies. And, in the wintertime, a number of the people in the building were there simply to stay warm. They had nowhere else to go.

That was the scene, when I settled into a hard plastic seat to await my sister's arrival.

I hadn't been there long before I spotted the evangelists.

Today, I couldn't tell you for sure what brand of religion they were pitching. It was too early for Scientology, I think. But there were a lot of flavors of oddball religions in the early 1970s. Whatever it was, they were working the crowd of travelers and misfits with genuine zeal.

Anyone who made eye contact was subject to - at minimum - a conversation on the ultimate destination of one's soul.

I looked at the floor. I looked at my hands. I wished that I'd thought to bring a book with me. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see the religious duo working their way in my direction.

Now, I didn't want to be rude. But I also didn't particularly want a sermon, especially when I amounted to a captive audience until my sister's bus arrived.

By the time the duo reached my row of seats, desperate measures were called for.

Despite myself, I made eye contact. They launched in immediately.

I hesitated, then responded with my most baffled expression.

In a halting voice and an accent reminiscent of the Swedish chef on The Muppet Show, I said, "I speak no English. Do you speak Danish?"

Why Danish? I figured the odds were good that absolutely no one in the Indy bus station spoke the language.

It was a small lie, but it worked.

The duo moved on, but they continued to watch me from a distance. I kept silent and stayed away from the newsstand, knowing that it would be an instant giveaway if I started looking at magazines.

Clearly, they were suspicious of my subterfuge. They probably knew that the odds of finding a Dane in the downtown bus station at that hour were one in a zillion.

Finally, my sister's bus arrived.

The duo watched like hawks as I greeted her, waiting for the moment when she or I would speak in English. I could almost hear the hellfire and brimstone coming down on me.

Somehow, however, Louise caught my non-verbal signal and didn't say a word. As the doors to the elevator closed so we could go to the parking garage, the religious duo's eyes were locked on us. I pushed the button, and we ascended, safely out of their reach.

Was it my proudest moment? Of course not. Even a little falsehood bothers the conscience.

Did it work in my time of need? You bet.

Viva Denmark.[[In-content Ad]]