Tracting sucks.

There, I said it.

You see all these training videos when growing up in the church. Videos of friendly people inviting missionaries into their homes, feeding them dinner, listening to what they have to say with smiles on their faces.

The reality of tracting is a lot less film-worthy and a lot more cringe-inducing. Ninety percent of the time, knocking on a door results in nothing. A lot of times, we can hear the person rustling behind the closed door, whispering in a hushed voice with whoever might be in the room. And, on the rare occasion when the door actually opens, nine times out of ten, it gets slammed right back in our faces.

It’s been three days of this, and so far, we have no potential investigators. The few people who were kind enough to pretend to listen to us for a minute immediately shot us down the second we mentioned setting up regular lessons.

And, just this morning, a man opened the door, took one look at our appearance, and told us we had three seconds to get off his property or he’d start shooting. The look on his face made me think he wasn’t joking. We hightailed it out of there faster than you could say Joseph Smith, making sure to add a note for future missionaries not to go back to that house for a while. I wanted to warn everyone to stay as far away as possible from that place, but as Elder Fisher reminded me, everyone deserves a chance to hear the gospel.

“He might not have wanted to talk to us. But maybe, in a few more months, his heart will be more open to hearing our message.”

Yeah, right. Or maybe, in a few more months, he’ll be even more irritated at the intrusion and not give the next guys a warning. But, apparently, in Fisher’s eyes, a potential investigator is more important than personal safety.

If only I had that drive.

I’m dragging my feet as we walk up to the next house, not wanting to go through a repeat of this morning.

Elder Fisher seems to notice my reluctance, stepping in front of me and taking my arms in his hands. “Don’t let days like today get you down. We’ll get there. We just have to find the right person.”

I nod, stepping around him and taking the few steps up to the porch. I knock softly, looking down at the cracked floorboards beneath my feet. This certainly isn’t the area I imagined I’d be serving in when I got my mission call. But, as Elder Fisher likes to remind me, it’s those with the least who need the gospel the most.

He’s full of those friendly reminders. It’s enough to make me want to smack him.

After a few minutes of no answer, Elder Fisher and I walk down the cement walkway and back to the sidewalk. I turn to the right, getting ready to head up to the next house, when Fisher surprises me.

“How about we take a break and grab some lunch? I saw a sandwich place a few blocks from here when I was out with Elder Sullivan a few weeks back. Seemed kind of swanky.”

I lift an eyebrow, finding it hard to believe anything in this area could be considered swanky by any definition of the word. But lunch sounds good. We usually snack on granola bars and crackers, as we’re out during the day. It’ll be a nice treat to actually sit down and eat lunch.

The two of us quickly make our way over to the sandwich shop, my sudden hunger pangs making it hard not to flat-out sprint to the food. But I hold myself back, knowing a missionary running through the streets in search of roast beef isn’t exactly the image the church wants to present.

I’m surprised to see the place isn’t as run-down as the rest of the buildings in the area. It’s not like the fancy places I saw on my way from the airport, but compared to the building right next door, it’s practically a palace. A hand-painted sign hangs in the window, displaying the shop is very aptly named Corner Bistro. Might not be the most original name, but there’s something to be said for simplicity.

The glass on the door and windows is wiped clean, something I would’ve thought impossible on this dingy street. And, when we walk inside, we’re greeted by the same cleanliness that is implied from the outside. The tiled floor is mopped clean, the overhead light glinting off the shiny surface. There’s an awesome little breakfast bar at the front, and several tables are scattered throughout the remaining space.

A middle-aged woman steps out from the back, greeting the two of us with a smile. “Anywhere you’d like, boys. We’re not too busy this time of day. Take a seat, and I’ll send Q right over.”

I follow Fisher to a small table over in the corner where he immediately spreads out a map and opens his notebook, making a game plan for the remainder of the afternoon. I just want to enjoy my lunch, so I slightly sink down in my seat, tuning him out for the most part. I throw out an occasional nod and, “Sounds good,” when it seems appropriate. My eyes are just beginning to drift shut when our server approaches.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my two favorite missionaries,” a familiar voice says.

My eyes instantly open at the sound. Quinn is standing before us, a white apron tied around his waist below a dark T-shirt with the store name embroidered over his left pec.

“Hey, Quinn,” Fisher greets him. “I didn’t know you worked here. Is this where you’re always disappearing to at night?”

Quinn shakes his head. “No. This is the day job. I have a second one I work at most nights.”

“You work two jobs?” I blurt out, surprised that someone his age is already working so many hours a week.

He looks to be only a couple of years older than me. Shouldn’t he still be in college or something?

His green eyes land on me, a sparkle lighting behind them as he takes me in. “Sure do, Barkey Boy. This city is expensive. Got to pay the bills somehow.”

“How come you don’t just live with your parents? You’re young enough to still get away with that.”

Fisher shoots me an inquisitive look, clearly not understanding why I’m asking him so many personal questions that have nothing to do with his faith.

“My parents are still back in Georgia. I moved out here when I was nineteen, dead set on becoming an actor. I thought I’d move out here, get cast in the next big franchise, and be set for life. Turns out, things don’t always go according to plan. But I’m not ready to give up yet. I’ve still got a few good years left in me before I’m too old to break into showbiz.”

A grin breaks out across my face. “You’re an actor? That’s so cool. I’ve never met anyone who acts before. Other than, like, the high school play and stuff.”

A coy smile crosses Quinn’s lips as his eyes rove over me. “High school plays, huh? How old are you anyway, Barker?”

“Nineteen,” I answer without even thinking.

This seems to send Fisher over the edge.

“Okay, I think we’re ready to order. I’ll have the turkey and Swiss. Elder Barker, what would you like?”

I scan the menu, landing on the first thing I see with roast beef. “I’ll have the Hunter’s Delight.”

Quinn smirks at my order, giving me another sly smile, before turning to head back to the kitchen. “I’ll get those right out, boys.”

“What are you doing?” Fisher hisses as soon as Quinn is out of earshot. “You’re not supposed to get all buddy-buddy with potential investigators. You certainly don’t need to be offering up personal information about yourself when you have no idea why he wants to know.”

I wave him off. “I was just being polite. He might be more interested in hearing what we have to say if we actually act interested in him as a person and not just a potential convert.” The words roll so easily off my tongue, I almost believe them myself. It has nothing to do with the fact that Quinn intrigues me. Nope, not at all.

“That might be. But I still don’t think you should be getting all chummy with him. It’s not why we’re here.”

“What harm could it do? You think he’s going to sell my info on the black market? So he knows I’m nineteen. What’s the big deal?”

“The ‘big deal,’” he replies, throwing air quotes around my words, “is that I told you what Elder Sullivan and I heard that one night. He’s not mentally healthy, Elder Barker. And, until we can show him that his lifestyle is unacceptable in the eyes of God, I don’t think we should be giving him any information he might use against us.”

I grind my teeth at his words, biting my tongue at the response I so desperately want to say. How on earth could he possibly use my age against me? And who are we to tell this man how he lives his life is wrong? He seems pretty happy to me. At least he seems to know who he actually is. That’s more than I can say for myself.

“Just cool it with him, okay?” Elder Fisher says seconds before Quinn swings through the kitchen door, a glass of water in each hand. He sets them down in front of us. “I’ll be right back with your food.”

I watch him walk away, and once he is gone again, I turn my gaze back to Fisher. He expectantly looks at me.

“Okay, whatever you say. I’ll watch what I say around him from now on.”

Fisher seems placated by my response, and when Quinn returns with our food, he tucks into his sandwich without another word. Quinn lingers at the table for a moment, asking if we’d like more to drink or if we need anything else for our sandwiches.

I pick up the pickle spear next to my roast beef, taking a bite before smiling at him. “I think we’re good for now. Thanks, Quinn.”

He winks at me before he walks away. “You boys just shout if you need anything. I’ll be right over there.” He points to the breakfast bar where several ketchup bottles and sugar dispensers are waiting to be filled.

Elder Fisher and I eat quietly, both of us quickly finishing off our food. The sandwich was delicious, the roast beef perfectly cooked and savory. I’m going to have to convince Elder Fisher that we need to stop in here more often. We don’t get a whole lot of spending money as missionaries, and most of it is spent on necessities. But I’m willing to forgo the name-brand shampoo and the few sweets we’re allowed if it means I can get one of those sandwiches on the regular.

Seeing the waiter on the regular will just be an added perk.

Quinn clears our plates, and Elder Fisher pulls his planning materials back out. We map out an idea on how to proceed for the next couple of hours until the meeting we have scheduled with an investigator whom Fisher and Sullivan spoke with last week. I have to admit, I am sort of excited to see what an actual lesson with someone will be like. Maybe that’ll be the turning point I’ve been waiting for, and this will all fall into place.

Elder Fisher and I pack up our gear, slinging the black bags we carry everywhere across our bodies as we stand. The food has given me a renewed sense of vigor, and there’s a bit of a bounce to my step as we walk toward the door.

“You guys enjoy the rest of your day. Maybe I’ll see you around this evening!” Quinn shouts as Fisher pushes open the door and steps outside.

I turn, giving him a small wave.

Quinn’s eyes meet mine, that devastating smile he gave me the other day on the street returning to his lips. And, again, my breath hitches, a tingling sensation spreading across my body as I try to catch my breath.

“Bye, Barkey Boy,” he says with a wink.

The smile doesn’t leave my face for the rest of the day. And, if I’m being honest, it has nothing to do with the food. The spring in my step is all Quinn.