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In "Carving Tolstoy" in this issue, I review newly published books of classic short stories by Leo Tolstoy and Raymond Carver. Here’s a short short story that attempts to meld their disparate approaches.

On the Saturday before Christmas, Bernie Edwards—the grand old man of public relations—was holding forth at the Carnegie Deli. All the rookie sellers wanted to be like him. They knew how Edwards, before the Catastrophe, had changed an ingrained American habit in only three years.

“We came this close”—Edwards extended his arms, hands inches apart—“to changing from handshakes to fist bumps.” Handshakes were unsanitary, the Surgeon General said. “I told him, ‘Won’t happen. We like palm to palm. Here’s how we can shake without spreading germs.’” Soon actors coughed into their biceps and bathroom posters showed the way not to be selfish.

Sam Ishmael remembered that change from high school. But now, as a deacon-in-chief, he had to get the 50 members of his small group out of the office and knocking on doors. “Bernie, give us our marching orders.”

‘You and your cohort are perfect. Wholesome. Not too much comb-out. You smile, and the world smiles with you.’

Edwards laid out the “Jesus wept” campaign. “New Yorkers feel vulnerable. If we give people permission to cry, they’ll drop their pride. Could be the biggest spur to church attendance since 9/11.”

Rachel asked, “If denizens open their doors only an inch and see us with our crucifix necklaces, what then?”

Bernie grinned. “That’s why you and your cohort are perfect. Wholesome. Not too much comb-out. Small, silver crucifixes, in good taste. Red, white, and blue polo shirts. You smile, and the world smiles with you.”

Sam and Rachel lived together and thought they might marry sometime, so they co-chaired the Park Avenue Deacons and assigned each couple to a specific high-rise. They took 77 Park Avenue for their own. Sam admired the lobby, which had received 10 seconds of fame in the classic Bonfire of the Vanities.

As Security approved them, Sam did the math: 13 floors, eight habitations per floor, total of 104, figure half the people would be home, half of them would come to the door. That makes 26 live customers, figure 10 minutes each to share the Bible and ask for a decision. Expect four hours 10 minutes total, with 2.6 people on average responding positively.

No one responded to their first two knocks. At 2C a young man in his bathrobe let them in, but he was obviously high as he looped the year’s No. 1 pop song with its earworm lyrics: I like to hike I like to bike I like movies too. I like to talk I like to walk I like to be with you. In 5B a woman invited them in for tea, but soon it was clear that she was just lonely.

At 7A they found a live one. An old Jewish man, Daniel Rappaport, peered at Sam and Rachel through thick glasses and told them he had come to believe in Christ but hadn’t joined a church. Time to use the three steps for newbies: Get personal details. Get email address for follow-up. Leave a copy of Luke’s Gospel.

Sam listened in admiration as Rachel smoothly learned that Rappaport’s wife had died two years before. He was a social isolate, so Rachel brilliantly mentioned a nearby church with lots of widows. They were out within 15 minutes.

Sam and Rachel high-fived in front of the elevator—but Sam realized he hadn’t left the Luke pamphlet. He raced back to 7A and saw the door still ajar. He peeked in and saw Rappaport reading a Bible. Propped up next to it was a photo of his deceased wife. Sam listened: “Esther, here’s the third chapter we’ll study today.”

Then Sam heard the old man reading the last chapter of Luke, “Thus it is written, that the Christ should suffer and on the third day rise from the dead, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins should be proclaimed in his name to all nations. … Behold, I am sending the promise of my Father upon you. But stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high.”

Rappaport said, “On high, Esther. Let’s discuss what that means.” Sam shut the door softly and tiptoed away.

Email molasky@wng.org

Read more of Marvin Olasky’s short short stories here.