This morning I was shopping on the
Internet. Christmas is over for another year and it’s time to buy stuff
for myself.
A knock on the front door. Who the
hell would knock on my door? I live in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t a loud cop-knock or
a neighbor with the tentative lost-dog tap. This was a staccato rhythm, a
series of authoritative single strokes.
Immediately I thought, “Salesman.”
As I marched to the door I glanced
at my ax, which is propped nearby against the wall. Probably won’t need that.
I swung the door open to some
fifty-ish guy who looked like a piece of underdone toast; bland, conservative
gray suit, topcoat, glasses. He starts babbling aggressively, immediately,
while holding out a book and thumbing through it.
“We’ve been talking to
some of your neighbors about the bible and I would like to….”
I said, “Oh shit,” and slammed the
door.
I have a bible on the living room
table. I could see it from where I was standing. I’m reading the John Woods
translation of Thomas Mann’s German epic novel “Joseph and His Brothers.” It’s a reality-based re-telling of the biblical story of
Joseph, Jacob, Isaac, Rachael, Zebulon, Dinah, Levi, the whole unwashed,
superstitious, inbred poorly-groomed cast in a 1500 page package. I am not a
bible expert, so I keep the good book next to me as I’m reading so I can
refer to the original tales and compare them with Mann’s version. Mann’s book is a
fascinating read that will occupy a large chunk of winter.
It was ironic, though, that for
the first time in decades, I had a bible in plain view while some moron was
standing at the door a few days after Christmas with a desire to rag on me
about the mysteries and secrets of Christianity. There were so many things I wanted
to say to my dim redeemer.
“I
read the bible, it’s
bullshit, go away.”
“If
you believe in god I can’t
take anything you say seriously.”
“I’m an atheist and I
have an ax.”
This same thing happened thirty
years ago with two guys, Witnesses or Mormons, and I invited them in, poured
myself a big drink of brandy, offered them the bottle, put on some loud music, Zeppelin
or Black Sabbath, and told the bible-boys to sit down while I spewed obscenity
laced hatred and told them that as long as they were in my house I could kill
them if I wanted to.
Alas, I no longer drink, so that specific
avenue of fun has been pretty much closed off for me.
Instead, this morning, I glanced
at my ax, barked, “No
thanks,”
and slammed the door in the prophet’s face.
I did not give a shit if the guy
had traveled a jillion furlongs or cubits, if he had the secret to long life or
if his camel was thirsty.
I’m tired of believers; crazy religious people wear me
the fuck out.
I am not spiritual but I’m really devoted to my
ax. It’s
real. It’s
not an imaginary disappointment invented 4,000 years ago by some goat herders
who had gotten themselves in deep shit and needed a magical entity to rescue
them. I can hold the ax in my hands and swing it. It has weight and I can touch
it.
How about if I went door to door
preaching my beliefs and offering to show people how they could be saved?
“This
is my ax. I believe in my ax and you should, too. Can I take a few minutes of
your time to show you my ax and talk about your salvation?”
