Being that I’m a one-time librarian, I’m sure you’ve guessed that I’m fond of books. More than, actually. You can lay odds that any bookstore visit, planned or no, will find me purchasing a goodly-sized stack of pulchri libri (if the weight doesn’t threaten the health of my skeletal system, I've failed on a colossal scale) on any silly number of subjects. Quite often, they’re of the sort that either support my non-religious thesis or argue against it. (*Insert Wilford Brimley voice-over* “You test your opinions, and you test ‘em often.”) What results is – far too frequently – the sudden and powerful desire to render myself invisible, to fetch a non-fictional version of a sonic blaster for use on that unwatched section of wall behind the bargain books ("Just slipping out quietly, don't mind me!" *ZAP!*), or, at the very least, the wish that I'd a very large backpack and no moral qualms with a bit of larceny. All of this to avoid the necessary encounter with the cashier, which invariably goes the same way…
One: Cashier smiles and voices personal tag line. Something along the lines of, “Did you find everything you were looking for today?”
Two: I smile in return, yapping the appropriate reply, and place items on the counter.
Three: Cashier takes note of the material being purchased.
Four: Cashier stops smiling.
Occasionally, the process plays out with a touch more flourish than this. (i.e.) The instance where the cashier actually caught sight of the titles before I approached the counter. (Ahh, if only I’d more vid capacity on my cell…. Would've made for a lovely YouTube contribution. Boy-who-smacks-testicles-with-skateboard, eat your heart out. ) Smiling, laughing and conversing with the customers both in front and behind me, the young man fell dead-silent when the line came to me. He turned away, didn’t look me in the eye, didn’t voice a word – not even to relay the total. Patiently inspecting his cuticles, he waited while I leaned around the counter to read the sum for myself. Mirroring his wordless attitude, I doled out the cash for my purchase and took my crabby leave, realizing (though it simply sucks to confess as much) that I’d allowed myself to exit that store feeling demeaned.
Only much later did it occur to me that the young man’s behavior might not have been entirely of his own volition, but guided by certain religious restrictions imposed on a far too large and impressionable number of missionaries in training.
He did have that look about him…
Regardless, this unpleasant dance was one to which I’d become accustomed. I’d shut my mouth and head to my car, socially slimed and mentally whining: “Wanny-boo-boo, no one likes me." Then, one bright and shiny day, something changed; a notion was implanted; a switch was flipped; or maybe an over-indulgence of Obamania tickled my can-do’s into a tizzy – I can't say for sure. But, recently, when the stage was set for the thousandth time, and I approached the counter with the twice-purchased “God Delusion” gripped in my puny fingers, there was a smile on my face. And when the cashier took note of the title and stopped speaking… I didn’t. By the end of the transaction, she was smiling once again – even laughing at my meager, conversational jests.
Success!
It was a pathetic victory, but a victory all the same. My years of silence had taught those I’d encountered (and me as well) next to nothing; only that ill-treatment and subversive stereotypes of those whose beliefs depart from the norm will be tolerated. I couldn’t be bothered to alter their interpretation of me, however incorrect, however corrupt. In that way, I was adding to one of the greatest downfalls of our otherwise-peachy nation: the idea that Christianity is who and what we are; and all else be damned.
Well I’ll not be (damned, that is), if it’s quite alright by America. And if it isn’t…. naturally, I’ll be forced to point out that she’s gone barking mad, but still… I suppose it’s to those like me to change her mind.
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