Recently, I went to the local park to do some reading and go on a nice, brisk walk. Some people have meditation. Some people, I suppose, have prayer. Me? I’ve got the park. The fresh air and beauty quell my anxieties and often reignite my creative spark. The downside is that a lot of troubling animals creep around the park. You might call them people. Tomato. Tomato. (You have no idea if I really said that two different ways.)
Anyway, there I stood, leaning against my car to suck up some of the warmth (it was getting chilly out). I had on headphones and a book in my hand as a car slowly parked across from me and a typical middle-aged rural man ambled out and into the nearby bathroom. When I looked up, he glanced at me, but I figured there’s no more obvious signal of “Please, don’t talk to me” than reading while also wearing headphones. I forgot about the guy until he came back out and shouted, “WHATCHU READIN’?”
Don’t do this. Unless you genuinely love books and can briefly, and I mean briefly, say your piece and move on, it’s irritating as all hell. No stranger who asks me what I’m reading has ever shown interest in the answer, and they’ve never recommended me a book I might like. There’s a theory I have that strangers who ask you what you’re reading are trying to force an interaction because they can’t conceive of the fact that somebody might not be interested in talking to them.
I looked up, music blaring in my ears, and I said, “The Wizard of Oz. The seventh book, actually.”
“You read a lot?”
I was inwardly wincing; now aware we were going to have a whole conversation. I pulled my right headphone away from my ear. I shouldn’t have. It was like putting up the white flag of surrender. “Yeah, all the time. Probably 30 to 40 books a year.”
“Me, I like to read, too.”
“That’s cool.”
“You ever read The Good Book?”
Oh. Here we go. Here it is.
Now, maybe I could have been honest with the guy. But I usually avoid confrontation unless totally necessary. “Sure, a little,” I told him.
In hindsight, I think I could have said anything, and he would have persisted. I could have told him that Giraffes have cocks disproportionately small compared to their body size and it would have just gone into one ear, passed like a tumbleweed through the emptiness in his head, and floated out the other side. Because he wasn’t really listening — he just wanted to set up his pitch.
“That’s great. What did you think?”
“It’s sort of interesting, I guess.”
“I want you to know that I give out presents.”
Presents? This man had no idea how to make a transition. He stood by his car, staring at me. I nodded. “That’s cool, but I’m not interested,” I said. I watched him open the door and wondered if I should be getting into my own car before this psychopath beat me to death with a hammer. He waited a long while, obviously hoping I would come get my present. No way was I stepping near him.
“I give out Bibles. Do you want one?”
“I’m okay. I’ve got one at home.”
“But this is a really nice Bible. It’s expensive. The King James Bible. It has lots of advice in the margins that’s useful for living a good life. You can study it.”
“No, thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass.”
“You sure? It’s useful.” I watched the guy stand there awkwardly and he seemed to be tugging at his shirt and struggling with his pants. For a second, I thought he was about to whip his dick out. “I give out presents,” he’d say. “This is a King James Penis. Really expensive. You can study it.”
Alright. Maybe that’s too much. But I was flabbergasted. A little scared. I had to reassure myself I could kick his ass if need be. Thankfully, the guy didn’t pull his dick out. But he did, after I was resolute in my disinterest, pull out his expensive Bible and cross the gulf of space between us. Really, I should have left, because even if he wasn’t going to kill or molest me, he was blatantly refusing to comply with my request not to give me his stupid fucking present. He held the Bible in front of me and said, “This is for you. Take it.”
I glared dumbly at the guy while he handed me the Bible. I opened my hand and accepted it. He told me if I didn’t want it, I could just pass it on to “Some shut-in somewhere.” We talked a little more but it’s honestly a blur now. I remember he asked my name, and I didn’t want to give it to him. He got in his car and began to drive away, but before he got too far along, he rolled down his window and said, “Good luck!”
For a moment I felt guilty. Maybe this was just his own narrow way of expressing kindness. Maybe he was actually a progressive Christian! The Bible was in a thick cardboard box. I got in the car, sat down, and opened it up.
Immediately I was greeted by printouts he’d stuffed inside about The Rapture and Great Tribulation. The text proclaims, “The Bible is 100% True and We are in the End Times, Jesus died to save us!” How am I supposed to take anybody seriously who can’t even figure out what they should and shouldn’t capitalize? The text goes on to talk about how “UFOs and Aliens” are actually demons, but The Rapture will be framed as a mass abduction by “The Media.” Okay, well, if aliens are really sent from hell, then what are they doing abducting people for The Rapture? This shit makes no sense. It never does! The text also cautions people about The Mark of the Beast. Those who accept it will go to hell for eternity. Those who do not will be beheaded. Sounds to me like you’re fucked either way.
Beneath the gigantic Bible I found a tiny, smashed spider. It was an apt metaphor — the guy carrying around all these enormous Bibles was actually being crushed beneath them. To a man, the King James Bible might seem purposeful. A spider sees it as something else: a big inanimate object which bears no meaning. Unless, of course, the spider gets squished by it.
When I got home, I threw my present in the dumpster. You might find this disrespectful, but I’d tell you that somebody forcing a Bible on me with no idea (or care) what I actually believe is not someone worth my respect. I was angry. If this was a person who I worked with, who seemed in touch with reality, and he said one day, “Hey, ever really read the Bible?” Well, maybe we could have a conversation about God. But it rarely happens like that. It’s usually some fuckin’ looney tune.
What is it with Christian zealots that they want to butt into other people’s lives? I’ve never encountered a door-to-door Judaist. Nobody has ever approached me in public and insisted on handing me a Quran. I’ve never seen a shitty pamphlet about studying The Satanic Bible tacked to the corkboard in a diner. But Christians, they’ll interrupt your routine, and they’ll certainly try to put something in your hand. Luckily, it’s not usually a King James Penis. Thank God for small miracles.
The worst part is the printouts Bible Guy gave me are an advertisement for a local church. They offer “pizza and pop, fellowship, and prayer.” And they want you to bring your kids. Little Petey can gorge himself while learning about his inevitable decapitation. It’s not a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese, but it’ll do in a pinch.
If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t try to challenge Bible Guy, because he wouldn’t listen anyway. Instead, I’d say, “Isn’t that funny? I give out presents, too. Why don’t we exchange gifts?” When he gave me his Bible, I’d hand him a fake dog turd. He could use it to play a joke on somebody. It’d be much less harmful than pushing his ideas onto passerby.
I bet you if I went around handing out fake dog turds I’d get a lot of smiles. Maybe even strike up some real conversation. Hell, you might say I was being useful. I think I could distribute more dog turds than Bibles on any given day. If you were approached on the street by a stranger and they offered you a gift, would you prefer they gave you a Bible or a rubber dog turd?
That’s what I thought.
I would appreciate a plastic dog turd in the desk shelf of my hotel room. It would make my day.
I got the King James penis one time (also in a parking lot). The footnotes were nice, but down on the balls. All the wrinkles made for a difficult read.