I Am The Local Atheist

I am the Local
Atheist

by Warwick
Stubbs

Copyright ©
2013 Warwick Stubbs

Smashwords
Edition.

Smashwords Edition, License
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“
You yearn for the ideal, for virtue… but what shall I do if I
know for a fact that at the root of all human virtues lies the most
intense egoism?”

Dostoevsky

The Insulted and Humiliated
,
1861

Prologue

I have a deep
distrust for people who say they have a selfless desire to help.
Desire is born from the self and represents one facet of need, for
the self says “I must help!” therefore expressing its own desire,
not selfless at all, but very self-contained. There is a philosophy
that expresses this with the understanding that everything a human
being does is a manifestation of the ego. The ego encompasses all
that the body and spirit are and without that we have no
realisation of the self, that is, the person who makes choices, for
themselves and for others; the person who chooses to reach out and
help.

All actions
begin with “I…”

Chapter 1:

Suicide

If I hadn’t known any better I would have thought that God was
washing the streets of Invercargill down, or at least, making a
valiant attempt at it. Sometimes I admired God’s resolve to wash as
much crust off the earth as possible in one foul swipe, but here it
looked like rain had been an afterthought without any enthusiasm.
The gutters, on the other hand, ran their streams of water down the
street like there was no tomorrow. For them judgement day had
arrived far too early, so they had filled up and put as much effort
as they could muster into their man-made purpose. The bus stop was
left to fend for itself, giving as much shelter as it dared without
encroaching too far onto the footpath, as though that was
dangerously close to feeling the wrath of the gutters in all their
pleasure. And I was left to sit on its light blue bench with my
feet being spat at from above.
Thanks
.

I tried to
tuck them under me but the seat had been attached just low enough
to make it uncomfortable. So I just sat there looking out at the
rain, noticing the swaying of trees under the weight of their
saturated branches in the park over the road, the falling of
droplets from the cross beams framing the bus stop. It was unusual
to see them fall like that – like I had never paid attention to
such a simple thing before. Each droplet that fell transferred
itself from one place to another – in this case, from the bus stop
to the ground – and forever changed its very nature.

It was
suicide.

Just as the newspaper had reported:
“… girl kills herself by jumping off the overpass into
oncoming traffic.”

A year later
and that headline still made me feel sick.

I looked up
the road to see if the bus was in sight. Nothing but tired bursts
of rain pelted the streets. I sank back into the shelter.

It was so strange hearing about suicide in such a small
tight-knit community, especially when God was supposed to be
watching over those of us who were in His care. The shock-wave
passed over at least half the town’s population, not just a small
segment of family and friends like it might have in a larger city.
Mum had told me that the churches were “praying together” though
she didn’t actually see any of them
get
together: “I guess it’s the
thought that counts,” she said, blowing smoke and looking sideways
out of her kitchen window.

I was completely unaware of what anyone else had to say since
much of the details had remained behind closed doors – doors that
had been closed to me for as long as the article had been burned in
my memory now; longer in fact.
It had
quoted an outspoken congregation leader who was more than happy to
pass the blame onto the girl’s failure to attend church
(“a lack of faith”
), peer
pressure and drugs as though that was all that was needed to
explain it, as if one person’s crises could be condensed into a few
catch-phrases. But one person’s transition from a natural state
into a falling fragment of a larger issue could never be understood
if blame and finger-pointing were all that was required to assert
some kind of resolution.

I hated the
way church leaders got themselves up on a pedestal once a
microphone had been stuck in front of their mouths.

I didn’t like
thinking about it either: It reminded me too much of the crises
that Lisa had been through a year earlier and the attempts I had
made at trying to help her.

The splashing
of tyres ploughing through puddles brought me out of my reverie and
I stood up to attract the bus’s attention. The drains flooded over
and washed ever closer to my feet as the bus slowed down to a
sneak, almost as though the driver wasn’t sure about who they were
picking up: a standard passenger? or some crazy hitchhiker waiting
to take out his vengeance on a world that had deserted him?

The doors
opened and I tried to keep my head low, eyes staring at the
ground.

“
Art Gallery please.”

“
Dollar-fifty.”

I placed my
coins into the dish of the ticket dispenser. I hated those damn
things – I could never tear the tickets off properly. And this one
didn’t do me any favours. I tugged at it, but it didn’t rip, so I
twisted it and tried to tear it sideways but it only pulled more
ticket out instead.

The bus driver
got impatient and reached his hand over to help but I said “I can
do it”.

He didn’t care
and replied “Here, do it like this…” but I was too concerned about
proving that I could do it that our hands began competing for the
pull of the ticket.

“
Just let go, kid!”

Fuck him.
“I can do it!”

“
Just leave it.”

“
It’s
alright
!” Both our voices were nearing shouting level.

“
Y’ fuckin’ ruining the machine –
leave it
!”

I let go and
took a step back. My heart was beating a strong thud that echoed in
my ears. “I’m sorry.”

“
I don’t care y’ little shit. Just take the ticket and sit
down.”

I took the
extended ticket from his fingers, feeling as though his eyes were
about to throw fire-balls at me.

I moved down
the aisle as faces turned away in quiet astonishment, a few
eyebrows raised as attention wandered elsewhere. I sat as close to
the back doors as possible so I wouldn’t have to move past anybody
when the bus stopped to let me out.

The steel bar
that separated my seat from the doors was still cold from the
morning’s frost, as though an afternoon that was supposed to warm
everything up had nothing to say for itself. I placed my arms down
on it and buried my head in the folds of my jacket trying
desperately to calm the thoughts that wanted me to get off the bus
and just go back to my bedroom where I would be safe again,
unmolested by a world that constantly demanded answers from me.

I found
solitude and silence, but once my thoughts became quiet, the world
outside began to rise into recognition and conversations took the
place of my abandoned thoughts:

“
Where you off to today?”

“
Heading to town for food. So cold in the flat.”

“
So sick of being cold too.”

“
I know, Chris was gonna steal some wood from the neighbour’s
wood pile because we ran out and our student allowance doesn’t
cover warmth. Tertiary education? Yes; Food? Yes; warmth?
No!”

“
The government is way to stingy to provide
that
kind of help. New casino?
Yeah totally, we’ll help pay for
that
…”

“
That store is the shit man, they got the best games at
cheap-as prices.”

“
Dude I don’t know man, I got some pretty cheap games off the
net. And most of those cheap-as games are second hand.”

“
Yeah but postage is crap, especially from overseas – I ain’t
payin’ for that. I’d rather just walk into town just to warm up and
have something to do than sit in my crappy uninsulated student flat
ordering online and trying to coax as much heat as possible from
the computer’s processor…”

“
The gallows, of course, were originally designed to be an
example of punishment being met and justice prevailing, but as
Dickens was quick to observe, those who turned up to watch were
only there for their own perverse viewing pleasures and the gallows
were no longer about punishment but about propagating a system of
belief. The gallows lost all their ability to become a deterrent
from crime after seeing so much of it: if you got caught you got
caught, if you didn’t you were lucky and could live to thieve
another day.”

“
Dickens was a pessimist.”

“
No, he was the supreme optimist, who believed in the good of
man prevailing. Not only does
A Christmas
Carol
show this but practically all his
other novels in one way or the other
.
”

“
I can’t be bothered with old fat books that do nothing but
exemplify nineteenth century attitudes…”

I couldn’t be
bothered paying attention to a discussion that exemplified people’s
opinionated beliefs. I wanted to be in my bedroom wrapped up in
blankets, staring at the wall – doing anything but facing a world
that hated me; that I hated for hating me.

Though I knew
it was near, the gallery seemed too far away, occupied by people
that I had to hide from, make myself inconspicuous and not draw
attention to for fear that they find out who I was. I had thought
that there would be consolation knowing that Lisa would be there,
someone I knew and had spent valuable time getting to know, someone
whose life I knew I had had a positive effect on and helped bring
light that had lifted her out of darkness, but thoughts of her and
our quiet estrangement over the past year and a half only created
more anxiety that I had to deal with.

The bus
lurched sideways and screeched to a halt, knocking several
passengers against the walls. I stood up and got off as quickly as
possible without bothering to thank the driver, as I used to so
often do, thinking that they would appreciate it. Did they care? I
don’t know. I didn’t care – and that was all that mattered.

No one was
entering the art gallery when I got there. No one had gone in as I
had crossed the road and walked up to a building that loomed over
the street corner with the scars of age peeling from its pale
exterior; I had the feeling of complete emptiness surrounding me –
a dead town with a ghost walking the streets.

The entrance
was a subtle corridor of steps that raised the level of the
building above ground zero; paintings had been hung to each side –
simple pastel portraits that did little but diminish the inner glow
of their subject (too many greys). The inner room opened up to me
with a deep red lining the wall behind the hung paintings. Numerous
bodies shuffled about on a light brown carpet, dodging the
occasional painting that sat on the floor or leaned against a wall
as though it were too cool to be hung like a martyr for everyone to
stare in wonder at.

I let myself
disappear as best I could behind a group of people, slowly making
my way around to the wine table of which was just a wooden barrel
off a farm that someone had attached a round plank to. A large bowl
of grapes centred the weight allowing the glasses to sit
precariously round the edge and the wine bottles inside of them. I
kept my head low, not daring to meet any eyes as I filled a glass
to the brim and returned to my place against the wall behind the
same group. The wine was very smooth, almost palatable enough to
appeal to a wide range of tastes – hardly a drink to offend people
with or cause any winces of distaste. I winced as it slid into my
empty stomach and highly regretted not having something to eat
before I left the flat.