Atheists Wanted

Dear Dead,

Today I place a poster in the coffee shop that says: “Atheists Wanted.” I leave my phone number, and within a few days, you call me. I didn’t really expect anyone to call, because it was a strange poster.

When we meet, at the same coffee shop in the arts district, it takes a few minutes to feel each other out. I am drinking an iced chai, because it is a warm summer night and we are sitting outside in Virginia. You drink a hot black coffee because you don’t drink anything else. You smoke a cigarette, respectfully directing your smoky exhales away from my end of the table.

The questions begin. I want to make sure you are really an atheist; you want to make sure that I really believe in an all-powerful spiritual being. More importantly, you want to make sure I will keep good on my promise not to try to convert you. That’s what my poster said.

You are different. And I honestly like that. Sitting with you is the same feeling I get when I go to one of my cafés and order something I usually don’t. It takes an element of courage to take the risk and form your mouth around the words, asking for something other than what you’re used to. Lately I’d been noticing that everyone around me thought all the same thoughts I did, listened to all the same songs, and read all the same books. We had the same heroes, the same enemies, and the same ambitions. Somehow it felt inbred, and I didn’t like the feeling.

You have interesting answers to all my questions, and while most of them start or end with a swear word, they are always intelligent. I like intelligent answers. I like people who think. You tell me that you have no respect for “nominal atheists,” who get drunk and fornicate, and decide not to believe in God because it eases the guilt. I laugh out loud when you say that, because it’s so true. People don’t think about what they believe. People like easy answers.