414. Talk

Omigod, he was doing that thing where you visit with someone through your computer.

“I like when you stroke it that way,” he said to someone on the other end. I couldn’t see who, and C.W. couldn’t see me. I had stepped into room at an angle to him and he hadn’t noticed me. He was concentrating too hard.

I stood perfectly still.

C.W. and I had watched one of our favorite films the night before, My Favorite Year, with Perter O’Toole. That’s who talked into my computer now. At least it was he the way C.W. remembered him from the movie.

“Oh,” he said, still speaking to the screen, “that’s it. That makes it nice and warm. Heat helps.”

I stayed frozen. He was wearing my earphones so I couldn’t hear what the other person said.

“Next, I’d put my right finger up a bit,” he said. “Yes, right there. Oooh, that does the job, right?”

I thought maybe I’d better wait and get all the facts.

“I can’t find fault at all with that move.” He laughed.

Maybe I should take notes for the confrontation to come.

“Ah, that’s going to leave it looking proud, standing there.”

I strained forward a bit. The person on the other end said something and C.W. nodded.

“Just a few strokes more and we’ll finish with a flourish and a flash.”

Oh dear. Why interrupt him now?

“Wow,” he said, “you keep doing that and the boys will want you to go pro.”

“Pro?”

“I love it,” he said. “I really love it. Rub it right there. That’s it. You may have to give that one place a little lick again.”

Should I be recording this?

“My, my,” he said. “You keep going this way and we’re going to create a masterpiece. See what a little guidance and experience will do for you?”

I took a deep breath. I strained slightly toward him to see better. We’ll have a long talk about this later. At that point, I was curious to hear what he would say next.

He smiled, winked, and almost purred into the screen. He made a rubbing motion, as if in encouragement. “That’s the way. Good child. Really good. The fathers would really be shocked if they could see you." He added, “Let’s not tell anyone about this, okay?”

“Fathers?” That sounded strange. Not as strange, though, as what I heard him say next.

 “Are you really just fourteen?”

Yikes! That was it. I yelled across the room, “C.W. what the hell are you doing?”

He looked up at me, quite surprised as you might imagine. “Oh hi, Big Dope. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Like hell, it doesn’t.” I stormed across the room to get at the computer screen.

C.W. put up a hand to stop me. “Stop, you’ll frighten the child.”

I slapped his hand away and spun the screen toward me,

“What did I tell you?” he said.

There, on the screen, was a young boy’s face masked in pure terror. He was sitting behind a table and on it, in front of him, was a large silver serving tray, a bottle of polish, and several rags. One was still in his hand.

“What the … ?”

“It’s only my planetary host, Robbie,” C.W. said into the screen. “He’s to me what Fenderhead is to your family, only not, as you can see, as sophisticated.” He turned to me. “See what you’ve done?”

“Fenderhead?”

“One of his dads is a Navy veteran and couldn’t pronounce Falloonian names.” He turned to the screen. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it finished before they all get back.”

I was still trying to catch my breath. “What … ?” was all I could get out.

“Thanks for spoiling a nice plan,” C.W. said. “Robbie was going to surprise his parents by polishing some silverware for their anniversary party. They’ve all gone to Little Rock to get a cake.”

“His parents?”

“Ed and Donnie.”

“Anniversary?”

“Their third. Thanks for interfering.”

“That’s the oddest thing I’ve ever had to try and understand. I’m just old-fashioned, I guess.”

“Oh dear Big Dope, “ he said, and it was Peter O’Toole talking now. “Where have you been? (He pronounced it as ‘be’” with an added ‘n’). Robbie here is Ed’s child but they both became his parents three years ago. Their marriage is quite legal now. You’ll just have to try and live with the concept.”

“Oh no, “I said. “That’s not what I was talking about at all.”

“What on Earth could it have been? Did you misinterpret our conversation perhaps?”

“No. Well, maybe a little at first,” I lied.

“Then what troubles your heart so?”

“People talking into computer screens.”

What's Big Dope's problem? - C.W.

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

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277. Answers

C.W. may have discovered his true vocation this time, or as he put it recently, “I have found my strong inner impulse toward a particular course of action especially when accompanied by conviction of divine influence.”

“And,” I said, after thinking this over momentarily, “what do you perceive your ‘calling’ to be?

“I have begun an advice column.”

Now I understood why he appeared as a toned-down version of the actor Morgan Freeman. I couldn’t stop myself from playing along. “And what, exactly, are you going to offer advice about?”

“All things related to living among your species,” he said. “It is one of the most difficult tasks in the Galaxy. There are dynamics difficult even for us to understand, so I suspect it may be impossible for you, yourselves.”

“You think our civilization is complicated and confusing?”

“Sarah Palin,” was all he said.

“I see,” I said. “But how would an outsider like you be in a position to explain it?”

“I am smarter and more analytical than you.”

Upon hearing this, the urge to mention his frequent career changes and seemingly constant stream of reprimands from the Falloonian Elders came to mind, but I withstood it. “So what makes you think you would be successful at this latest endeavor?”

“I sense your cynicism but would invite you know I have already begun, with great results.” With that, he produced the briefcase that he carries around and began to retrieve papers. He thrust one at me. It read:

“Dear Ask the Alien:

“My wife was always a wonderful traveling companion, cheerful, agreeable, and willing to lead a spirited conversation aimed at whiling away the hours of travel. A year ago, however, she purchased a new cell phone that accesses the Internet. I haven’t heard a word from her since. When we travel, she sits and stares at the darned thing, punching messages and laughing to herself. I might as well travel solo. What might I do?” It was signed “Lonely Traveler.”

“Well,” I said. “I can’t imagine problem like that. What advice would you offer?”

“Oh,” he said, “I already have. Here.” He handed me another sheet and I read:

“Dear Lonely Traveler:

“Throw the offending instrument out the window.”

“That’s all?” I said.

“My secret lies in the quality or condition of being easy to understand,” he said.

“Simplicity is one thing,” I said, “suggesting a course of action that could lead to bodily harm is another. Do you have more?”

“Glad you asked,” he said. “Here’s a problem from another person.” I read:

Men: you just have to face facts. There are things in life
 more interesting than you. Many things. Sorry - C.W.

“Dear Ask the Alien:

“My husband was always a wonderful traveling companion, calm, agreeable and even tempered, until recently. We were on a trip, each minding our own affairs, when he suddenly reached over, grabbed my Smart Phone, and threw it over a bridge railing into the Arkansas River. What should I do? The last time I wrote you of a problem, you advised me to ‘cut him off.’ I should tell you that we are in our 70s, so I don’t think that advice will work.” It was signed, “Seeking Revenge.”

“Hmm,” I said. “And your advice?” He handed it to me.

“Dear Seeking Revenge:

“Go to his computer, pull up the browsing history, print it off, and send it to each of his friends and business associates.”

“Man,” I said. “You’re tough.”

“Check this one out,” he said, handing me another. It read:

“Dear Ask the Alien:

“One of my best friends is so excited that he was at last able to marry and have a husband. I am, of course, happy for him. But now he is making a spectacle of himself. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries (monthly), not to mention Valentine’s Day are so extravagantly planned that he is making the rest of us look cheap and tawdry. How can I cool the enthusiasm of this marriage so that it is more like a normal one?” It was signed, “Suffering by Comparison.”

I could hardly wait for the response as he passed it to me. I must say, it was a beaut.

“Dear Suffering:

“Before the next event, tell him in greatest secrecy that you happen to know what his husband wants most as a gift: a banjo.”

You know. I think the Alien may have found his calling at last. Feel free to seek answers for yourselves.

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Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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274. Scriptures

What’s this all about over in Kentucky.” C.W. looked up at me when I walked into the room and found him in one of his rare moments of watching TV, looking a lot like his Grandpa Amos McCoy character.

“What, over in Kentucky?” I said.

“This county employee that won’t do her job. She’s a pill, by golly.” He cackled.

“Oh the woman who doesn’t like gay couples and won’t give them marriage licenses?”

“That’s the one. She says it’s not because she don’t like gays.”

“Yes.” I said, “and Robert E. Lee said he didn’t wage war against his own country four years because he didn’t like black people.”

He looked at me funny. “He always said that violating his oath had nothing to do with slavery,” he said. “In fact, he was agin’ it.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I suppose that’s why, when his army marched into Pennsylvania, they rounded up all the free African-Americans they could find and sent them South to be sold, according to the scriptures.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “But about this sister in Kentucky.”

“What about her?”

“She says it ain’t Biblical for a person to marry gays.”

“Well,” I said. “It ain’t Biblical for one person to judge another person, either.”

“She thinks she’s acting on higher authority.”

“So did the World Trade Center bombers.”

“You don’t like her much, do you?”

“I don’t know her,” I said.

 “But you don’t thinks she would pass the pass ‘The Trip To the Calvinasian Galaxy Test,’ I reckon.”

“The Trip To the Calvinasian Galaxy Test?”

“To take a long trip confined in a spaceship with a nutcase.”

“We call it,” I said, “The Trip To California Test.’ And no, I hardly think I would like to make it with her. Besides, she’s breaking the law and violating her duty to observe it.”

“But she cites a scripture to support herself.”

“So do parents who beat their children to death.”

“Are you telling me,” he said, “that your species is free to cite any scripture that supports their insanity and ignore those that don’t?”

“That’s pretty much it,”

“That’s Kopapilakrapuhdae,” he said.

Making sense of things in Kentucky is
as hard as making sense of banjo music. - C.W.

“No doubt,” I said.

“So, say I … uh … say a woman was to bust up all her husband’s guitars and banjoes, based on the scripture that says ‘Make a joyful noise,’ and the sounds y…, uh, the man was making wasn’t very joyful, there would be spiritual absolution?”

“Not at all,” I said, “any scholar of the scriptures knows that a woman exists solely to serve her husband, and that would hardly be serving him, now would it?”

“Have you explained that to Mrs. Big Dope?”’

“She doesn’t need to understand it. As Job said, ‘Can anyone understand the spreading of the clouds, the thunderings of his pavilion?.’”

He started to cackle and said, “That’s purty good, so …” he stopped and turned toward the TV. “Wait,” he said, “they’re going live to Kentucky. Hey … can you hear that banjo music playing?”

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Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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250. Blacklists

Oh my, I thought someone was staging a production of Animal Farm in my living room. It was that extraterrestrial rascal C.W., of course, but what the …? I thought it was a pig wearing a silk suit sitting at my computer.

Actually, he had taken on the form of that TV evangelist John Hagee. It was pretty frightening.  “What on earth?” I said.

“Making a list,” he said. “Be quiet or face the wrath of God.”

Well I certainly didn’t want to risk that, so I sat on the couch and waited until he had finished a thought.

“There,” he said. “That should about do it.” He looked up at me.

“Do what?”

“Complete my list of forbidden customers—ones that good Christian salespeople can no longer serve.” He studied the screen for a second, and started typing again. “Divorcees,” he said.

“You’re making a list,” I said, “of people that Christians can’t serve?”

“The Conference commissioned me,” he said. “Badly needed now. Badly needed. Lots of sin going on in these end-times.”

“And the point is?”

He grimaced. “Can’t risk a good Christian selling goods or services to the wicked and damned,” he said. “Might be contagious. Just like those ‘homo-weddings’ that the Bible wouldn’t allow.”

“You mentioned divorcees,” I said.

“Oh yes. Hell a lot of those wicked folks running around wanting to do business with the sanctified.”

“Divorcees?”

“Don’t you read your Bible? Christ was real clear about that.” He pointed to a large-print Bible belonging to my mother-in-law. “Right there in Matthew Nine, ‘I tell you that anyone who divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, and marries another woman commits adultery.’ Christ himself said it then, and I’m telling you now,” he said with a smug expression, “we can’t have us godly folks serving such base sinners.”

“Jesus never married,” I said, “so he didn’t have to face that possibility.”

“Never married,” he said. “Neither did any of those who traveled with him. They were, uh, celibate.”

“I see,” I said. “Anyone else on your list?”

“Well,” he said, “Pharisees. Jesus didn’t much care for them.”

“So your people shouldn’t serve Jews.”

“Just the Rabbis,” he said. “The others are okay.” He thought for a moment, “Besides, we need to keep them alive until we need them.”

I let this one go. “And the rich?”

“What about them?”

“I seem to remember,” I said, “that Jesus was pretty hard on the rich.”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s all taken out of context and overblown. Besides … they’re the ones with the money. Can’t quit serving us, … I mean … them.”

“Anyone who has ever made fun of a bald-headed man?”

“Yes,” he said excitedly as he began pounding on the computer again. “Thanks.”

“Let’s get back to this adultery thing,” I said.

“Let’s,” he said.

“So any couple who may have lived together before marriage or …,” I struggled with the words.

“Played the little ‘in-out’ game before they got hitched,” he said, laughing.

“Quite,” I said.

The laugh went away. “No can serve,” he said.

“Uh,” I said, “isn’t that pretty strict?”

“The Bible is the Bible,” he said. “I don’t make the rules. It says that if you can’t go without sex—absolutely can’t go without it for another day—you have to get married to do it, but you shouldn’t anyway because there isn’t a lot of time for such nonsense before the world ends.”

“When was that said, and by whom?”

“Um,” he said, looking at his notes, “About two thousand years ago. Paul said it, or maybe it was his partner Timothy. They traveled together and their notes got mixed.”

“His partner?”

“Now look,” he said, “If you’re going to be a thorn in my side, you can just leave.”

“Oh no,” I said. “I’m terribly interested. Just what are you calling your list?”

“Ah,” he said. “I have chosen a wonderful name: ‘A Holy Omissions List for Evangelist Salespeople.'”

“Oh my,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “I call it my AHOLES list.”

I didn’t say another word.

 

I just don't understand why some people think Jesus
wouldn't like rich folks. This man is rich and he
claims Jesus loves him a lot. - C.W.

 

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247. Choices

C.W. can get under my skin if I let him, like he did this morning. He walked in wearing a kimono and looking a lot like Orlando Bloom. He smiled at me and cocked his head to one side.

“I’ve decided want to be gay,” he said.

I dropped my dictionary—yes, my dictionary— and knocked over the remnants of my coffee. I placed the dictionary back on the table, dabbed coffee with a napkin, and shook my head, bewildered.

“What the hell are you doing and why do you look that way?”

He sniffed, and placed a hand on his hip. “How many times,” he said, “have I heard you say that you’re not gay but, that if you were, you’d be gay for Orlando Bloom? I just want to be gay.”

“C.W.,” I said, “you can’t be gay.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re a go… because you’re an alien.”

“Aliens have rights. You do recall your Alien Visitation and Exploration Contract, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t say you can be gay.”

“It says that you must allow me a wide range of choices in my behavior.”

I sighed. “But being gay is not a choice.”

“That man on TV, your former governor what’s his name, ‘Hucksterable,’ or whatever, says it is and he’s a preacher. He ought to know. He’s running for president.”

Preachers don’t establish scientific facts,” I said. “Thank goodness. Neither do presidential candidates.” I stopped and thought about this for a second and relief spread over me. “Besides,” I said, “you can’t believe that everything you see on television is real.”

“You think Big Bang’s Penny is real.”

“Shhh,” I said. I lowered my voice. “How many times have I told you that we don’t talk about Penny when my wife is in the house?”

“Mrs. Big Dope knows you are an idiot.”

“No she doesn’t.”

“Does too. She told me so.”

We were drifting off course. “Well,” I said, “she did marry me.”

“It was her choice,” he said, “for some reason. Now I want to make my own choice.”

Sometimes C.W. can lead you into a logical minefield. “So what would you do,” I said, “upon becoming gay?”

“I want to find a mate and get married, so we can be as happy as you and Mrs. Big Dope.”

I studied him carefully to see if I could detect any signs of sarcasm. Seeing none, I continued. “But you couldn’t get married in this state, at least not yet.” Then I shook my head. “What am I doing? C.W. …,” I said it loudly to get his attention, “you’re a frickin alien. You’re job here, as I understand it, is to observe and report, not set yourself up for abuse, beatings, rejection, and denial of basic rights—maybe even murder. Why would you choose that?”

“For the same reason Martin Luther King, Jr. did, I suppose.”

Oh hell, there I stood, square dab in the middle of his minefield of logic.

“And what would you do after you become gay and get married?”

“You have a spare bedroom.”

An image flooded my brain. There stood Mike Huckabee, in front of a Fox “News” camera spouting away, with our condominium building in the background. That building had already been the focus of another presidential election, you know. I felt a peace spread over me as that image gave way to the exploding head of the preacher who would be president.

“You might have a point, here,” I said. He smiled and, for the briefest second, I saw Orlando Bloom and me stranded on a desert island. I shook the scene away. “You’ll have to know though, that you’re in for a rough ride.”

“Oh, I’m ready,” he said.

For some reason, Big Dope
thinks this is all funny. - C.W.

“A lot of folks will make their own choice, and that choice will be to hate you with an unfounded but unbridled passion.”



“Let ‘em.” He said.

“You will lead a life of challenge,” I said. “And some religions will refuse you. I can’t imagine a more rocky road than the one you choose.”

“Oh,” he said, “don’t worry about the churches.”

“Why not?”

“We, my spouse and I, will choose to be atheists as well.”

 

 

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201. Commitments

“What the hell is all the fuss about?” I looked up to see C.W. in one of his favorite shapes, Donny Wayne Jr., the Redneck Philosopher. Backwoods people intrigue him.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“The news is all about people getting married. What’s with that?”

I thought for a moment. “Oh,” I said, “a judge ruled yesterday that it is illegal to deny couples the right to marry in our state.”

“The hell you say.”

“It’s true. It’s true.”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

“Well, uh, … that is … uh. Why do you ask?”

“I know that people get married in your state all the time. Look at you and Mrs. Big Dope.”

“Yes,” I said. “Look at us: a picture perfect couple.”

“Except when you try to haul her treasures off.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about that anymore,” I said. “Besides, the ruling now allows people of the same sex to get married.”

This puzzled him. “All three?”

“Uh, we only have two here.”

“What do you do about …”

“That’s quite enough,” I said, interrupting him. “My mother-in-law is in the next room watching the news.”

“I know,” he said. “She kept asking me what is so gay about being married?”

I let out my breath. “It means that gay people can get married now.”

“They couldn’t before?”

“Not here.”

“With all those churches out there, they couldn’t find one that would marry them?”

“Of course they could find a church that would marry them. That wasn’t the problem.”

“What was?”

“The state wouldn’t allow it.”

“What’s the state got to do with it?”

“They must recognize the commitment in order to allow certain legal arrangements.”

“You gotta be shi…”

“C.W.” I said, interrupting him again and nodding toward the next room.”

He grimaced. “The state gets involved in allowing churches to marry people?”

“The state is involved in legalizing commitments.”

“But,” he said, “commitments are based on what earthlings call love, you know, mutual affection and compatibility, the willingness to be together.”

“Yes,” I said. “That sums it up.”

“So why does the state get involved in all that?”

“Some folks just believe it should.”

I saw a puff of smoke emerge from his ear and caught the smell of burning rubber.

“Are we overloading your circuits?”

“I’m okay,” he said. I relaxed. “Let me ask you this, in your world, corporations—that I understand exist only in contemplation of the law—are considered homo sapiens.”

I thought about this. “Yep.”

“So can they get married?”

It was a tough question but, “Yes. They merge and form lasting legal commitments all the time.”

He walked over and poured himself a cup of coffee, returned to the table, and sat. He sipped carefully, and then said, “So do you think this ruling will last? Lots of folks seemed real happy about it." He stopped and sipped again. Then he said "But, I’ve noticed that your so-called ‘evangelicals’ don’t care too much for people being happy. It sort of unnerves them, if you know what I mean.”

Imagine, a pair of corporations in holy matrimony. - C.W.

“I do,” I said. “And I am sure they will challenge the court’s ruling and try to get it overturned.”

“If they should,” he said, “I have a solution for all those happy folks—a way  to keep them happy.”

“How is that?”

“They should just re-form themselves as corporations.”

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153. Worries

“Your species sure has a lot of things to worry about. I’m compiling a list for the Falloonian Elders. What a mess.”

I couldn’t disagree, although this was coming from the mouth of a comely young lady who appeared to be on the verge of childbirth. That is to say, it was the Alien himself, or herself, in this case, it having joined me on my walk through the park.

“You are right,” I said. It is disturbing if you think about it.”

“Oh, I do,” she said. “I think about it even more now.” She patted her belly.

“One would think so,” I said, playing along with the scenario.

“I’m having a baby, you know.”

“I had guessed as much.”

“I want to have several.”

“Good luck with that.”

“But the news worries me.”

“That seems natural. There are certainly things in our future that should concern us.”

“Oh? What’s bugging you in particular?”

I looked at her. “Well, the planet will start to run out of drinking water during that one’s lifetime.”

She stopped and turned to me with a look of total shock. “Who says so?”

“The world’s scientists,” I said.

She relaxed, “Oh them.”

“Yes them, the ones who also say our planet is in the process of frying.”

“Don’t you worry about them. That’s all just stuff they say to scare us.”

“Who told you that?”

“It’s on the news every night. You just have to watch the right channel.”

I was confused. “I thought you were worried about things.”

“Oh I am,” she said. “But real things, not that sort of stuff.”

“Like what, then?”

“You silly. No wonder everyone calls you ‘Big Dope,’ the way you act.”

“You’re the only one who calls me that,” I said. “Other than my wife. But anyway, what things are bothering you?”

“Well, for one thing, we still don’t know who killed President Kennedy.”

This time it was I who stopped. “Uh, yes we do. It was Lee Harvey Oswald.”

“Well that’s what they want you to think.”

I sighed.

“So what real things do you worry about?” She said. She looked at me with a blank look on her face.

“Well,” I said. “In addition to the ever-increasing likelihood of a nuclear weapon falling into the hands of terrorists, there is the matter of the Amazon rainforest.”

Her look changed to one of suspicion. “What about it?”

“Other than it cools the entire planet by one or two degrees, Celsius, or that one-fifth of the world’s fresh water flows through it, or that it absorbs 300 million tons of carbon dioxide per year?”

“And? What’s your point?”

“It could disappear by the year 2080, according to some estimates,” I said. I gestured toward her protruding stomach.”

“Oh, fol de rah,” she said. “Here’s what’s really got me worried.” She pointed to a newsstand where the daily posted a headline announcing that another state (not ours) had approved same-sex marriages.

“This worries you?”

“Do you think I want my little boy to marry another little boy?”

“Wouldn’t you, if it made him happy?”

“He’ll be happy about things I tell him to be happy about,” she said, snipping her words.

“Well he couldn’t be happy about the possibility that there won’t be any middle class in his America.”

“There you go again, worrying about silly things while there are real concerns.”

Don't you worry about the Amazon Rainforest.
By the time it is gone, I'll be basking in the
tropical sun at my cabin in northern Manitoba. - C.W.

“Such as?”

“Buy me this newspaper and I’ll show you.”

“Show me what?”

“Wanda Sue may have been kicked off American Idol last night.”