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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244. Rights

For goodness sake. I looked up this morning and here came C.W. in drag. I don’t mean that he had assumed the shape of a woman. He can do that anytime he wishes. In fact, up until a couple of months ago, he loved to do Marlene Dietrich singing “See What the Boys In the Backroom Will Have.” Unfortunately though, my wife caught him at it one day and he doesn’t do it anymore, plus we now have to keep the kitchen door open all the time. But that’s a story for another day.

No, today he was really in drag. That is to say that he was a man dressed as a woman. Further, the man’s shape that he had chosen was that of the Junior Senator from our state who has been in the news a lot lately trying to undermine the President.

All I could manage was “What the …?”

“How do you like my outfit?” she … he … said.

I still couldn’t speak.

“Your friend—what’s his name, your woodworking pal—helped me pick it out.”

“My friend?”

“I told him I wanted to be one primarily devoted to his own advancement in public office, or to the success of a political party.”

“A what?”

“You heard me.”

I thought for a moment. “Oh,” I said, “you wanted to be a politician.”

“That’s what I said.”

“And my friend helped you?”

“He used to work for the state and was a great help.”

“As in …?”

“He said all I needed to be a politician was a red satin dress and a pair of FMPs. Mrs. Big Dope got awfully upset when I asked her what those were.”

I looked heavenward and said, “If you’re up there Scotty, please beam me up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” I said. “But tell me, what are you going to do now that you are a politician?”

“Ah,” he said. “I thought you would never ask.” He grinned. “I’m fighting for aliens’ rights.”

“Aliens’ rights?”

“Yes. It is our turn to seek equality along with our other brother and sister citizens.”

“But you aren’t a citizen.”

“No, and we’re going to change that, and stop this brutal practice of not allowing us to marry whom we choose. Oh, and wedding cakes. Don’t get me started on wedding cakes.”

I didn’t know where to begin. “C.W.,” I said, “there are so many holes in that logic that I can’t respond. You haven’t mentioned getting married since you saw Lassie Come Home for the first time.”

“Times change,” he said, “and so do preferences. We deserve to make our own choices as much as anyone.”

“Have you been watching Big Bang Theory again?”

“You leave her out of this,” said. “Now do you want to be on the right side of the branch of knowledge dealing with past events or not?”\

“Oh,” I said, “I definitely want to be on the right side of history. What must I do?”

“Ah,” he said. “First thing you do is become a card-carrying member.”

“Of what?”

Now I ask you. Would you bake a
 wedding cake for this person? - C.W.

“Our rights organization. Your membership card will even have my photo on it. We’ve thought up quite a catchy name for the group. Your friend helped us with that as well and we think we picked one that serves us brilliantly.”

“And that is?”

He drew himself up proudly. A strap from his dress fell from his shoulder and he placed it back in position. “Alien Rights Secured Evermore,” he said. “I’m a charter member and chief spokesperson. Right now my people are placing posters in key locations with this photograph on it.” He struck a provocative pose.

A convulsion started deep within me and I contracted every muscle in my body in an attempt to suppress it. It sneaked past my defenses, though, and I began to shake with laughter. Tears came from my eyes and snot from my nose. I tried to speak but couldn’t. Finally, with a Herculean effort, I regained my composure enough to talk.

“Sign me up,” I said.


Please click an ad or two. Dresses are expensive
And see also www.wattensawpress.com
- C.W.
Oh, and check out
Big Dope's book.
Available at Amazon and others.

243. Sin

“So what did he preach on?”

“Sin.”

“Is that all?”

“He was agin’ it.”

We both cracked up. No matter how many times C.W. and I do that old Will Rogers skit, with him of course shaped like Will himself, we get tickled as we reenact Calvin Coolidge’s wife asking him about his trip to church.

We soon got down to serious business, though. The media was full of news about states, including ours, passing laws against what they feel is the sin of being gay. C.W.wondered why our state legislature thought it is a sin.

“Because the Bible says it’s so,” said one of our state’s senators—as C.W. described him: “A strange looking little fellow with a goatee that looks like it might slide off to the floor at any moment.”

So here we were, in our living room pondering the concept of sin in more detail. How did it take its origin or rise?” C.W. asked.

“It originated,” I said, in the book that so many of our local species claim to observe.”

“This?” He picked up a worn copy of a King James version.

“That’s the one.”

“So when, in this process, did sinning start in earnest?”

“Well,” I said, “there is the issue of ‘original sin’ which I guess is the granddaddy of them all.”

“And that sin involves?”

“Having sex,” I said.

“So it was forbidden for your species?”

“Quite so, it seems.”

“But,” he said, “ain’t that sorta like telling a chick that it’s sinful to peck its way out of the egg.”

“I guess you might put it that way.”

“Any other long standing sins? I mean the ones that could really get you a spiritual butt-whipping?”

“Well,” I said, “we’re not supposed to kill.”

“Not supposed to …” he had begun to take notes but stopped in mid-sentence. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“But your species in this country has been at war constantly this time for uh …” he consulted some notes. “Twelve years.”

“More or less.”

“With not only no end in sight but lining up a couple more?”

“Our junior senator seems to hope it’s so.”

“Wouldn’t it put more milk in the bucket to aim some laws toward stopping war?”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but some of us seem to like it?”

He took a deep breath. “Hit me again,” he said.

“We are supposed to honor our parents, otherwise we are sinning big time.”

“What?” He picked up the Bible and began turning pages, “Where oh where is it?” he muttered to himself, “Here,” he said, “In what you call ‘The Gospel of Luke,’ your Fearsome Father’s favorite son says, ‘If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.’ Now what the heck?”

“Some things in that book we take more seriously than others,” I said, rather weakly.

He made a note. “Anything else?”

“Adultery.”

“And the Fearsome Father’s take on that?”

“He’s agin it.” I said. We both smiled.

“What about this King David, whom your religion regards so highly?”

“What about him?”

He opened the Bible. “Reads like the crack of dawn wasn’t safe when he was on point.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“But tell me,” he said, turning very serious, “Where will I find the stricture against one of worst sins that we Falloonians could imagine. We treasure our children,” He added, handing me the Bible.

“And that is?” I prepared to begin searching.

“Purposefully inducing primal fears, nightmares, and post-traumatic stress disorder in young children.”
“Doing what?”

“You know what I mean,” he said, his face gray and hard.

“No,” I said, “I don’t think I do.”

“This practice that your species seems not only to condone but encourage during the rearing of children”

What does it say about the power of your religion
if you must have the government enforce it? - C.W.

“And that is?”

“The practice of taking those precious young things into a dark room and telling them that the Fearsome Father might just, if they displease them, hurl their bodies into a fiery pit for all eternity where they will writhe and scream in constant agony forever and ever.”

I couldn’t speak.

“When are your lawmakers going to deal with that?”

“I don’t know how we could,” I said.

“Maybe you could put a monument forbidding it on your state capitol grounds.”

 

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- C.W.

238. Music and Things

It was one of those mornings that I didn’t really want to deal with C.W. I was busy and enjoying one of those euphoric moments when one feels as if one is about to make some sort of intellectual breakthrough. I had no idea what, perhaps some little bit of gain ahead of “The Eternal Footman.” You get the picture.

Oh hell. Not only was it C.W. who walked in, he happened to choose one of his favorite adolescent forms. I call it “Curious Carl.” He plopped down beside me, rested a pair of dirty sneakers on the freshly cleaned coffee table and said, “Hey Big Dope. Whatcha doing?” as if the earphones I wore failed to provide a sufficient clue.

I raised one earphone partly above my ear. “Listening to music.”

“Oh. What?”

“Gustav Mahler.”

“You were listening to him yesterday.”

I drew a deep breath. “That was Symphony Number Two. This is Number Three.”

“He wrote more than one?”

“He completed nine.”

“Just like that German guy.”

“Just like Beethoven.”

He said, “Why?”

“Why did they write nine each?”

“No. Why did you choose this one?”

“I’ve decided to listen to all nine in order. One day at a time.”

“Why?”

“It gives me a break from your questions. That is nice in itself.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you have something to do?”

“Have they ever used music to kill people?”

That startled me. “Why of course not.” I stopped. “At least I don’t’ think so.”

“Do they use it to torture people?”

Now that one started me thinking. Before I could answer, however, he broke in. “I mean the way Mrs. Big Dope uses ‘ZZ The Highest or Uppermost Point’ on you.”

“I like ‘ZZ Top,’ I said, “just not always while I’m eating breakfast.” I’m sure I sounded a bit defensive. “And perhaps at other times.” I let it go at that. “Besides, I thought you got your Galactic Universal Translator adjusted.”

“Let’s leave my GUT out of this,” he said. “What else does your species use music for?”

“To promote love,”

“That’s nice.”

“To relax and comfort.”

“Commendable.”

“To inspire and elevate.”

“Very good,” he said. “Now let me ask this … is it ever used to promote procreation?”

“Not that I know of,” I started, but then thought better of it. “Maybe some have argued that it does.”

“How about,” he said, “to promote war?”

That stopped me cold. “Well I have heard that if you gave an army the right music, it would set off to conquer the world.”

“Those people,” he said, “the ones who wore the belt buckles that said, ‘Gott mit uns,’ the ones who didn’t like the Jews, did they play music when they marched them to the gas chambers?”

“I never read where they did.”

“Those Spanish Conquistadors, the ones who would dash the heads of Indian babies against stone walls so they would die in a ‘State Of Grace,’ did they do it to musical accompaniment?”

“As far as I know, they did not.”

“Did Torquemada use music as background when he, on behalf of the Church, tortured his enemies during the Spanish Inquisition?”

“You are ruining what started out to be a wonderful moment,” I said. “Why don’t we just listen to music?” I offered to disconnect the earphones.

“Who is performing this musical masterpiece?"

“The Vienna Philharmonic conducted by Leonard Bernstein.”

What a marvelous picture of joy and grace.
Wait. What was her sexual orientation?
Isn't that important? - C.W.

“Oh,” he said. “Wasn’t he what you call lighthearted and carefree?”

“What difference would it make if he were gay?”

“I couldn’t listen, that’s all,” he said. “It’s against my religion to participate in anything involving … involving … uh, those people.”

“C.W.,” I said. “You don’t have any religion.”

“Oh but,” he said, “I’m scheduled to give it a try so I can report about it.” He nodded his head defiantly and swung his feet from table. “So I need to start practicing. Hate doesn’t come naturally to Falloonians, you know.”

The symphony used a succession of ephemeral chords to briefly resolve into a mood of peace before the woodwinds broke into what almost sounded like a jig.

I groaned.

 

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203. Religion

Sometimes I don’t know if C.W. is knowingly joshing me, or if his Retentive Analytic Transcriber—his RAT—has taken a flight of fancy. Today, I think he was somewhere between jokester and political analyst. He was shaped close enough to Glenn Beck as to be institutionalized and we were having, what I thought was, a serious conversation.

“So,” he said, “I think your species has what you earthlings call a “deep romantic or sexual attachment/intentional intense dislike” relationship with science.”

“We seem to have a “love/hate” relationship with many things,” I said.

“With science it is strange,” he said. “You love to take your antibiotics, even for viruses.” He stopped and shook his head sadly. “But the facts of natural selection cause you to feel uncomfortable. That is unique in the Galaxy. Don’t your schools teach the relationship between medicine and evolution, as you call it?”

“I’m not sure how much longer we will teach science in our schools,” I said. This made me feel nauseated so I moved the subject a few points to windward. “What about our obsession with religion?”

That’s when he went into his act. Here it is verbatim, with apologies to Judge Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr.

“If, when you say religion you mean the evil institution, the hateful scourge, the bloody fiend that contaminates the innocent mind, dethrones reason, destroys cities, creates misery and hegemony, yea, flies airplanes into buildings, and traumatizes young children with the image of a loving spirit figure who has a fiery pit awaiting them; if you mean the evil concept that topples men and women from the pinnacle of logical, carefree living into the bottomless pit of ignorance, and hatred, and distrust and violence, and despair, that persecutes those whom nature blesses with a unique sexuality, skin color, or gender, then certainly I think your species has a problem—a big problem.

“But, if when you say religion you mean the oil of community life, the philosophic elixir that binds people and nations, the sublime thoughts that are explored when people get together, that puts music in the hearts and laughter on the lips of those gathered, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean universal charity, if you mean the stimulating contemplation that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step in his twilight years; if you mean the way of life which enables one to magnify joy and happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that religion that comforts the poor in spirit, exalts the meek, honors the peacemaker and seeks universal righteousness through good will, mercy, and purity in heart, the goodness of which provides tender care for our sick children, our blind, our deaf, our pitiful, aged, infirm; and least of those among us, I think your spirituality train would be on the right track.”

Please tell me more about this kindly old man
who runs the fiery pits of Hell. - C.W.

I nodded.

“But,” he continued before I could speak, “it does seem to me that the train has veered off course of late, and a debilitating indifference has allowed it to happen.”

Out of the mouths of aliens.

“Now,” he said, “let us go and see what Kate Middleton is wearing today.”

Be sure and click an ad or two so Big Dope can pay the rent. - C.W.

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190. Perspectives

He was an elderly African-American man who appeared to be in need of a meal. He wore faded overalls, a khaki shirt, and ragged work shoes that had lost their form decades ago. His hands were calloused and a stubble of white beard covered his face. He was sitting in my favorite chair watching television.

“C.W.,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Politics,” he said. “Why are people so worked up?”

“About what?”

“Things,” he said.

“What things?”

“Say … income inequality.”

“It’s complicated,” I said. “But some people feel that we are headed for a French Revolution-type revolt if the working class lives on starvation wages while the ruling class owns practically all of the wealth.”

He nodded. “What about wage discrimination?”

“Well there again,” I said. “There is a significant difference between what a man and a woman earn for doing the same job.”

“I see.”

“Anything else?”

“They seem to be upset about voting rights’”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Some want to make it harder for certain groups, say students, to vote.”

“I can see how that would upset people,” He said. Then he changed the subject. “What is this thing called ‘zoning’ all about?”

“Zoning?”

“Yes. What cities do.”

“It is about the control of land use,” I said. “It covers things from building heights to what types of uses are allowed in a certain location.”

“And it upsets folks?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“Was watching the news about some wild meeting a city near here. Neighbors were upset that a development designed for the elderly was to be built next to them.”

“Oh,” I said. “Some folks can get upset about anything, even the type of people living near them. Certain people don't like the elderly, it would appear.”

“It would appear," he said. "Now the government in some place called Arizona wants to allow business owners to refuse service to groups they don’t like.”

“Quite so,” I said.

“And it has people agitated.”

“Some people, yes.”

He exhaled, expanding his cheeks as he did. Then he bit his lower lip as he lost himself in thought. After a moment, he looked toward me. “Folks are getting pretty angry.” He said it partly in question and partly as a statement of fact.

“Pretty angry,” I said.

“More so than usual.”

“That seems to be the case,” I said.

He said. “Want to know what I think?”

“About what?”

“About why these things are upsetting folks more than usual.” He rubbed the stubble on his face with a huge black hand.

Sometimes it seems to me that life in America
just depends on what side on the river you are
born on. - C.W.

“Enlighten me,” I said.

“Perspective.”

“Perspective?”

“Perspective.”

I waited.

He looked off and then back at me. “It all sounds familiar to someone like me,” he said.

I thought. “I suppose it does.”

“Know what is different this time?”

“What?”

“This time they are doing it to white folks.”