366. Shapes

Oh boy oh boy! It was “New Shape Saturday.” I had a fresh rum and tonic and a new cigar ready. C.W. and I were alone in the back yard of the farm and he was in high spirits. One head wore a construction hat, another a police officer’s hat, and the third a Sioux chieftain’s headdress. He, they, looked strangely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them.

Anyway.

He had chairs sat up under a tree and would disappear behind a storage building, wait a few minutes, and emerge as his new shape. I would try to guess who he represented. This is always fun, or it is sometimes. It makes my wife nauseated, so she was off visiting a friend. Hot dog! I lit my cigar and yelled, “Ready.”

A middle-aged man, well dressed in a business suit emerged and took a seat. “One hint,” he said, “TV pundit.”

“Expert?” I said.

“Very much so.”

“Education and background?”

“Bachelor’s degree in business administration and 30 years of military service.”

“Rank?”

“Went in as a second lieutenant. Came out as a major.”

“Hmm.”

“Come on,” he said, “you’ve watched the news. Make a guess. I can’t provide any more information than that.”

“I give up.”

“Expert on military affairs,” he said. "On that so-called news channel named after a wild animal."

“But you retired as only a … ,” I began, but he had already departed. “A 30-year major hardly qualifies …,” I said, mostly to myself. Then he yelled over his shoulder.

“It’s television, dummy. That’s today’s theme. Truth in television.”

A few seconds later, and a great new shape appeared. A disheveled character with a shaved head and long beard came in and sat in front of me. He had divided the beard into two prongs, each held by a rubber band. “Expert,” he said.

“Education?”

“Community college in Charleston, West Virginia. Associate’s degree in restaurant management.”

“Current job?”

“Consultant, on the cable network that you call the History Channel.”

“Previous jobs?”

“Fast food trainee programs … several.”

“You are a janitorial consultant?”

“Get serious. I’m a featured star.”

“I can’t imagine. I give up.”

He took in a breath, expelled it and said, “Scientific consultant. They identify me as a UFO expert.”

That stunned me. “So, you use your real expertise as a visiting alien to educate the viewers?”

He frowned. “Get serious. I can’t divulge that information. Educate our viewers? Jeez. I just say whatever I feel like saying. The show’s motto is ‘We make it up and you lap it up.’ Can you imagine getting paid for blowing stuff out of your …?”

I interrupted. “Now cut it out.”

“Accumulated superfluous storage,” he finished. Then he disappeared again.

A few moments later, a buxom blond with hair teased to a height of a foot above her head, and billowing across her shoulders, sashayed in and perched in front of me. She teased the front of her blouse to allow more of her ample cleavage to show, and then tried to cover her nether regions with a skirt made from no more than a yard of material. No luck. Glimpses abounded.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

“I doubt it.”

“That’s right, you’re wondering what I do for a living.”

“No,” I said, “I’m wondering if my wife knows about this.”

“Exactly,” she said. “You are man of the world. You’re from the big city and you married your childhood sweetheart.”

“Born and reared in the country, and I didn’t meet her until we were both grown.”

“Precisely,” she said. “And something tells me she was from the city too.”

 

I just know that all my fans would
like for this woman to advise them
on investing in the stock market. - C.W.

“A farmer’s daughter,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “And don’t you forget: something tells me she still dreams about getting that education she always wanted.”

“She has two college degrees.”

“Like I told you. Now,” she said, leaning back in her chair as I tried not to look. “You’re thinking that you wish I would tell you what I do. Don’t ask me how I know that. I just see things. That's all.”

“No,” I said, “I’m just hoping my wife doesn’t come home before you change shapes.”

“I knew it,” she said, “I just know things, see? That’s what they pay me for. Speaking of shapes, you are going to love this next one. It’s going to be the best shape you ever saw. It’s going to be wonderful. I have this plan, and it is a great plan, the best plan ever, to astound and amaze you with this next shape because it is going to be wonderful. And you will love it.”

I was never as happy in my life to hear my wife’s car coming down the drive.

193. Contests

As the faithful reader knows, C.W. takes on more than a few obnoxious forms. One of his most irritating, though, is Paulie the Pundit, or as he likes to call himself, “TV’s Golden Man.”

It’s understandable then, that I wasn’t overjoyed to see him.

I was trying to master computer-aided drafting when he ambled in looking like he had just returned from a week at the family home in Kennebunkport.

“Wassup?” he said.

I cursed silently when a computer command that had worked four straight times refused to acknowledge my existence on the fifth.

 “I’ve been talking to folks,” he said.

“Son of a bitch,” I said—to the computer, not to him.

“I said I’ve been talking to people.”

“That’s nice.”

He said, “Know what they tell me?”

“That you shouldn’t bother people while they’re concentrating?”

“You know the last two postings—mine and yours?”

“That’s nice,” I said, half listening.

“I won.”

“Won what?”

“My last posting was better than yours.”

That stopped me. I hit “save” and looked up. “I didn’t know it was a contest.”

“Everything is a contest,” he said. “Don’t you watch television?”

“As a last resort.”

“Your species demands winners and losers for some reason.” He sat beside me. “And I need a new show to glorify some folks and humiliate others.” He pointed to my computer. “I bet I could work that program better than you. Wanna try me?”

“No,” I said. “No contests today. I’m going to do some yard work here at the farm.”

“Yard work,” he said with excitement. “Great occasion for a contest. I’ll get another team and we can race them getting a job done. We’ll feature the winners on TV.”

“A contest featuring yard work? Might as well have one renovating a kitchen.”

He sighed. “Haven’t you seen the “Do It Yourself” channel lately?”

“No,” I said, “I’ve been writing a book.”

“Great idea,” he said. “They have this neat contest to see who can write a book the fastest. Maybe you could be a ‘winner’ at something before you check out.”

I returned my attention to the computer.

“Or,” he said. “You could debate someone on television. You might not be such a loser at that.”

“A debate?” I said.

“Yeah,” just like the political candidates.”

“And who decides who is the winner and who is the loser?”

He looked offended. “Why we pundits, of course.” Then he said, “You’re no fun. Where is Mrs. Big Dope?”

“I think she is fixing supper,” I said.

“Cooking,” he said, clapping his hands together. “What a great idea for a contest.” Then he thought. “Maybe not. I’m not sure I would like to be around her if someone labeled her ‘a loser’ on national TV.”

“I think you are learning a few things while you are on our planet,” I said.

Don't you love the look on a loser's face? - C.W.

“What else does she like to do?”

“She likes to sew.”

“Sewing,” he said with glee. “What a great way to find winners and losers. Maybe she could be a judge.”

“I think I’ll go read a book.”

“I bet I can read faster than you,” he said.

I gave him the international gesture meaning “mind your own business.”

“Loser,” he said as he wandered out of the room.

 

Check us out at www.wattensawpress.com

161. Credentials

C.W. is back on his kick of having a career. He thinks that the simple fact of being an alien qualifies him for some area of expertise. Maybe so.

“You are the species, after all,” he pointed out. “that made a Oliver North into a political pundit.

“Well yes.” I had to agree.

“And we won’t mention that TV show about the little fat girl that breaks breezes as her primary talent.”

“You must mean Honey-Boo Boo,” I said. “I have heard she has a tendency to fa…, uh break wind as you say.”

“So let’s talk about standards.” He had taken on one of his wildest forms in months, wearing a rumpled outfit set off by a corduroy jacket with, oh yes, suede patches on the elbows. His wild gray hair stood straight up at least six inches and he wore those half-frame reading glasses that he glared over as he talked.

“I want to be a TV personality,” he said.

“Don’t we all?” I said. “How do you propose it?” We were sitting in front of our farm shop where I had been working with my new woodturning lathe. Two friends had come for a visit and had just left when C.W. appeared.

“I will become a UFOologist,” he said with a bright smile. “It’s a natural, don’t you agree?”

“Uh,” I said. “That sounds a little ridiculous. Whatever gave you such an idea?”

“I saw it on the History Channel,” he said, assuming a defensive air. “They wouldn’t put anything ridiculous on the History Channel, would they?”

“I need to get back to my work.”

“So I need to prepare my credentials,” he said. “Then I can be the expert they interview on these shows about flying saucers visiting Earth.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be dismissive,” he said. “They have it all wrong.”

“What all wrong?”

“About visitors from other galaxies. They avoid this place at all costs.”

“Why?”

“Well, your species has a habit of shooting strangers who wander by.”

“But you’re here.”

“Yes, but I fit in,” he said. “I assimilate.”

I looked him over. “Quite so.” I said. “Now, can I get back to work?”

“What about my credentials?”

“What about them?”

“Should I be registered, certified, or licensed?”

“Are you serious?”

“Registered sounds good,” he said. “Like a ‘registered engineer,’ the ones who design pipelines and such.”

“Sounds a little too close to ‘registered sex offender’ I said.

“I’ve never offended anyone of either sex,” he said.

“Not even when you wanted my wife to star in ‘Desperate Housewives of Arkansas’”?

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be certified."

“That’s what she keeps saying.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“How about licensed, then? That has a nice ring—Licensed UFOologist—don’t you think.”

“A license to deceive people for personal gain?”

“They license acupuncturists and faith healers, don’t they?”

“Yes, and also dogs that have been vaccinated.”

He was a bit deflated by now. I could sense that his dreams of glory were evaporating. He stood and walked over to our shop building. He looked in and then turned toward me.



Don't fear aliens from another planet, my friends.
If you see one, just say "Klaatu barada nikto."
That is a galactic message of friendship. It means:
"Peace to you. I'm just walking along eating my Skittles."
C.W. - Certified UFOologist

“Who were those men who were here?”

“Just friends,” I said.

“What were you talking about?”

“Woodworking mostly.”

“I was up at the hose,” he said. “Mrs. Big Dope said you were talking about ‘it,’ whatever that is.”

“I can’t imagine,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, brightening as he looked inside the shop. “Look at this mess. I could help you. Maybe I could become a certified organizer. I’ll bet nobody ever thought of that one.”

146. Veracity

“You what?” I couldn’t believe what C.W. just told me.

“I hit paysoil.”

“You mean paydirt?”

“There you go again.”

“Okay, stop and tell me what’s going on.”

He looked up as he hit “send” on my laptop. “Can’t stop now. Too many orders. Just listen.” He scrolled with the mouse and tapped a few keys. “Way to go Sean Hannity,” he said. Once again he had assumed the shape of Archie the Third, one of his favorites. His blue blazer with its “Young Republicans” insignia lay on the couch as he pounded furiously on the keyboard.

“C.W.,” I said, raising my voice to command level. “What business have you started and what is does it have to do with Sean Hannity?”

He didn’t look up. “It’s called,” he said while studying the monitor, “Selective Paradigm Instant Truth.” He fiddled with the mouse and began typing. “It is a ‘fact depository’ and Sean Hannity is my best customer.”

Since we don’t allow that name, as a rule, to be mentioned in our house, much less in the context of a business relationship, I felt the moment demanded action. Not being a physical person by nature, but being more than a match for an alien posing as a “trust fund baby,” I swung into it. I snatched the laptop from the table and retreated to a nearby chair to view the screen.

There, to my amazement, was a large photograph of the daughters of the President of the United States reading books in the Rose Garden. Underneath was an official looking communique stating that this was a photo of the President’s daughters studying the Koran by his command, listing a "source." A message, accompanied by an official-looking SPIT logo, stated, “Sean. Hope this is what you needed. Thank you, as always, for your ord..”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Finally, I managed a “What the hell?”

“Please return the laptop to me,” he said.

“Please explain,” I said. “This is monstrous.”

“There you go again,” he said. “Laboring under your ‘reality paradigm.’”

“Okay,” I said. “Explain.”

“I don’t have much time,” he said. “The Rush Limbaugh show starts in a few moments and they need some material.”

“Just give me the short version.”

“Well,” he said. “Suppose you are a pundit.”

“May I please not?”

“Okay, say you are the editor of the New York Post.”

“You are making me feel nauseated,” I said.

“The director of Fox News?”

I made a retching gesture.

“A CNN reporter?”

“Okay, we’ll go with that.”

“Fine,” he said. “So you have decided what you will say, report, disclose, reveal, …whatever.”

“I decide what I’ll say first?”

“Of course.” He fidgeted slightly. “So you need a fact to back you up.”

“Okay, I’ll go along.”

“So you contact me,” he said. “You tell me what you need and …”

“And what?”

“Hit ‘source’ on the screen.”

I did and immediately a directory appeared listing “anonymous, government, inside, professional, reliable, and usual.” I looked back at him.

“So you provide a ‘fact’ and a ‘source’ for the customer to use.”

“Yes, but I call them clients. You've heard of Rand Paul, I suppose. He's one of mine.”

“C.W.,” I said as I scrolled. “These aren’t facts at all.”

“There you go again.”

“Will you stop channeling Ronald Reagan?”

“Why? He said, expressing indignation. “Don’t you remember his famous line, ‘Facts are stupid things?’”

There is a lot more money
in lies than there is
in truth. So, enjoy! - C.W.

“I think he was befuddled and simply misquoted John Adams,” I said.

“There you go again,” he said. “Confusing facts with proof.”

 

126. Consequences

C.W. is finishing his first college course. Says he wants major in history as he doesn’t have to depend upon a degree to get a job. His first class was one in American foreign policy since World War Two. It has him bumfuzzled. I found him working on his final term paper early this morning in a raccoon coat and one of those silly hats straight out of an Andy Hardy movie.

 

“Hey Big Dope,” he said. “Just the person I needed to see.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I have to decide upon the most unfortunate foreign policy decision of the U.S. government since 1945.”

“And?”

“There are so many to choose from.”

“Well pick one then,” I said.

“I leaned heavily at first,” said he, “On Dwight Eisenhower’s decision to overthrow, as a favor to the British Petroleum Company, the democratically elected government of Iran, and its head of government Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh in August of 1953.”

“Why that one?”

“Simple,” he said. “Chain reactions.”

“Chain reactions?”

“Yes. It created a permanent, and hitherto non-existent, hatred of the U.S. by the Iranian people and led to the hostage taking in 1979 which led to the election of Ronald Reagan and, well, you know the rest.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Of course the involvement of your country in Vietnam has to be high on the radio detection and ranging screen.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“That one involved you personally, eh?”

“Yes, so I must recuse on it,” I said, grateful for the opportunity.

“Old Dwight D. started that one too, didn’t he?

“No comment.”

“He was sort of a ‘poster-child’ for the Law of Unintended Consequences, wasn’t he?”

“No comment. But … you might google Watergate, or Bay of Pigs.”

“Of course your beloved sage Walter Cronkite said that the invasion of Iraq in 2003 was the worst policy decision in modern history, and illegal from the start.”

“Yay, Walter!”

“But all those pale in comparison with my final selection.”

“Your selection for the worst policy decision in modern history?”

“Yes sir.” He tends to get formal at times like this.

“And that would be?”

“Reality TV.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Reality TV? What does that have to do with foreign policy?”

“You are portraying to the world that your country is composed of a bunch of snaggle-toothed, overweight, swamp-dwelling, violence-worshiping, child-exploiting, snuff-drooling, tattoo-seeking, death-wishing, foul-mouthed, junk-hoarding, obsessive-compulsive, stuff-loving, gun-toting, sex-starved morons.”

Won't you please,

Won't you please,

Please won't you be my neighbor?

It's a wonderful day in the

cosmic universe. - C.W.

“But that represents only a small percentage of Americans,” I said.

“Only a small percentage of Americans lived an idyllic life like that of the Cleaver family during the 1950s,” he said. “But see how that image has prevailed, even among some African-Americans like Thomas Sowell.”

That stumped me. “But,” I said, “We love the arts, books, knowledge, music, and all things inspiring.”

“Try telling that to the people on Planet Rylinskria,” he said.

104. Television

My wife was off on an adventure with her mother, so C.W. and I decided to spend some time watching television. Want to guess his favorite show? Yep, you are correct. It’s the “Big Bang Theory.” In fact, he was using his multi-tasking skills to write a fan letter to the show’s female character, Penny. Appropriately, he had assumed a shape closely resembling the big brother on the old series “Leave it to Beaver.”

“How’s this sound?” he said, looking up from his writing. “You certainly have a carcass capable of generating heat.”

I thought for a moment. “I think you probably mean, ‘hot body.’”

“Exactly.”

“That might be a little strong for the first letter,” I said. But he didn’t hear me. The character in question walked across a room in the scene we were watching and it caught his attention.

“Would you look at that …, “ he began.

“I can see it,” I said, interrupting him. “May I ask you something?”

“Wait a minute,” he said. Then, after Penny had left the scene, he turned to me. “Are you sure it makes you go blind?”

Ignoring him, I continued, “I would easily understand why you like a show about four young physicists,” I said. “But you seem fixated on the only non-scientist on the show.”

“Shut up,” he said. “I just had a thought.” He returned to his letter, speaking the words as he wrote. “Physicists are a dime-for-twelve but your body is a solitary splendor that would fetch top dollar.” He paused. “How does that sound?”

“I’m sure she will be overwhelmed.”

“I think television is one of your species’ more interesting phenomenon,” he said, sticking the pencil lead to his tongue and then to the paper.

“Then why is a sitcom your favorite? Why not one of the more educational shows?”

“Such as?” he said, turning to me with a questioning look.

The question took me by surprise, and I couldn’t come up with a quick answer.

“Your so-called ‘History Channel?’”

“Well, maybe not that one.”

“Not unless one really believes that Leonardo de Vinci was an alien.”

“Well …”

“I’ve told you over and over again,” he said. “We have only planted one alien unit on Earth in all our panspermian efforts.”

“I know. I know.”

“And you know that we placed it in a remote spot to minimize the chance of catastrophe.”

“I know.”

“And?”

Dear Penny: If you would only give me
the chance, I couild teach you a thing or two
about physics that those four guys
never dreamed of. - Your fan, C.W.

“She ended up running for Vice-President,” I said.

“And?”

“You had to come here to keep tabs.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Now leave me alone. He started to write, “I want so badly to stick my tongue in …”

“C.W.,” I said.

“A dish of Falloonian Congomeracity Pudding, when I see your sweet smile.”

Then he stopped and looked at me.

”What?”

75. Role Models

“We ain’t sorry. We’s hippies,” she said.

Oh my goodness. C.W. had only appeared as two people twice before, and those involved the conjoined twins Lucky and Lefty, one of his favorite shape-shifts. This time he appeared as two separate individuals, a couple who looked as if they had just been evicted from a “meth-house” in Alabama.

“Have you met my wife, Dolly Winona?” the male figure asked.

“What’s up, C.W.?” I said.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“And that is?”

“We want us our own television show,” Dolly Winona said.

“Television show?”

“Yes,” said C.W. “I think it would look good on my final report to the Falloonian Elders if I had a television show for awhile.”

“And?”

“Well they don’t exactly feature the best and the brightest on shows these days, do they?”

“No, you got to be crazy, worthless, or just a plain misfit to make it,” Dolly Winona said.

I must have looked confused.

“So we are hippies,” said C.W.

“Don’t you know hippies went out after the 1960s?”

It was his turn to look confused.

“So how about the 1970s?”

“Not much but disco.”

“Ain’t nobody would be hard up enough to make a movie about disco dancers, would they?” Dolly Winona said.

“We’ll talk about that another day,” I said.

“So what’s worse than disco?” C.W. said.

“In modern times?”

“Yes, we need a theme featuring what your gospel writer Matthew called, ‘the least of these.’”

“Outlaw truck drivers?”

“Taken,” he said.

“Intermediate hominoid species who live in swamps in Louisiana and, say, hunt alligators for their livelihood?”

“Taken.”

“Gun enthusiasts with diminished mental capacity?”

“Bless his heart,” Dolly Winona said. “Don’t he know the State of Texas ain’t never gonna run out of them shows?”

“Slutty women with no talent, no abilities, and no redeeming qualities?”

“Taken, taken, taken, and taken.”

“Whur’d we ever find a slutty woman, anyway?” Dolly Winona interrupted with some indignation in her voice. And besides, we’s figurin’ on bein’ a couple on the show.”

“A couple?”

“Yeah, You know how family oriented TV is these days.” She reached into her bag and retrieved two cans of Mountain Dew.

“You ‘ont one?”

“No thanks,” I said.

She handed the other a can and both popped the tops. Spray settled on floor and couch, but I ignored it.

“We got to think of somebody sorry,” Dolly Winona said. “Just plain sorry. We’s aimin’ for a big hit.”

Inspiration struck me. “How about ….”

They both leaned forward.

“How about …”

“Come on, spit it out, Hon,” said Dolly Winona.

“How about … Trailer Trash Ministries?”

“Say what?”

“You could be television evangelists specializing in ministering to a different trailer park each week.”

Ya'll come see us at our new
International Headquarters. - C.W. and Dolly Winona

They were speechless for several seconds. Then Dolly Winona broke into a big smile. “At tar’s got promise,” she said. “At’s got sorry stacked on top of sorry.”

“Where can we get us a Bible?” C.W. said, rising to leave.

68. Books

“No, put that down, I want to keep it.”

C.W. came by to, as he put it, “Help with your hoarding problem.”

“It’s not hoarding,” I said, grabbing my prized copy of “Lucy” by Donald Johanson. I opened it. “See, I got him to sign it when he came here once for a lecture. “It’s a valuable piece of my life.”

“And what decision are you to prepared to make about it?”

This infuriated me. He had appeared as that rather attractive blond-haired woman from one of TV’s “hoarding” shows who plays a “licensed psychotherapist specializing in obsessive-compulsive hoarding disorders.”

“Are you going to help me or not?” I said.

“Are you sure you are in touch with your feelings about all this?” she said.

“Jesus.”

“Yes, and that reminds me,” she said. She walked to one of three bookshelves in the room and pulled out a copy of “The Complete Works of Josephus.” She studied it for a moment. “This one takes up a lot of room.”

“Put it back,” I said.

“Have you ever read it?”

“Just the sections where he mentions Jesus.”

“Are you going to read the rest?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But if anyone wants to know about the only historical reference to the man, that’s where you can find it.”

“They have copies in the library?”

“Yes.”

“Then why would you need to keep a copy?”

I considered the question. “But it mentions Jesus,” I said.

She replaced it and pointed to the “Faulkner” section.

“I see you have three copies of ‘As I Lay Dying.’”

“Yes.”

“Do you need all three?”

“Well,” I said. “One is a nice hardback and the other is a ragged copy that would be great for making notes. I intend to do that some day.”

“And the third?”

“My wife gave that one to me. I could never get rid of it.”

She sighed.

I picked up a copy of “Victory” by Joseph Conrad. “Now here is a must keep.”

“May I ask why?”

“To point out how a seduction scene can be tastefully written.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, the whole thing consists of the man placing his hand on the woman’s back and she brushes it away and says ‘stop.’”

“That’s all?”

“No, the scene ends with ‘It was a command he did not obey.’ Is that neat or what?”

“Sounds a little like forced sex to me.”

I ignored her. “I teach it as a welcome alternative to ‘Their hungry tongues greedily sought out one another.’”

Oh please don’t make me nauseous.”

“It’s ‘nauseated.’ If you are nauseous, you cause people to become nauseated. Same form as poisonous.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a tedious bore?”


Big Dope with a book he won on the old "Book Guys" radio show.
It is about bibliophiles and its title is "A Gentle Madness."
That figures, right? - C.W.

“Did they teach you that in psychotherapy school?” I was becoming a little agitated. I will admit it.

“I think I’ve had enough of your species’ weakness for hoarding material objects,” she said. “You should know it’s a problem when they start making TV shows about it.”

“Now don’t you go comparing me with those nuts on TV.”

“Pardon me?” She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not a hoarder,” I said. I searched for words. “I’m a bibliophile.”

36. Spy TV

In case you are wondering, and several have asked, C.W. has been on a recall assignment back to his home planet to provide an interim report on his findings. I suspect that the “Elders of Falloonia” as he calls them (somewhat disrespectfully if you ask me) wanted to make sure he wasn’t going native, so to speak.

Anyway, he showed up at my door in the shape of the captain of a sailing ship, complete with a long-barreled brass telescope. It was New Year’s Eve so he could get by in about any shape since one would assume he had escaped from a costume party.

“Avast there, sailor,” he said as he barged in. In his spare hand he held a metal tankard and I immediately went on guard as he does not handle earthling liquor well. He thrust his telescope in my face and said, “Know what?”

“Hello, C.W.,” I said, motioning him toward a chair. “What? And be quiet about it. My wife is asleep.”

“Can I go watch her?”

“Hell no,” I said, “What are you up to?”

“Did you know,” he said. “That you can stand out on the street and see about anything you want with this?” He brandished the telescope again. “Especially in your apartment building. Now there are some real characters therein. Don’t you people know how to pull your curtains?” He paused and took a drink. “Of course you can’t even hold a handle to the people staying in that motel across the freeway.”

“Did you know that you could be arrested for peeking in windows?”

“Me? Hell, swabbie, I ain’t the one who should be arrested. Shiver me timbers.” He took another drink.

“C.W.,” I said. “Would you calm down? What is with this sneaking around spying on people?”

“Research,” he said, letting his chin rest on his chest. “Just like I was ordered to.”

“Ordered to?”

“The Elders want to know about this obsession you Americans have with voyeurism.”

“Voyeurism?”

“You call it ‘reality television.’ We call it voyeurism.”

“It’s just a popular form of entertainment,” I said.

“Belay the semantics,” he said, bellowing it out. “We call it an obsession with the lives of people more culturally challenged than the norm.”

He had me there. “Maybe it is simply escapism,” I said. “Maybe it’s a form of relief, knowing that no matter how screwed up a person is, there is always someone worse off.”

“Lad,” he said in his captain’s voice. “The way you use words reminds me of a south sea orangutan trying to copulate with a cannonball. You go round and round but you just can’t get at it.” He took another drink. “Which reminds me,” he said. “We need to have a talk sometime about the use of contortionism in your species’ sexual acts.”

“C.W.,” I said, “Give me the goddam telescope.”