There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”
Hamlet Act 1, Scene 5
Yesterday,
not for anything close to the first time, I should have died. I woke
up to find a strange woman standing over me while I was lying in bed.
She was a paramedic. She had just brought me back to consciousness
when my blood sugar had dropped so low that it was undetectable by
medical equipment. I’m alive because my roommate checked on me,
found me irretrievably unconscious, and called 911. She has done
this more than once.
I
should have died, in what I think would have been a beautifully
appropriate way, a couple of years ago when my blood sugar went so
high that it was off the scale. I was alone then. There was no one
there to save me. One of my friends, though, became concerned when
she couldn’t get me on the phone, and, though she was out of town,
she sent the Mesa Police to do a wellness check, and they took me to
the hospital. I had gone into Diabetic Ketoacidosis. I would,
undoubtedly, have died alone in a cheap motel room had she not
interfered. Frankly, that would have been, at the time, my preferred
way to shuffle off this mortal coil. It didn’t happen, though.
Someone kept me alive.
This
has happened at least half a dozen times in the last four or five
years. I was at a place where I was unable to help myself, and
someone came to my rescue.
When
I posted about yesterday’s incident on Facebook, more than one of my
friends suggested that there is a reason that I keep cheating Death.
Their reasons are, whether they say it directly or not, supernatural.
God, or some other force like Him, is not letting me die.
I
love my friends, but I reject that answer. Why, Fred? The evidence
is there. Some force keeps intervening to keep you alive. It must
be God, in some form or other.
Why
must it be God? I believe you’re making what is commonly called The
God of The Gaps Argument.
What’s
that?
The God of The Gaps is defined, as follows, by Wikipedia.
The term God-of-the-gaps fallacy can refer to a position that assumes an act of God as the explanation for an unknown phenomenon, which is a variant of an argument from ignorance fallacy. Such an argument is sometimes reduced to the following form: There is a gap in understanding of some aspect of the natural world… (God is required to fill that gap.)
Wikipedia
I’ve
been guilty of committing this fallacy, myself, on more than one
occasion. How else can one explain the Genius of Mozart or
Shakespeare? They are light years beyond what any human being should
be capable of doing. Yet, they do. This can only be some sort of
supernatural result. They have connected with Something Beyond.
But,
that is simply intellectual laziness on my part. Their work exists.
It was produced by humans. Therefore, we know, by definition, humans
are capable of such feats. They even managed to build the pyramids.
We’re one hell of a powerful group, we humans.
Does
this mean I entirely reject the idea of there being Something Beyond?
No. I don’t. Hamlet tells Horatio, “There are more things in
Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” I’m sure
he’s right. I have absolutely no doubt that there are forces in the
universe that I don’t – or can’t – understand. And when Science
shows them to me, I’ll accept their existence.
I
have, from time to time, felt myself, for as much as a week once,
connecting with Something Beyond. I simply had everything working.
I was in my stride. My writing was at its best. My social skills
were on the mark. Women liked me. I knew how to earn more than
enough money to survive. I was feeling music acutely. I was moved
to tears by Mr. Banks singing “A Man Has Dreams” in Mary Poppins.
I could feel the Jedi Force flowing through me.
However,
that doesn’t require a supernatural explanation. It’s a part of
human experience. How do I know? Because I’m human, and I
experienced it.
I
had no special powers. I could levitate precisely nothing. I was
unable to fly without the assistance of an airplane. I was entirely
unable to read anyone’s mind. I simply was making everything work,
all at the same time. And it was beautiful.
I
think Mozart and Shakespeare were able to make their Art work all the
time. I can’t imagine how wonderful that must have felt. Mozart
rarely even did second drafts, that rotten bastard! You will never
read a word of mine that hasn’t been through at least 3 or 4 drafts.
And even if I did 3 or 4 thousand, it could never approach the level
of Shakespeare. That’s not false modesty. That’s an understanding
of what Shakespeare is.
So,
if I’m not willing to accept a supernatural explanation, what
explanation do I accept? I’m not sure I’ve found one yet. But,
there is one I’m considering. It has to do with Love.
If
you’ve spent any time with my Blog, you’ll see I’ve had more than a
little to say on the subject of what Love is. It’s best, and most
succinctly, defined as the feeling that someone else’s happiness is
at least as important as your own. Well being falls into the same
category.
In an upcoming story about my secret alter ego, Horace, his Grandpa tells him this about love:
I guess you might begin to suspect there’s something going on when you can’t stop thinking about some girl. Although, more often than not, that’s just a case of overactive hormones. But, it is a part of it. If you think a girl is really pretty, and you think about her all the time, and if you wonder if she has enough to eat, and if she’s safe, and when nothing makes you happier than making her happy, and all of that sort of thing… well, maybe, just possibly you’re in love. But, I wouldn’t count on it.”
Fred Eder
Love
is also a Force. It compels one to do things as certainly as gravity
does. When you love someone sufficiently, you can’t tolerate their
suffering, and you will take what ever action is necessary to stop
it. It really isn’t a matter of choice. It’s just what you do. You
can’t keep from doing it any more than you can keep your heart from
beating.
The
one common thread I can find in all of the incidents of my Salvation
is that someone I love was involved. I have reason to believe those
who saved me also loved me.
After
quite nearly plummeting to his death, Captain Kirk tells his best
friends, “I knew I wouldn’t die because the two of you were with
me. I’ve always known I’ll die alone.”
Love,
in its most powerful form, continues to keep me alive.
But,
why should I keep living? Yesterday one of my friends said, “Fred,
there’s a reason you are still alive, clearly. Something you need to
investigate, learn about, before it’s too late. Any idea what it is?
I have an inkling…”
And that is a pertinent question. What is it I need to do with my life while I still have it? This was my reply:
I think I need to learn to write in a way that can help the world see its commonality. Someone I love very much guided my thinking on that idea 40 years ago when she said, “One planet, one people… please?” (It was her.)
I’m trying to figure out how to make that dream a reality. I have no delusions of grandeur. I don’t believe it’s any more possible than it was for Atticus to get a Not Guilty verdict for Tom Robinson, or for Santiago to get his marlin back to shore, but I admire those men for making the effort.
“I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what,” (as Atticus told Jem.)
I believe in that.”
Fred Eder
What
does My
Life mean? What is the purpose of my continuing to suck up everyone
else’s oxygen?
I
think Captain Kirk began to teach me in April, 1967.
Edith
Keeler tells Kirk, “Let me help.”
Kirk
replies, “A hundred years or so from now, a famous novelist will
write a classic using that theme. He’ll recommend those three words,
even over ‘I love you.‘”
I’ve
often hoped that I might get to be that famous novelist. Since he
was talking to Edith Keeler in 1930, I have 11 more years to get
there. If I can live that long. Of course, I would have to be
living on “a planet circling the far left star in Orion’s belt.”
But, hey, one step at a time.
The
idea of Let Me Help has guided most of my life. I was an Elementary
School Teacher for just shy of 30 years. For me, my classroom was
the Enterprise. And, arrogance be damned, I was an extraordinary
Starship Captain.
I
retired in 2016. I thought, like Kirk once did, that I was done
making a difference. As it turns out, I wasn’t. I have found that
my words can still make a difference. I can still be of help with
them. I can sometimes move people. I can sometimes make them think.
I can sometimes reinforce their beliefs. I have even, from time to
time, been able to inspire someone.
If
I can find a way for my words to help bring the world together, to
make the Dream of “One Planet, One People… Please” a reality, I
will have made a difference. I don’t know how to do that, yet, but I
promise you I’m working on it.
What
yesterday most revealed to me was that I still have a desire to live.
This is new for me. I’ve been ready to die for several years now.
In fact, the last time the paramedics showed up, I was a little
disappointed they brought me back. Hamlet tells me, “The readiness
is all,” and I felt ready.
I
lost a little of that readiness yesterday. It occurs to me there are
still things I would like to do before I’m gone. There is Love still
to be experienced. There are words I still need to write. There is
Music I still want to hear. I find delight in small things people
do. I need to talk to my Mom every night at exactly 7:37 so she
knows I’m okay. I hope to have another pastrami sandwich someday. I
want to have a little ice cream before bed. These are all reasons to
want to live.
And
my friends have given me those reasons. And those reasons are a
product of Love. So… what keeps saving me? I believe it’s Love.
You
may believe it’s something else, and I respect your belief, even if
we don’t agree. But, for me, Love is the most powerful Force in the
Universe, and I believe it’s why I’m still alive.
I’m
working on finding the Meaning of My Life. I hope my thoughts might
have helped you to find the Meaning of Yours.
I’m not concerned with
Women’s Rights. I’m equally unconcerned with the rights of People of
Color, or with the rights of members of the LGBTQ community. I have
no interest in the rights of this religion or that one. I have even
less interest in the rights of white heterosexual males. Why?
Because those are all just subgroups of the rights that interest me.
I’m interested in Human Rights.
Women’s Rights are Human Rights. All rights are Human Rights. No person deserves special rights for being a member of a particular group. Too many groups, however, are denied rights by those to whom we have given the power to define the rights we have. And that is simply wrong. I’m concerned, at the moment, about laws that ban abortions from the moment a heartbeat can be detected. The claim is that this occurs at approximately six weeks, but, that turns out not to be be true in any meaningful way.
Rather, at six weeks of pregnancy, an ultrasound can detect “a little flutter in the area that will become the future heart of the baby,” said Dr. Saima Aftab, medical director of the Fetal Care Center at Nicklaus Children’s Hospital in Miami. This flutter happens because the group of cells that will become the future “pacemaker” of the heart gain the capacity to fire electrical signals, she said. But the heart is far from fully formed at this stage, and the “beat” isn’t audible; if doctors put a stethoscope up to a woman’s belly this early on in her pregnancy, they would not hear a heartbeat, Aftab told Live Science. (What’s more, it isn’t until the eighth week of pregnancy that the baby is called a fetus; prior to that, it’s still considered an embryo, according to the Cleveland Clinic.) It’s been only in the last few decades that doctors have even been able to detect this flutter at six weeks, thanks to the use of more-sophisticated ultrasound technologies, Aftab said. Previously, the technology wasn’t advanced enough to detect the flutter that early on in pregnancy.
There are also laws that outlaw birth control, or that won’t allow insurance companies to provide it for their customers. Birth control is only for the wealthy. There is plenty of information about this topic available here.
Why do we feel the need to
deny slightly over half of the population of the Earth the basic
right of bodily autonomy?
If I don’t wish to give
blood, even to save the life of my relative, I can’t be forced to do
that. Understand, an actual human being, whose heart has been
beating for quite some time is going to die because of my choice.
And yet, no one would deny my right to make that choice. Why?
Because it’s my blood. It’s my body. I get to choose what will
happen with it.
Why should women be denied
the same bodily autonomy that I have?
If a person dies, and his
organs could be harvested to save another person, the organs are off
limits unless the dead person has signed a paper saying they may be
used. And yet, no one would deny the right of the Dead to choose.
Why should living women,
with hearts that beat independently, be denied the same bodily
autonomy that a dead body has?
Well, the argument goes, she
is carrying another life. Her body is no longer entirely her own.
She’s sharing it with another human being.
I have a couple of problems
with that argument. First, it is STILL her body. Regardless of who
or what may be inside of her, the body contains her consciousness.
It is her body that is going to experience whatever happens to it.
Yes, Fred, but it also
contains another life. That life also has a consciousness. That
life counts as much as the life of the woman.
I would argue that, first,
I’m not entirely sure when what she is carrying inside her is a life.
Neither are you. Certainly it’s not yet a life when the man
ejaculates inside the woman. The sperm hasn’t even fertilized the
egg yet. On the other hand, it is absolutely a life, worthy of all
the rights, care, love, and help necessary for survival the moment it
is born. Somewhere between ejaculation and birth, it probably is a
human life. I’m just not sure where to draw that line.
There is no doubt, however, that it lacks a consciousness for quite some time. The brain doesn’t begin to form for six weeks. Consciousness, in any meaningful form, doesn’t begin for six months, and even then, it’s open to debate. For more on this topic, see the link below.
There is scientific evidence that tells me that human life begins at the moment of conception. Cells fuse, and this is the first step in becoming a human being.
The conclusion that human life begins at sperm-egg fusion is uncontested, objective, based on the universally accepted scientific method of distinguishing different cell types from each other and on ample scientific evidence (thousands of independent, peer-reviewed publications). Moreover, it is entirely independent of any specific ethical, moral, political, or religious view of human life or of human embryos. Indeed, this definition does not directly address the central ethical question surrounding the embryo: What value ought society place on human life at the earliest stages of development? A neutral examination of the evidence merely establishes the onset of a new human life at a scientifically well-defined “moment of conception,” a conclusion that unequivocally indicates that human embryos from the one-cell stage forward are indeed living individuals of the human species; i.e., human beings.
Well, then, Fred, that’s it!
Life begins at the moment of conception. The woman’s body is no
longer exclusively her own. She owes those cells the opportunity to
become a fully developed human being.
That sounds like a
reasonable argument, at least at first blush. But, let’s follow it
through to its conclusion. If the life of barely developed cells is
as valuable, as worthy of rights, as the life of a fully developed
human being, then we must also say that all human lives are of equal
value. And, I agree with that idea. All human lives are, in fact,
of equal value.
My life is as valuable as
yours, and yours is as valuable as mine. The life of the homeless
guy at Circle K asking for a dollar is as valuable as that of the
wealthiest billionaire. And, if all lives are of equal value, then
it follows all lives deserve equal rights. Women, those of different
religions, those of different sexual orientations, those of different
races, those of different nationalities, those from other countries
all deserve the same rights that you do. If you don’t accept this,
then I question whether you really believe that the value of a
fertilized egg is the same as the value of the woman whose egg got
fertilized. Too often those who oppose abortion also oppose helping
other humans because they were not born in America. If you’re among
those people, I would like you to reconsider your beliefs. How is a
fertilized egg entitled to more rights than a fully formed, conscious
human being with a heart that beats on its own?
Let’s explore the value of
human life a bit more deeply. We have frequently heard that life –
at least human life – is
sacred. I don’t know why that’s necessarily true, since, finally,
it’s brief. Perhaps it’s because
it’s so short that it’s sacred. None of us is likely to be here for
150 years. The record, as far as I know, is 122 years. But, if we
believe that all human life is sacred, then what does that tell us?
We
should care for all human life. This doesn’t mean just me and the
people who are most like me. We just said all
human life is sacred. That means the life of a refugee from another
country is sacred. It means the life of Osama bin Laden was sacred.
If it’s sacred, we should preserve and care for it. But, do we?
If
a mother has a child, it is, very often, her problem, and hers alone.
We will give her minimal, if any, help feeding, clothing, and caring
for her child. She has to pay for child care, food, diapers,
clothes, doctors, dentists, and anything else the baby needs.
Well,
if she didn’t want to do that, she shouldn’t have had a baby!
Yes,
well, perhaps she didn’t want
to have a baby, but it happened anyway. She was raped. A condom
broke. Or, perhaps she didn’t have access to the information she
needed. Or, maybe she just made a decision with which I might
disagree. Why do I get to decide how, when, with whom, and under
what circumstances a woman can have sex? Why do you? Who appointed
us The Morality Police? What makes sex moral or immoral? Who am I
to decide that for someone else? Morality is an incredibly fraught
subject. It’s almost never clear that this is an absolute Good and
that is an absolute Evil. And the times when it is clear usually
involve a body count.
Forcing
a woman to give birth against her will without giving her the support
she needs to raise the child is simply wrong. A woman is more than
an incubator for a man’s seed. She is a complete human being, with
the right to choose for herself what happens to her body. She has
all the rights a fetus does, and then some.
So, all human beings deserve
the same rights. That includes women.
And that brings us back to
my original point. Why do I have the right to decide what will
happen to my body, but a woman doesn’t have the right to decide what
will happen to hers? If it’s because she’s carrying a potential life
inside of her, then you’ve denied her of a right that I have. I will
never have a potential life growing inside of me. I can, however,
get one started in a woman. And when I do, I should be required to
take responsibility for the consequences of my action. The fact is
that most men are not required by law to do anything more than pay
child support. To believe that paying any amount of money is sharing
an equal burden with the woman who is giving birth is absurd.
She will, at the very least,
undergo a painful experience. Even the easiest births are no
cakewalk. The worst of them actually kill women. If she gives the
baby up for adoption, she will have an emotionally traumatic
experience. If she raises the child, she will have a good portion of
her life changed dramatically and forever.
If the pregnancy came from an experience she didn’t choose, such as a rape, the man might be able to attempt to get custody of the child the victim bore. We’ve probably all seen this meme:
It’s not entirely true that
in 31 states a rapist can sue for custody, but there is no law
specifically banning it. The issue is a bit murky, but Snopes did a
fairly good job of sorting through it. The upshot of their research
is this:
What’s
True
Some
states do not have laws to prevent the perpetrators of rape from
seeking custody and visitation of children conceived during that act.
What’s
False
No
laws restrict rape victims from seeking child support from their
rapists.
The complete article can be found here, for those seeking additional clarification. It’s worth your time to read it.
Rape
victims often want to keep as far from their attackers as possible.
How can one blame them? It is, therefore, not likely they’re going
to sue for child support.
The laws being enacted now are, in my view, less about the value of human life than they are an effort to deny women of rights that I have. Alabama, Ohio, Georgia, and several other states have passed laws that effectively ban abortion, in direct violation of the Roe V Wade decision. Why are they doing this? I suspect it’s because with a very Conservative Supreme Court, they hope to be able to reverse Roe V Wade. Why do they want to do that? I won’t accept the idea that it’s because they value all lives equally. I’ve covered that above. The Alabama law, for example, doesn’t apply to fetuses in fertility clinics.
When Alabama Senator Bobby Singleton, a Democrat, pointed out that Alabama’s new law could punish those who dispose of fertilized eggs at an IVF clinic, Chambliss responded, “The egg in the lab doesn’t apply. It’s not in a woman. She’s not pregnant.”
If the law were, in fact, about the value of the fetus, it would apply to laboratories as well as women. That fetus is precisely as human as one carried in a mother’s womb. But a fetus in an IVF facility is not protected. What do they do with excess fetuses then? I thought this would be a simple Google search. It turns out, it’s not a simple question at all. There has been one widely accepted study done on the issue, and it found the following:
Nearly all (97 percent) were willing to create and cryopreserve extra embryos. Fewer, but still a majority (59 percent), were explicitly willing to avoid creating extras. When embryos did remain in excess, clinics offered various options: continual cryopreservation for a charge (96 percent) or for no charge (4 percent), donation for reproductive use by other couples (76 percent), disposal prior to (60 percent) or following (54 percent) cryopreservation, and donation for research (60 percent) or embryologist training (19 percent). Qualifications varied widely among those personnel responsible for securing couples’ consent for disposal and for conducting disposal itself. Some clinics performed a religious or quasi-religious disposal ceremony. Some clinics required a couple’s participation in disposal; some allowed but did not require it; some others discouraged or disallowed it.
There is no law
requiring labs to divulge to the public what they do with extra
fetuses. Cryopreservation is the process of freezing and preserving
unborn fetuses. This is expensive and can continue for years. There
have been fetuses cryopreserved for in excess of a decade.
Preservation is often expensive. It is not an option for the poor.
But, please notice 60%
of the labs are willing to dispose of the excess fetuses. There may
or may not be a ceremony involved, but they are not required to keep
it alive. The Alabama law isn’t, in any meaningful way, protecting
the life of the unborn fetus. It’s restricting the choices of women.
We have lived, nearly
forever, with the idea that women are secondary to men. Their
function is to provide us orgasms and give us sons and daughters, and
then to raise those children while we go do something else. And this
idea is being challenged, frequently and compellingly, in our
society. And it should be.
There is nothing that
makes women less than men. There is no reason to pass laws
restricting their choices while the same laws don’t apply to men.
The time of the patriarchy is gone. It’s now time to recognize that
women are complete human beings with all the same rights, all the
same needs, and all the same value as men. They are no less
important, no less deserving of making choices, and no less human
than I am.
Finally, let’s be clear
about something. Banning abortions is never going to stop people from
having them. It’s simply going to stop them from having safe and
legal abortions. It’s the same as banning guns. Criminals will
still have them. If prostitution and drugs are illegal, people will
still hire prostitutes and use drugs. We can just lock them up for
those things. And the people passing these laws know that. What they
really want is to return to the time when only white male landowners
had any rights at all. There is an ancient, deeply embedded idea in
the minds of many men (and some women) that males are, by virtue of
being male, superior to females. And changing that idea is not going
to be an easy task.
Now, what are my
feelings about abortion? I wish no one would ever have one. It’s
sad to keep a life from coming into the world. I do, in fact, feel
empathy for the unborn child. Then, why don’t I want them to be
illegal?
I
don’t know of anyone who ever wanted
an abortion. I want a pastrami sandwich. I want to go to dinner
with Valerie Bertinelli. I want to make a living as a writer. Those
are things I want.
I
don’t know of any woman who feels about abortion the way I feel about
pastrami sandwiches. I do know, however, women who may need
an abortion. Not just because she was raped, or was the victim of
incest, or for any other single reason, but because for any of 3.9
billion reasons, she may not be in a place where having a child is a
good choice. The decision whether or not to have an abortion must
certainly be an agonizingly difficult one. I’m relieved I will never
be faced with that decision. People I love, however, have had to
make the choice. Why on Earth should we make that decision any more
difficult by threatening to imprison her and her doctor? Who is
better off for doing that? If your argument is the unborn child is
better off, I can’t agree with you. You’re condemning a child to a
life in which he or she is unwanted.
No, I’m not! Do you
know how many couples want to adopt children? The child will be
loved in deeper ways than other babies!
I understand that
feeling intimately. When I was married the first time, my wife and I
were unable to conceive. We went to doctors. We went to fertility
clinics. We did all we could. It simply wasn’t going to happen.
So, we wanted to adopt. A relative of mine got pregnant while my
wife and I were hoping to adopt, and we wanted to adopt her child.
She had an abortion. I was furious with her. But, I got over it.
Do you know why? Because, finally, that was her choice to make. It
was her body. She gets to decide what is right for it. My wife and
I don’t. My wife and I never did adopt. It turns out to be a very
difficult process.
If you would like to adopt, I’m completely in favor of it. There are many children waiting for you to give them all of your love. According to The Adoption Network, “There are 107,918 foster children eligible for and waiting to be adopted. In 2014, 50,644 foster kids were adopted — a number that has stayed roughly consistent for the past five years. The average age of a waiting child is 7.7 years old and 29% of them will spend at least three years in foster care.” https://adoptionnetwork.com/adoption-statistics
There is no shortage of
children. There is a shortage of eligible parents. Why? This is
because the definition of eligible is narrowing. In many states, gay
couples are ineligible. My first wife and I were unsuccessful in
adopting because I’m an atheist, and no one wanted their child raised
without a church. I would love for you to adopt if that’s your
desire. It is a beautiful thing to do. It can, however, be a long,
hard road.
I hope you never need an
abortion. I hope you find love, you get married, you have children,
and you have a family that loves you for the rest of your life, if
those are things you want. But, if you do need an abortion, I hope
you can find love, support, correct medical information to help you
decide, and a safe and legal means of obtaining it. It’s your body,
first and foremost. If you choose to share it with someone and
become a mother, I applaud your decision. You’ve made what I believe
to be a beautiful and deeply meaningful choice. But if you choose
differently, I will support your decision, even if I disagree with
it. My opinion doesn’t matter. Yours is the only one that’s
relevant.
You are a human being.
You have a human right to choose what is best for you.
“Listen, Bob. A gun is just a tool. No better and no worse than any other tool, a shovel- or an axe or a saddle or a stove or anything. Think of it always that way. A gun is as good- and as bad- as the man who carries it. Remember that.”
Jack Schaefer
Facebook, for me, is exactly the same. It’s a tool. There have been many valid arguments against Facebook. It has the potential for evil. It connects groups of people who share the same small minded, often ignorant or dangerous, views of the world.
“The problem… is that there is nothing special about humans in this information system. Every data point is treated equally, irrespective of how humans experience it. “Jew haters” is just as much an ad category as “Moms who jog.” It’s all data. If Group A has a bigger presence on Facebook than Group B, so be it, even if Group A is trying to demean or organize violence against the Bs. Of course, the reality is that humans are all different, and cannot be reduced to data.” –
I
recognize its potential for abuse. But I also recognize its
potential to be a life changing force for those of us who fear actual
human contact. And by no means are we the only group for whom
Facebook is a significant benefit. It helps those who want to launch
careers. It helps those who write. It helps those who want to share
ideas.
For
me, Facebook has been the difference between complete social
isolation and a feeling of being connected with the world at large.
I’ve reconnected with friends I haven’t seen in decades. I’ve found
people who share my interests and political views. I’ve encountered
ideas I would never have considered in any other way. I’ve been able
to get the help I’ve needed when I have had the courage to put my
shame aside and ask for it. I’ve found Love, and, being Fred, plenty
of rejection.
But
it has made me into someone I wouldn’t have been otherwise. It’s
changed me for the better. It’s saved my car, kept me from
homelessness, and sent me to a Phil Collins concert. It even made it
possible for me to meet one of my greatest heroes, who happened to be
playing Facebook poker at the same time I was. I’ve become actual
friends with him because of Facebook. And because of him, I found
more music, more friends, and more acceptance.
I’m
accepted in a world over which I have more control. I have a larger
audience than I’ve ever had before for my ideas, my passions, my
writing, and my creative endeavors. I feel safe, confident, and
respected. On Facebook, I’ve been able to celebrate my successes,
mourn my losses and failures, and support causes and people that are
important to me.
It’s
more than just pictures of Cats. (Although, of late, I’ve even begun
participating in that. When Cats love you, they change you.) It’s a
safe window into the world. It’s a door that can be opened and
closed as necessary. It’s a tool… no better or worse than the
people using it. I surround myself with the best people I can find.
That makes Facebook, for me, the best tool I have.
I believe that all Mothers, simply by giving birth, qualify as heroes. I don’t for a moment claim that all Mothers are good people. Some of them are obviously not. We’ve all seen Sybil, whose Mother abused her so horribly that Sybil developed multiple personality disorder to be able to cope with the stress. And Norman Bates’s Mother certainly would not be in the running for Sainthood.
But, what is a hero? I
maintain that heroism requires sacrifice and some form of danger, and
that it is an act to benefit someone other than oneself. The fireman
who runs into the house to save a child is sacrificing his safety and
is facing the very real threat of a horrible death. The kids that
jumped in front of their friends in the school shootings this week,
as well as those who did the same in the Jewish Synagogue, are
heroes. They sacrificed their lives to save others. The benefits of
their actions were not necessarily their own. (This is not to say
there are no benefits to Motherhood. But not all Mothers get those
benefits for any number of reasons.)
A hero might also be an
artist. This is someone who has accomplished something you admire
deeply. Some of my heroes are Shakespeare, Aaron Sorkin, Snuffy
Walden, and Gene Roddenberry. None of them, to my knowledge, faced
any particular danger, but don’t believe for a moment they
accomplished what they did without sacrificing their time, their
energy, and their efforts. And their accomplishments benefit me, and
millions of others. I’m not sure if these are the same sorts of
heroes as firefighters and those who stop shooters. So, perhaps the
word has a broader meaning for me.
But, a Mother certainly fits
any reasonable definition. She sacrifices her body, her comfort, her
well being for the benefit of another. I’m told that even the
easiest, least painful birth is excruciating. Having never given
birth, myself, I don’t really know. But, I feel sure it’s less fun
than lying in bed reading a good book. Giving birth is dangerous;
women, even today, die in the process. They do this to benefit
another person. They bring life into the world at the expense of, at
the very least, physical pain. That, for me, is heroism.
Some Mothers continue to be
heroes, in lesser or greater ways, throughout the rest of their
lives. Others abandon the status promptly.
Regardless of whether your
Mother was as good as mine (and mine is as good as anyone could
hope), or she was horrible as Sybil’s, she sacrificed herself for
you. You owe her your life. If not for her, you’re not here. I
think, sometimes, that’s worth remembering.
The economics of the future is somewhat different. You see, money doesn’t exist in the 24th century… The acquisition of wealth is no longer the driving force in our lives. We work to better ourselves and the rest of humanity.
Captain Jean-Luc Picard, First Contact
I
loved Star Trek, as a child, because of its cool technology. Who
wouldn’t want to have a gun that doesn’t have to kill? Wouldn’t it
be awesome to be able to beam from one place to another? And, who
wouldn’t want to carry around an instrument that allowed you to talk
to people thousands of miles from you? And, as I grew up, I saw some
of those wonderful devices invented. You’re probably reading this on
one of them.
There
are parts of Star Trek that probably simply can’t exist. In fact,
its most basic concept is almost impossible. We’re never going to
travel beyond the speed of light. Einstein showed that to me when I
was 15, and no one has ever been able to show me he was wrong. If we
produce a warp engine, I will be ecstatic to admit my error. And, I
will be equally excited to acknowledge my mistake in my near
certainty that we will never be able to beam down to a planet as soon
as we do it.
We
do have weapons that are approaching the phaser. One need not fire
lead bullets anymore. Tasers exist. And nearly 2/3 of the
population of the planet now has a cell phone which is at least as
good as Captain Kirk’s communicator. There are even cell phones that
can act almost as Tricorders in their ability to measure certain
functions of the body.
While some of Roddenberry’s fantasy can never be reality, much of it already is. And we’re better off for it. But what of the rest of his vision?
I love Star Trek, as an adult, because of its extraordinary society. Their greatest concerns in life truly are bettering themselves and the rest of humanity. Their physiological needs are all met. For the most part, their safety needs are met. They aren’t struggling to pay rent or put food on the table. Much, but not all, crime has been eliminated because people have no need to commit crimes to fulfill their physiological needs. I’m much more likely to go rob a store in order to feed my wife and children than I am to do it for the fun of it. If my physiological needs are met, most of my motives for committing crimes evaporate. I expect the same is true for you, and for the guy next to you, too.
The higher level needs of Maslow’s famous hierarchy are all needs to be met by each individual. How one finds love and a sense of belonging is an expression of identity; it’s not the work of the world, but of each unique person in each one’s unique way. This is also true of Esteem and “Self Actualization,” or the ability to be creative and to work for the benefit of the rest of the world. The world’s interference in those endeavors would be a Borg-like threat to our individuality.
But
I believe that we live in a world in which we are now able to meet
the bottom two rungs of Maslow’s Hierarchy for all human beings. We
have the resources and the technology necessary.
It
seems to me that The Economics of Star Trek that I admire and envy so
much are based on three realities.
A Post Scarcity Society. There are thousands of hours to be done on this subject, and the debate about the use of the Replicator, alone, is sufficient to be worthy of a Doctoral Dissertation, but I’m using this in the limited sense that the world is capable of providing all the basic human needs: food, water, shelter, medical care, clothing, and the means to participate in society (transportation, communication, and education). Our civilization is already capable of meeting the bottom two rungs of Maslow’s hierarchy for every human being.
A Resource Based Society. There’s a group called The Venus Project that is actually working toward achieving this goal. What is it? It begins with the radical idea that the planet is the heritage of all people. We need to work out how to use the resources the planet can produce to provide what people need as efficiently as possible. This is their basic goal, from their website:
The Venus Project proposes an alternative vision of what the future can be if we apply what we already know in order to achieve a sustainable new world civilization. It calls for a straightforward redesign of our culture in which the age-old inadequacies of war, poverty, hunger, debt and unnecessary human suffering are viewed not only as avoidable, but as totally unacceptable. Anything less will result in a continuation of the same catalog of problems inherent in today’s world.
3. An Empathetic Civilization. The idea is that we extend our empathy not just to our blood ties, or our tribal ties, or our religious ties, or our national ties, but to the entire species, and finally even to our shared biosphere. We know we have the technology necessary for this because we can all feel empathy at the same time in response to disasters. This is true when we hear of horrifying tsunamis, devastating earthquakes, or miners trapped beneath the Earth. We have global communication, and we know almost instantly what is happening to each other. Just as when one infant in a Day Care begins crying, all the others will join them within a few minutes (this is due to something we’ve discovered recently called Mirror Neurons. We are soft-wired for Empathy. There’s a neuroscientist named Marco Iacoboni who’s done interesting research on this ), so will human beings share the distress of others in trouble. Empathy is, in my view, the most important human emotion, even if “The Empath” was something less than Star Trek’s most successful episode. The ability to feel for others is what makes us human. If we have the resources and the technology to meet the first two of Maslow’s needs on the hierarchy, people can spend their lives meeting the last three. In other words, once people no longer need to be concerned with physiological or safety needs, they can spend their lives working on the others.
What
would be the result of such a world?
My
crystal ball ran out of batteries, so I can only guess. I believe we
would see a reduction in crime (but not its elimination), we would
see better and greater technologies emerging because people have the
time to devote to learning instead of trying to feed their families,
and we would see, most importantly, a happier world where people
really, honestly can work for the betterment of themselves and the
rest of humanity.
I’m told this is fantasy, and worse, it’s Socialism. I reject that idea. It can be accomplished, but it’s a question of changing our mind set. I have written quite a bit about the need to increase our empathy, and that embracing Art is an effective means of doing that. You can find that here.
I
believe it is wrong to judge a person based on how much money that
person earns. The Value of a Person is much more than their ability
to monetize their skills, passions, and abilities. Our Value to each
other is in what we can do for one another. Empathy is also a part
of one’s actual value. I have also written about that, and it’s
available here if you need me to make the case more strongly.
So,
will we ever live long and prosper? I don’t know. I do know,
however, it’s worth it to try.
For
Roddenberry to accomplish his society, he needed a Eugenics War and
then World War III. The society became a barter system when we had to
start over because we had destroyed a quarter of the Earth’s
population and many of our resources. One of my friends, a lifelong
member of Slytherin House, believes we could manage this right now by
simply removing the populations of India and China and replacing them
with trees and arable land. While Kodos might admire her thinking
and endorse her methods, I can’t.
Can
we realize Roddenberry’s vision without the need for violence and
destruction? I certainly hope so. I also know that Edith Keeler
believed as I do. And, when she managed to talk FDR into delaying
our entrance into World War II the results were disastrous. We lost
the War and with it the concept of Freedom. However…
“She was right. Peace was the way.” “She was right. But at the wrong time.”
– Kirk and Spock, “City on the Edge of Forever”
Keeler
asked Kirk, “Are you afraid of something? Whatever it is, let me
help.”
Kirk
answered, “Let me help… A hundred years or so from now I believe,
a famous novelist will write a classic using that theme. He’ll
recommend those three words even over I love you.”
That
happened on Earth in 1930. We’re just about a hundred years from
that time, now. Is it time for us to begin down Edith Keeler’s path?
I don’t know.
“…the person that had took a bull by the tail once had learnt sixty or seventy times as much as a person that hadn’t, and said a person that started in to carry a cat home by the tail was getting knowledge that was always going to be useful to him, and warn’t ever going to grow dim or doubtful.”
Mark Twain
I
never liked cats. I found them arrogant, rude, and dangerous. The
first one with whom I ever dealt scratched my hand deeply enough to
draw blood. I hated him. He never said I wasn’t allowed to pick him
up. I learned… the hard way.
After
that experience, I gave all felines a wide berth. My parents
inherited a cat from my brother. I don’t actually recall the details
of the transaction, but every time I would visit, there would be
Jamie, or as he was called by my father, “Stupid Cat of No Possible
Value or Worth,” wandering around enslaving my parents. Up and
down my father would get whenever Stupid Cat wanted to go in or out.
Yes, he was an outdoor cat. Mom required Dad to stand at the door
and call him every night before they went to bed. And Dad might be
there for half an hour at a time before His Highness would deign to
return. I wanted no part of any such ritual. I never understood why
my father did, except that he loved my mother, and my mother loved
everything with a heartbeat.
Cats
had no time for me, and I had none for them. I refused to believe
all the Cat People who told me that their cats were sweet and kind
and loving. That described no cat I had ever encountered. I was too
arrogant to deal with the Arrogance of Cats.
Dogs,
on the other hand, I have always loved. There is nothing so
wonderful as being jumped by four-legged fur when you come through
the door. Her tail is wagging and she’s covering you with kisses as
though you were the most important and wonderful being that cells
ever combined to form. I have two ex-wives. Neither of them was
ever in the league of a dog for making me feel loved. However,
neither Missy nor Darilyn ever pooped on my floor, so perhaps it
evens out a bit.
In
July of 2017, I was in the hospital, and when I got out, I was going
to have nowhere to go. My nephew had gotten me a motel room for a
couple of weeks to keep me from being homeless. That ran out,
though, while I was suffering from extreme Diabetic Ketoacidosis.
I
had just recently begun a horrible job selling DirecTV to
unsuspecting old women. I made little money, and to make any amount
that would give me any chance to sustain my existence, I had to be
successful at getting people to trade their little pieces of green
paper for something that is mostly worthless. When I made a sale, I
was both ecstatic and wracked with guilt. But it was in this
horrible place that I met Hilary.
When
I was in the hospital, she called me every day. I have almost no
memory of that because the entire experience is a blur in my mind. I
was heavily drugged, and I was almost entirely incoherent almost all
the time. But, Hilary told me that when I got out of the hospital, I
could stay with her, and her wife, Rebecca, and their three cats,
Cynna, Buster, and Oliver until I could get back on my feet. And my
dog, Melanie, whom I feared I was going to have to give away to
anyone I believed would take good care of her before I dragged her
into homelessness with me, would be welcomed there, too. She would
have died on the streets, and my former roommates were about to be
evicted from my old house, which is where Melanie had to stay while I
tried to find shelter for us both. It was an offer that saved my
life, and Melanie’s, and, subsequently, made me a Cat Person.
When
I arrived, Rebecca showed me my bedroom, and I collapsed onto the
blowup mattress and passed out. I slept for more than 30 hours. I
think it was closer to two full days. And when I finally came back
into the world, Oliver had to find out who I was. He kept looking
at me, and I thought it was a little creepy. What the hell did he
even want from me?
It
was a couple of weeks before I moved in and Oliver decided I was
acceptable. The cats seemed willing enough to tolerate Melanie after
their initial meeting. Buster and Cynna, however, wanted nothing to
do with me. See why I hate cats?
Oliver
came and got in my lap for the first time almost a month to the day
after I began occupying his space full time. I was surprised, but it
was a nice surprise. He stayed nearly an entire minute, and he let
me pet him. And you know what else? He didn’t even scratch me.
Over
time, he began to visit me any time I was in the bathroom. Closing
the door meant only that Oliver’s little paw would appear underneath
it, letting me know he needed to come in. And, being the basically
lonely guy I’ve always been, I’d let him in. It wasn’t long before
Oliver was following me around, laying in my lap, and doing the
things Melanie had gotten too old to do anymore. Melanie could
barely make it onto her own personal couch. She couldn’t get on the
bed anymore, and Oliver started visiting me there. He wouldn’t stay
long, but he would swing by to check on me. When I got sick, as I
did with alarming frequency, he would come and lie on my chest. I
think it was his way of telling the girls something was wrong. They
would look for him, find him, and see whether I was dead, dead tired,
or in need of hospitalization.
Oliver
stayed close to me all the time we lived in Mesa.
In
July of 2018, we all moved to our nice 3 bedroom house in Phoenix.
We had a backyard so Melanie could go out and relieve herself without
the need for a leash and a trip up and down a set of stairs that
would, given time, certainly have killed me. And it was in the new
house that Buster decided to adopt me.
For reasons passing understanding, he decided my bedroom was actually his. If I laid down, Buster would join me within less than ten minutes. And he wouldn’t just sit there. He insisted that I be petting him. Having my phone in my hand was simply not allowed. That was giving my attention to something other than him. When he’s not chewing on the tube that goes from my tummy to my insulin pump, we do very well together. He’s become an expert cuddler. He lies with his back to my chest, and he purrs contentedly so long as we’re together. When I leave, he becomes visibly depressed. If I ever meet a woman like that… well… no… never mind. I would rather just have Buster. He takes up much less space on the bed.
Oliver
has to be with me at the computer now. He frequently feels the need
to add to whatever I’m writing, and if I stop petting him when he’s
in my lap, he will hop up to the desk, stroll across the keyboard,
and jump to the window above me to see what’s happening in the
backyard. He’s managed to obscure 2/3 of the characters now, and I
have to try to remember where they all are. I’m hoping to get a new
one soon. (A keyboard, not a cat… three is plenty, I swear.)
Cynna
continues to be royalty. When the girls went to Las Vegas for some
sort of convention a couple of months ago, His Majesty began to take
notice of my existence. He made sure I knew when he needed to be
fed. And, he assured me, no matter what his Mothers had said, when
he needed to be fed was simply constantly. Since their return he has
visited me twice, for a total of nearly 90 seconds. I expect that in
another year or two he’ll come to see me without the expectation of
food. Maybe he’ll let me pet him more than twice. One can only
hope.
I
will always love Melanie with all my heart. The fact that she is
getting too old to walk anymore scares me more than my own death.
There is little to be done, but I can still give her loves and kisses
while she’s lying on her couch. She simply isn’t capable of giving
me all she once did. I know her love is still there. She just can’t
express it physically any longer.
The
cats can. They’ve taught me there are ways of expressing their love
without jumping on me. I’m told that when Buster or Oliver looks me
in the eye, and they close their eyes for a moment, they’re saying,
“I love you.” I don’t know if that’s true. But I do know,
they’ve made me love them because they simply won’t allow my heart
any other choice. The cats have become a part of me. I’m a Cat
Person.
“You’re
going to be fine,” Irma told the clearly horrified Horace when they
stepped through the door.
He
stood looking around the massive lobby, and Horace immediately got
cold inside. The American Dental Association was having some sort of
conference here, and they were everywhere. His teeth began to ache.
The
lobby was like a cathedral. It had its own marble waterfall that
cascaded all but silently to the floor below. A sweeping staircase
led down there, but there was no way Horace was going to see beneath
the surface. He just knew there were even more people there, and the
distance between himself and the music would be greater. The lobby
included its own outdoor patio, and the music was audible there. But
he could no more smoke there than in the vestry of a church. He would
have to go past the Valet Parking into a corner about 50 yards from
the door where the Smoker’s Outpost was located, so the healthy
people could walk by and stare at the smokers contemptuously.
“I
need you to put that over by the water.”
Horace
was still reeling in a quiet terror. “What? You mean downstairs?”
“No.”
She pointed to a spot halfway across the lobby. “Literally right
beyond the water.”
“Oh!
Okay.” He took a deep breath and walked in the direction she
pointed, carrying some sort of stand for her little mini computer on
top of his clipboard. He set them down on the ledge next to a pool
of water. He sat down next to them, and told himself he was a
roadie, working for Jackson Browne, so it was all right for him to be
there. Irma walked past carrying her keyboard. “Okay… not so
much of a roadie, I guess,” he whispered, surreptitiously in the
noise of the the busy lobby.
A
woman of about 40 walked by, speaking perfectly audibly to the man
next to her.
“Have
you hatched the second season?”
“How
can someone speak in typographical errors?”
Irma
looked up from the cords she was connecting. “What?”
“The
lady that just walked by. I have no idea what she meant, and she was
too close for me to misunderstand her.”
“What
did she say? Is it important? I mean, you know, I’m kinda busy
here.”
“Would
you like me to help you set up your stuff?
“Would
you like me to hit you?”
“No,”
he said thoughtfully. “That wouldn’t be in my best interests, I
don’t think.”
“Then
let’s assume it’s not a good plan.”
Horace
sat and thought for a moment about the woman. They were gone before
he had the chance to hear the man’s reply. What could she possibly
have meant?
Horace got off the ledge, and found a table as close to Irma as possible. He sat down in a chair that belonged in a wealthy person’s living room, and tried to fade into nothingness.
***
December
27, 1992
A
ringing phone was the last thing Horace wanted to hear. Christmas
was over. He’d already called Winnie to say happy birthday. This
needed to be his time.
The
phone rang again. “Goddammit!” He set his little plastic bong
down behind his antiquated recliner, pulled the lever to release the
foot rest, and got his feet to the carpet. He moved the book from
his lap to the floor next to his bong, and sighing, stood up. He
walked to the phone on the peeling pine desk. “Hello.”
There
was music and laughter coming from the other end of the phone. There
was a crowd obscuring the voice trying to communicate with him. Her
words were indecipherable.
“What?”
He was more irritated now. “Who is this?”
“Horace!
I went out.”
“Winnie?”
“Who?
Oh, yes, me! Yeah. So, I went out.”
“You
sound a little drunk.”
“No,
I’m not. Not, you know, like really
drunk or anything. It’s my birthday!”
The
noise behind her was growing louder. A small crowd laughed.
“Cut
it out! I’m on the
phone…” She lowered her voice to the point it was almost
indistinguishable. “… with my boyfriend.”
“You
found the only bar in Iowa?”
“No,
I’m not in California, Horace. I’m in Iowa. I’m a long way from
you.”
“Yes,
dear. I know. I went out to visit you last week. Did you forget
that already?”
“Stop
it!”
“Stop
what?”
“No,
not you.” The voices
of young men overpowered hers, but she kept talking anyway. “I just
wanted to call you. I saw this phone booth, and I thought I should
call. Aren’t I a good girlfriend?” She was giggling.
“Winnie,
please don’t drive home. Okay?”
“Someone
here will give me a ride. Thanks for thinking of me.” Hooting and
hollering filled the phone line for a moment. And then…
The
line went dead.
Horace
was not naive. He could feel his blood physically heating up. He
went to his 6 disc CD player, pulled the cassette, and emptied it
somewhat obsessively. The discs lay neatly piled on top of the
entertainment center. He stormed to the CD rack standing on the wall
to the right of the TV, and he began searching. He knew that only
music could help him right now.
Within
less than a minute, he was totally frustrated, and his face was
turning red. He knelt to the records neatly organized beneath the
entertainment center. He skipped over classical, jazz, and rock. He
moved into soundtracks. Max Steiner’s Casablanca was neatly wedged
between Caddyshack and Close Encounters. He took it out, stood up,
and put it on. His breathing got heavier, and his heart was beating
far too rapidly.
As Dooley Wilson began to sing, Horace turned on the little desk light, turned out the overhead, sat back in the recliner, and loaded his bong. He blinked the tears out of his eyes.
***
The
First Set
“I
left the house tonight,” Horace typed into his Facebook on his
phone, “which is something I rarely do, in my slightly overlarge
jeans and my freshly washed blue shirt. I had hoped they would act
as camouflage. They didn’t. I needed a name tag for that.” As
the people continued to flow in and out of the lobby, he began almost
to quiver. Fortunately, Irma had begun playing by now, and when he
could connect with the music, and the people could be expelled from
his mind, it helped calm him.
“So,
why am I nervous as hell? There are people here. They are all light
years out of my social class. They have vastly more wealth than I
have ever had. Many of them are wearing name tags. They are all
better dressed than I am. If nothing else, their clothes all fit
them properly. One of them, a man 20 years or so my senior, just sat
down at my table in the lobby. I may well perish from People.”
He hated writing straight to Facebook, but he used it it like a
journal. It had become an outlet for his stress. And people seemed
to approve. His stress was off the scale.
Horace
looked peripherally at the man to his left. He wondered if he ought
to ask him to leave the table. There was something in his demeanor,
though, that Horace recognized. Horace knew he needed the music. He
kept staring at the elevator, as if waiting for someone to appear.
“But…
the music is mine. Yes, I’m sharing it with dozens of other people,
but mostly it’s mine. Irma is playing a unique version of Elton
John’s “Your Song,” and there is something comforting in a new
version of an old broken-in shoe. I can breathe.”
If
it had been a woman who had sat down, Horace would have felt obliged
to leave.
Evidently
the man was getting uncomfortable sharing the table with a stranger.
He walked through the lobby, out the door, and he turned to his left
before he vanished from sight. That was a man who needed a
cigarette.
The
elevator opened, and the blonde woman who had thought seasons of
television shows came from eggs stepped, somewhat clumsily, out of
the elevator. She looked around a moment, as though searching for
someone, and then all but ran across the lobby to a handsome, well
dressed man in an expensive suit. He was waving at her. He reached
to hug her, but she stopped him, looking nervously around.
Irma began playing again, and Horace turned to watch her. When he turned back, the couple were gone.
July 10, 1993
“Oh
for God’s sake!” yelled Winnie. “Can’t you even do this right?”
“It’s
nowhere near as easy as it looks in the movies,” Horace grunted as
he tried to balance Winnie in his arms while fighting with key to the
hotel room door.
“Jesus!”
She jumped out of his arms. Her wedding dress snagged on his ring.
“Fuck!”
“We’ll
get it fixed.”
“Yeah,
but on my Wedding Day?
Seriously?”
Horace finally turned
the key. He opened the door. “All right. Let’s try it again.”
“I think we should go
get my Mom to do it.”
“You’re a genuine
romantic, aren’t you?”
Winnie rolled her eyes.
“Let’s just get it the hell over with.”
Horace lifted her into
his arms, carried her across the threshold, and laid her carefully on
the bed. “I love you, you know.”
“Just close the door before bugs get in here.”
***
Break
Horace
had given up writing on Facebook, and he was scribbling on his
clipboard.
“I
feel like the other people here are all the same people who strolled
passed Joshua Bell playing in the subway without ever noticing. And,
as much as I fear them, I pity them even more. What must it be like
to be unable to feel music? Dostoevsky said, “Fathers
and teachers, I ponder, ‘What is hell?
I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.’” I
think the inability to feel music must be the Second Level of Hell.
I wonder what Dante would think? When you can’t feel music, when you
can’t let it grab you and demand your attention, how much less
catharsis must you feel than I do? And without catharsis, how can
you love?”
He
went to the Men’s Room. It was twice the size of his living room.
The paper towel dispenser said “Tork.” He thought of The
Monkees. He was sad for a moment.
Horace’s
heart jumped into his throat when he returned to his table to see
four women occupying it. They would have taken it over entirely, but
he had his clipboard and pen on it, as well as the soda the bartender
has been refilling for him gratis. One of the women, who was
distractingly attractive, said, “Sorry,” and lifted her drink.
Horace calmly replied, “No worries.” He considering throwing up.
“I
don’t know how I managed to sit down, except that, since my knees
wanted to buckle under me, I thought it was probably the least
embarrassing move available to me at the moment. I am, without a
doubt, the least coordinated person you will ever meet. Falling is
exceptionally painful, now that I’m 56, and my body can’t change
positions without a significant effort. Either standing or sitting
always requires a reasonably unpleasant grunting sound. How I wish
the crowd could make a little more noise, or that Irma would return
from her break and start playing so I could sit without attracting
unwanted attention.”
With
a reasonably unpleasant grunting sound, he sat in the beautiful
chair. None of the women looked over. His gratitude was without
bounds. They were either being polite by ignoring him (which is a
feat in, and of, itself), or the universe was giving him a break, and
they hadn’t heard him.
He
picked up his clipboard. He began to write rapidly, almost as though
he could outrun his discomfort by writing intensely. Faith healers
say when they fail, it’s because someone didn’t have enough faith.
Writing healers will tell you when they fail it’s because they
weren’t writing well enough.
He
went to refill their sodas for the third time, and the bartender,
with whom he had become as friendly as possible for him with a
stranger, said, “Why is there lipstick on both straws if one of
these is yours?”
“I
don’t know. I’ll have to ask Irma if she’s been drinking out of my
glass. You’d be surprised how little lipstick I wear.”
She
laughed a little too much at that. He wished he could tip her.
Poverty, he decided, had distinct disadvantages.
He heard the elevator ding, and he looked toward it. There stood the man who had shared his table. The worried husband didn’t get on. He was waiting for someone to get off.
***
November 27, 1997
Horace
paced the hallway, almost frantically, holding the phone receiver in
his left hand. How the hell long did she need to stay out with him?
She would be stepping out of the elevator any moment, he reassured
himself.
“Fifteen
hours I drove!” He realized he was yelling into the phone. He
brought his voice down to avoid disturbing other guests. “Fifteen
fucking hours!”
“Well,”
said his mother on the other end of the phone, “at least you didn’t
make the trip alone. It was nice of Marc to go with you. I didn’t
worry as much.”
“He’s
been out with her for four hours now, Ma. Come on!”
“Is
getting angry likely to change the situation?” His father’s voice
was completely calm.
“It
seems unavoidable to me.”
“I
think you can control your feelings a bit better. Explain to me,
please, exactly what you and Winnie, and… what’s this guy’s name?”
“Marc.
His parents owned the house Winnie and I bought.”
“Marc,
then. What are you three doing in Colorado, exactly?”
Horace
sighed. Mom knew all this. They talked about it every night. Dad’s
discussions were limited to Art and philosophy. Personal lives had
little meaning for him. “Okay. Winnie lost her teaching license.
There was some test she was supposed to take. She can’t teach out
there, anymore, so we decided to move to Colorado. She was tired of
California, anyway, and I thought that was fine. She came out here
first, with much of our stuff, and she worked out buying a house.
The house won’t be ready until next week, so she has this hotel room.
I drove straight from Hesperia to bring the rest of our stuff.”
“So,
why is this Marc person with you?”
“Hal,
I don’t want him driving all that way alone. It could be dangerous!”
“Okay,”
said his dad. “So, what’s the problem tonight?”
“I
drove fifteen hours straight. I did all the driving. When we got
here, I was beyond exhausted. I wanted to sleep. Winnie wanted to
go out. I went to bed. She and Marc went out. They’ve been gone 4
hours.”
“Do
you have a radio in your room?” Hal wasn’t changing his tone in the
slightest.
Horace
took a deep breath. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Then
this is what you want to do. You go back to your room. You find
Colorado Public Radio. They will play music deep enough to pull you
in properly. Did you bring any books on the trip?”
“Just
the Salinger.”
“Nine
Stories?”
“Yeah,
of course.”
“Then
you read The Laughing Man while you’re listening to the radio. Do
not read A Perfect Day for Bananafish. Also skip Teddy.”
Horace
laughed. “You don’t want me emulating Seymour?”
“What
on Earth do you mean?” His mother was confused.
“In
A Perfect Day for Bananafish, Seymour shoots himself, Marie.”
“Oh!
Right. I remember now.”
“And
make sure the swimming pool has water in it before you go diving in.”
Horace
laughed a little harder. “Yeah, I will, Dad. That’s not where I
am right now.”
“I
know. But you can’t change the world; only your corner of it. In
your corner you’re going to relax now. You’ll deal with Winnie when
she gets back.”
“Yeah.
You’re right. Okay.” He took a deep breath. His blood had
cooled. His skin was returning, slowly, to its natural color. His
heart was slowing down.
The
elevator bell chimed. Horace looked over to it. “Gotta go,” and
he hung up the phone.
Winnie stepped off the elevator, her makeup smeared, her hair something of a mess, and a look in her eyes that told Horace the entire story. The marriage, Horace knew at once, was over.
***
The Last Set
The
crowd had dissipated. The old man had returned to the table that
commanded such an excellent view of the elevator. Irma was playing
so well that Horace had finally gotten to connect completely with the
music. He paid little attention to his companion.
Between
songs, Horace glanced over at him. He was texting as passionately as
a man in his seventies possibly can. His face was red now, and it
was clear he was trying to contain his emotions.
Irma
began singing again. “You’re overthinking it; what else is new?”
Her voice wasn’t smooth, but it soothed the soul. “These thoughts
will be the death of me and you.” She had an edge that gave greater
depth to the words. It made the melody less the stuff of pop music,
and more in the style of an independent jazz artist. She was forging
her own musical path.
The
old man looked up and put his phone down. The music had finally
broken through his stress. He was beginning to feel it, now, too.
In a few minutes, there was a hint of a smile on his face. It had
lightened. The redness was all but gone.
Irma
finished, made her regular announcement of who she was, and thanked
everyone for coming. The old man looked back to his phone.
Horace
grabbed Irma’s purse, got up and all but ran to Irma. “So, I hate
to ask, but I really have to.”
She
unplugged her mic and looked up at him. “Ask what?”
“First,
I need to borrow ten bucks. I need to buy that guy a scotch.”
“I
know you’re not gay…”
“No.
He’s having a hell of a night. His wife is cheating on him.”
She
looked over to the old man, staring at his phone. The look on his
face told the entire story. “Oh. Yeah. I see that.” She
plugged her mic back in. “You have my purse, yet, right?” He
held it up. “Go get him his drink. I’ll do one more.”
“Cool.
That was going to be my second request.”
Horace
scampered across the lobby to the bar.
“So,”
asked the bartender, “was Irma drinking out of your glass?”
“She
denies it vehemently. It was probably Rhiannon.”
“Who?”
“Never
mind. Could I get a scotch please?”
“Sure.
On the rocks?”
“That
guy’s wife is cheating on him,” he said nodding toward his table.
The man stood up slowly.
“Right.
Neat.”
“I
think that would be appropriate.”
The
piano began, and Horace looked over and saw the old man stop, turn to
Irma, and then sit down at the table again.
“You
must remember this,” came Irma’s voice floating confidently across
the bar. As Horace returned to the table he saw the man’s eyes begin
to water.
“We’ve
decided your name is Rick,” said Horace sitting down at the table,
putting the drink in front of the old man. “Sam played it for him.
Irma can play it for you.”
The
old man smiled lightly. “That’s mighty kind, son.”
“The
fundamental things apply, as time goes by…”
The
old man brightened nostalgically. In a moment, his eyes flickered
shut, and he knew a quiet bliss.
The
blonde woman opened the outer door and drifted quickly across the
lobby. Her hair was a mess. Her makeup was smeared. Horace looked
at the old man, his eyes still closed. He thought, for a moment, he
wouldn’t see her.
But,
as though he had felt some sort of electrical shock, his eyes flew
open and he spotted her heading toward the elevator. He stood up,
and he shouted across the lobby. “LISA!”
The
woman froze in her tracks. She turned slowly.
The
man glared furiously, then said, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,”
lifted his drink, and downed it. He set it on the table and walked
out calmly.
“It’s
still the same old story, the fight for love and glory, a case of do
or die…”
The
woman paled, watched the man leave, and then went to the elevator.
She stepped inside and disappeared.
We
live in the most divided country that The United States has been
since The Civil War. People hold strong opposing opinions about
issues of great importance. Climate Change, Abortion, Vaccinations,
Immigration, and the conduct of the government are just a few. I
don’t want to downplay the importance of any of these issues, but
there is one that seems to me to override all others. Is it right,
or necessary, to impeach the President?
I
understand that, again, there is great debate over this topic. There
are those who believe the President is doing the best he possibly
can, given the circumstances. He is as hated as he is loved, he is
constantly attacked in the news media, he is being investigated over
and over again, and his every word comes under scrutiny. For all of
that, though, his supporters point to the excellent economy, and they
tell us Mr. Trump is responsible for those numbers. They will tell
us that he doesn’t behave like other politicians, and this is to be
admired. Other politicians are frequently obfuscating in every word
that escapes their lips. Their words are so measured that they
become meaningless. This President doesn’t measure his words; he
says what he feels, and many people share his feelings. They approve
of his aberrant behavior. They applaud it enthusiastically.
There
are others who despise the President. They point to the 10,000
documented lies he has told. They talk about the caging and tear
gassing of children. They talk about the government shutdown he
proudly said he would, and subsequently did, cause. They object to
his payments to porn stars and Playboy bunnies, his promised, but
failed, Muslim ban, his Wall, and his broken promises concerning
healthcare. They’re appalled at his choices for The Supreme Court,
and they believe his latest Attorney General to be a fraud. They boo
him enthusiastically.
But,
for me, the Heart of The Issue is whether his behavior is what we
want from our President, not only now, but for all the Presidents to
come. The behavior that I’m discussing is his overt efforts to stop
Congress from fulfilling their constitutional duty to oversee the
Presidency and provide checks and balances to keep it from becoming a
dictatorship.
If
the Democrats begin impeachment proceedings, they will almost
certainly fail. The Republicans are the majority of the Senate, and
it is wildly unlikely they will vote to uphold the impeachment. The
political risk is that this will empower the President’s base, and it
will help him to get re-elected. The Democrats, obviously, don’t
want that outcome, so impeachment seems like a foolish idea. They
accomplish none of their immediate goals. Not only does the
President finish his first term, but he gets elected for a second
one. The politics are very bad for Democrats.
But,
we must look beyond present day politics, and consider the future.
The last time we were this divided, a better President said this:
The dogmas of the quiet past, are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise — with the occasion. As our case is new, so we must think anew, and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves, and then we shall save our country.
Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history. We of this Congress and this administration, will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance, or insignificance, can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which we pass, will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation… We — even we here — hold the power, and bear the responsibility.
Abraham Lincoln
The day may come when
Americans look to 2019, and they decide that our country either stood
up for itself, or laid down and let the oligarchy in which we’re
living slide into dictatorship. If, as our Attorney General
suggests, “That’s not a crime… To be obstruction of justice the
lie has to be tied to impairing the evidence in a particular
proceeding… If the President is being falsely accused… and he
felt this investigation was unfair, propelled by his political
opponents, and was hampering his ability to govern, that is not a
corrupt motive for replacing an Independent Counsel.”
What does that mean for
future generations? The next President, perhaps a Democrat, or an
Independent, or, for all I know, an Anarchist, a Socialist, or a
Nazi, can decide he can obstruct an investigation into his behavior
(or hers), because he believes he has been falsely accused.
Even an ardent Trump
supporter would, I think, recognize the danger in that. Whomever
your Least Favorite President is, whether it’s Trump or Obama, or
Carter, or Kennedy, or anyone named Bush, or even Lincoln, imagine
that person, or someone much like him, being elected in 2024, or
2028…. or in your grandchildren’s lifetimes. This President can
now do things you loathe with absolute impunity. Anyone who tries to
investigate this President can be legally obstructed because this
President believes the accusations against him (or her) are lies. In
other words, the entire system of Checks and Balances will collapse.
Without it, there is nothing defending us from a ruthless dictator,
of any party or ideology.
I had concerns about
writing this. I find myself, even now, reluctant to publish it.
Just as the politics of impeachment are bad for Democrats, the
politics of publishing are bad for me.
First, I have friends
whose anger I’m all but inviting. I’m trying my best to stay open
and objective, and sticking only to the facts, but I am certain
someone who matters to me will object. I don’t care to lose friends.
I have only a few, and each of them matters to me. I have friends
whose opinions of my writing carry immense weight with me, and I have
no idea what their political persuasions may be. I would be more
than sad if they decided that we can no longer be friends because we
disagree about this.
Second, I’m just
stepping into the world of writing for strangers. I’ve shown my
work, all my life, only to my friends. When a play of mine was
performed, strangers saw it, but the script, itself, was seen only by
those who know me. I’m not in a position that I can afford to
alienate strangers who enjoy my work. I want them to return and read
more of what I write. Losing them would also disappoint me deeply.
So, why publish this at
all?
I’m publishing because,
as a friend reminded me earlier this week, “The internet is
forever.” I am living, as are you, through an important moment in
history. My power to control what is happening in my government is
all but nonexistent. I can vote. And, I can raise my voice, and
share my thoughts with others in hopes of either reinforcing their
beliefs, or getting them to consider new ones.
There are many writers
who are both better and more knowledgeable than I who can, have, and
will write better about this than I have just done. I’m perhaps half
a drop of water in the Pacific Ocean of Pundits. My personal
insignificance, however, will no more spare me than it did those who
lived during the Lincoln administration.
I want to be able to say
that, at this moment in history, I acted in the only way open to me.
I’m too old to protest. The last time I tried I passed out from heat
stroke. It was nearly another hospital trip for me. I can’t knock
on doors; people scare the hell out of me. But, what I can
do is write. And I can find the courage to share my thoughts, even
at some small peril to myself.
I may lose friends and
readers, but I will also be able to say I did what pathetically
little I could to save the country I love.
Our leaders have the
power to do much more. I’m hopeful they’ll disenthrall themselves,
and then they shall save our country.
I wonder if you understand the effect
you can have on someone simply by clicking “Like” or commenting
on a post. It is, for me, the equivalent of saying hi when we pass
in the hallway. Commenting is like having taken a moment to talk to
me.
When I was in high school, I would have
floated from class to class if some of my classmates had just said,
“Hey, Fred.” 40 years ago, however, we occupied entirely
different social classes. I was a Greatest Nothing among The
Coconino Nothings. Many of them were the Cool Kids. They were
attractive. They were talented. They were athletic. I was none of
those things.
Today, that caste system has
evaporated. I have friends, now, who simply weren’t allowed even to
acknowledge my existence, then. It would have been a violation of
etiquette.
If they take a moment to say, “Hey,
Fred,” even now, I am delighted. It’s a power they have. I would
like to believe I’m someone who has that same power for them. I hope
they get a little smile when I click “Like,” or when I comment on
something they’ve posted.
It’s a way of saying, at least in a small way, “You matter to me.”
Yes, if you’re reading this, you may be
sure you matter to me. Thanks for letting me inside your mind and
getting beyond the social norms that would once have separated us.
I’m grateful.
Today might be a good day for you to
let your friends know that they matter to you. Perhaps you could
make a point of clicking “Like” or making a kind comment when
you’re on your Social Media today. You might make someone smile.
That can be your Good Deed for The Day. And if this post got you to
do that, I’ve done mine for the day, too.
“Don’t say that, Governor. Don’t look at it that way. What am I, Governors both? I ask you, what am I? I’m one of the undeserving poor: that’s what I am. Think of what that means to a man. It means that he’s up agen middle class morality all the time. If there’s anything going, and I put in for a bit of it, it’s always the same story: ‘You’re undeserving; so you can’t have it.’ But my needs is as great as the most deserving widow’s that ever got money out of six different charities in one week for the death of the same husband. I don’t need less than a deserving man: I need more. I don’t eat less hearty than him; and I drink a lot more. I want a bit of amusement, cause I’m a thinking man. I want cheerfulness and a song and a band when I feel low. Well, they charge me just the same for everything as they charge the deserving. What is middle class morality? Just an excuse for never giving me anything. Therefore, I ask you, as two gentlemen, not to play that game on me. I’m playing straight with you. I ain’t pretending to be deserving. I’m undeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; and that’s the truth. Will you take advantage of a man’s nature to do him out of the price of his own daughter what he’s brought up and fed and clothed by the sweat of his brow until she’s growed big enough to be interesting to you two gentlemen? Is five pounds unreasonable? I put it to you; and I leave it to you.”
– George Bernard Shaw, “Pygmalion”
What
makes one person “Deserving” and another “Undeserving?”
Certainly we would all agree those who hurt others deserve punishment
in some form or other. Can we also all agree that, simply by virtue
of having beaten incredible odds just to be born, we are all
deserving of food? Shelter? Clothing? Medical Care? No, probably
not.
The
Puritan Work Ethic has trained us all to believe that a person
deserves only what he or she can earn by trading their time, and some
form of effort, for rewards. To the extent we can contribute, we
deserve something. This made sense for America’s earliest settlers.
If Per Hansa and Beret didn’t work hard, frequently, and faithfully,
their family would certainly perish. And their hard work was
rewarded with the necessities of life. They were fed, clothed,
sheltered, and to the extent possible in that time, granted the best
medical care available. (If you haven’t read “Giants in the
Earth,” I recommend it. It’s the story of Norwegian immigrants who
settled in the Dakota territories in the 1870s.)
But
even they depended, to some extent, on other families in the area to
help them from time to time. “Man is by nature a social animal; an
individual who is unsocial naturally and not accidentally is either
beneath our notice or more than human. Society is something that
precedes the individual. Anyone who either cannot lead the common
life or is so self-sufficient as not to need to, and therefore does
not partake of society, is either a beast or a god.” That’s not
new information. That’s Aristotle. We need each other from birth.
Few and far between are the infants who can survive entirely alone.
So,
it seems to me, that at some point, we must grant a person the right
to rely on others. We do this, without much debate, at the beginning
of life. The overwhelming majority of humans are born into some form
of society. It may be a good society or a bad one. The infant has
no control over the society into which he or she is born.
We
have a choice, as adults, about the society in which we live. We can
either accept it, reject it, or something in between. We may
criticize it, or we may seek another one in which to live. We may
also seek to improve it.
Some
place between birth and adulthood we give up the right to rely on
others. Is this morally right? I don’t know, but, at least in The
United States in 2019, it seems to be true.
Now,
we must not only contribute to society in some way, but we must find
a way that society values highly enough to pay us a living wage.
None of us, anymore, is Per Hansa, chopping down the trees in the
area to build the house in which his family will live. We rely on
each other for roads, for the production of food, for schools, for
military and police protection, for fire departments, and a host of
other things. We are a social animal. We cannot live entirely
alone. Our work is not for our benefit alone. It is to benefit the
society in which we live.
If
someone is unsuccessful in that effort, we seem to have decided, that
person is undeserving. And that’s where I have my problem . Why is
a person undeserving?
We
seem to have declared that one must live a life within certain
boundaries and norms. We now have the resources to treat every
living person as though he or she were a newborn. We can provide
everyone with all they need to survive.
Robert
Frost is a great poet. He made a living writing poetry. That poetry
certainly improved my life. J.K. Rowling is a great writer. She
made a fortune writing books that certainly improved my life. I have
great respect for both Frost and Rowling.
I
feel sure, though, they would both tell you that there are other
poets or novelists of whom you have never heard, of whom you never
will hear, who are their superiors. And those poets and novelists
will work at whatever jobs they can find to support themselves. They
weren’t fortunate enough to get published. They weren’t fortunate
enough to become popular successes. But they contribute in the same
way Rowling and Frost do. Do they truly deserve less? Why?
We’ve
moved from philosophy to economic theory. Now we will hear from
critics about the virtues of capitalism. It certainly works for
some. There are those who amass great wealth under that system.
There are others who simply can’t do as well. And so long as we
subscribe to the idea that they don’t deserve any more than their
skills and efforts allow them to earn, it’s not a problem that many
people are poor, underemployed, and not able to pursue what matters
most to them because they are required to try to find the funds to
survive.
But,
what would life be if people didn’t have to do that? Why do we
insist that they earn little pieces of green paper to be deserving of
a decent life?
I
was fortunate to have what I think was an excellent childhood. I had
parents who loved me, supported me, taught me, understood me as much
as any parents can understand their progeny, and protected me. They
allowed me to figure out who I wanted to be. And not surprisingly, I
wanted to be Batman. That didn’t work out. I wanted to be Atticus
Finch, Santiago, Holden Caulfield, and Aaron Sorkin. None of those
worked out, either, though I like to think there are pieces of those
men inside of me. Sadly, there’s not a trace of Batman to be found in
me. There might be a little Captain Kirk, though. I also wanted to
be a teacher. They helped me to work that out. I managed, after a
fashion, to make a living.
But,
does that mean I deserve more than someone who had no parents, or
whose parents were child abusers, or criminals, or simply didn’t love
them? How is that the fault of the child? Why does she deserve less
than I do?
Certainly, we don’t all deserve jet planes and swimming pools, but is it really unreasonable to ask for the necessities of life for all people when it’s so easily given? If we could be done with, “I got mine; you get yours” I feel like we could begin to make the sort of society of which we can be proud. We provide for our babies because we love them. Is it really unreasonable to ask that we love everyone at least enough to let them live some sort of life?
“You may say that I’m a dreamer But I’m not the only one I hope someday you’ll join us And the world will live as one.”
“For who knows what magic takes place in his world…”
Tony Banks
Wells,
Maine
Tuesday,
March 13, 1979
10:23
PM
This
attic was the only place Horace could find to hide. There were so
many people out there, but here, in this empty room, he was alone
with the full moon whose light was slipping feebly through the tiny
window.
He
couldn’t imagine what he had been thinking when he’d accepted Bob’s
invitation. It had been so entirely unexpected, though, there was
nothing else he could do. The star quarterback of the high school
football team had invited him to a party… at the home of the single
most beautiful cheerleader who had ever graced the halls of Poe High
School. And Horace was the head of the Poe Nothings. Horace knew
himself well enough to know that Rhiannon would never actually
talk to him, but there was that Glimmer of Hope. Just a little Hope
can make the heart beat a bit faster. Horace enjoyed the feeling, so
he accepted the invitation. And now he was in the attic, hoping he
could find a way out of here.
All
of these people were light years beyond his social class. None of
them had ever seen an episode of Star Trek. He knew absolutely
nothing about the sports that they discussed with the precision of
scientists debating quantum mechanics. They were all well built,
outgoing, attractive people. Horace was thin, gangly, socially
inept, and unattractive in any conventional sense. He was the only
virgin in the entire house. What had Bob been thinking?
He
didn’t belong. He wanted to leave, but it was awfully cold in March,
and it was a 17 mile walk from Wells back to Biddeford. Hiding
represented his only chance to survive, and he couldn’t get away with
the bathroom for more than about 5 minutes at a time. There were way
too many people, drinking way too much, and they all required a
restroom.
But
this room looked like it was hiding, too. It wasn’t even a
full-sized room. It was accessible only by a narrow, winding
staircase at the last corner of a very dark hallway. As his eyes
adjusted, he was able to perceive that against the wall to his
right, there was an old, worm-eaten wooden table filled with what
Horace decided must be an artist’s supplies. There were notched
candles. There were cloves. There were strangely shaped bottles
filled with various colors of oils. When he walked to it he observed
seeds, matches, and a shot glass.
He
turned around when he heard the door open behind him, and he moved as
quietly as he could out of the light. Rhiannon backed into the room,
a round candlestick in her hand. She turned and glided silently
across the room, and when she crossed the moonlight, the room seemed
to glow with her.
She
went to the table, and lit the notched candle using the tall thin one
attached to the holder. She mumbled something, but Horace couldn’t
make out what it was. He could see her silhouette moving her hands
up the bizarrely shaped candle, bottom to top, 9 times. He counted.
She sighed confidently.
When
she turned around to leave the room she saw him, and they were both
startled. Horace, already in the corner, tried to back away, but
just smashed his body awkwardly into the wall. She dropped her
candle, and it rolled, lit, across the wooden floor toward him. He
knelt, nearly falling over, and picked it up. He stood up, and found
her standing directly in front of him. He handed it back to her.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
Rhiannon
smiled compassionately at him. “Me too.” She looked briefly
over her shoulder at the strange candle, and disappointment tinted
her blue eyes.
Horace
couldn’t look at her. He noticed his shoelaces didn’t match.
“I
really am trying my best.” She looked back at Horace. “To be a
decent person I mean. I know a lot of people think I’m stuck up, or
whatever, but, really, I’m not.”
Horace
said nothing.
“Okay?”
She whispered.
He
looked up. “Okay.” His stare, while entirely unintentional, was
almost rude in its intensity.
There
have been, throughout human history, quite a few women renowned for
their beautiful hair. None of them, however, had anything on
Rhiannon. Lady Godiva and Rapunzel, for example, were each known for
the lengths of theirs. Rhiannon’s didn’t come close to such a
ghastly stretch. It fell, seemingly effortlessly, down her neck and
covered her shoulders as a quiet brown river lightly licking its
banks, or a blanket under which the slender shoulders snuggled
greedily.
Helen
of Troy and Lucretia Borgia were sufficiently beautiful that they
seemed almost to be able to cast a spell on men simply by looking at
them. They were Anti-Medusas. Horace was as inspired as any
Trojan.
When
she saw Horace staring through his hormone haze, she smiled shyly and
brushed her hair slowly back from her forehead. Then she nervously
moved her fingers through it like a tide stealing sand from a moonlit
beach as it slides up and down.
“I
mean, do you ever ask yourself if it’s even possible to make
everyone happy without hurting someone?”
“No…
not until just now.”
“If
you ever figure it out…” her eyes shimmered in the candlelight.
They both smiled. Rhiannon, he decided, was a girl who knew how to
run her fingers through her hair. They were having a moment.
The
banging on the door made them both jump, but Rhiannon held firmly to
her candle, and Horace slithered back into his dark corner silently.
“Rhiannon?
You in there?” Horace recognized Bob’s tenor voice.
She
took her hand away from her hair. “I’ll be right out.” The
moment was over.
“There’s
a party downstairs, and you’re being a lousy hostess.”
She smiled, almost tenderly at him, and left the room, the notched candle burning. Horace was alone in the dark.
***
“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety…”
Shakespeare
Yesterday
“She’s
married?” Rhonda asked as Horace lit his little glass pipe.
He
held the hit a moment, squeaking in an unflattering way, exhaled, and
then looked up at Rhonda.
“What?”
“Your
secret internet girlfriend. She’s married?”
“Yes,
she is.”
“So,
she’s cheating on her husband?”
“Certainly
not. She’s entirely unaware that she is my girlfriend.”
“How
stoned, exactly, are you?” Rhonda asked. She lit a cigarette. “To
be your girlfriend would require that she has some part in the
relationship, wouldn’t it?”
“She
does. She accounts for nearly 3% of it. The other 97% exists
exclusively in my mind.”
The
metal screen door from the house opened, and Rita sauntered into the
backyard.
While
Rhonda was only in her mid twenties, Rita was in her 40s. They had
been together for quite a few years before Horace had stumbled into
their lives, and they had, essentially, adopted him.
When
one of them was in the hospital (which happened far too frequently;
all three of them had health problems. Horace was nearly deaf, Rita
had chronic Lyme Disease, and Rhonda had genetic cardiac problems.),
Rita and Rhonda identified each other as wives. For Horace, they
were roommates.
Rhonda
looked up at her instantly, and said, “Your roommate is a weird
stalker dude.”
Rita
sighed, and sat down in the nearest patio chair. “Where are the
cigarettes?”
“I’m
nothing of the sort. I shall certainly never see her again. I am,
however, allowed to have whatever thoughts I choose, thank you Miss
Orwell.” Horace picked up Rita’s cigarettes from the barely
standing bedside table they had put on the patio to hold their
accessories, and he tossed them unceremoniously to her.
“Who
are you calling Miss Orwell?” asked Rhonda, flipping her dark hair
off to one side.
“You’re
being the Thought Police,” said Rita, opening the pack. “Let the
man think what he wants.” She lit a cigarette, and then opened the
book she’d brought outside with her. Her blonde hair fell in her
face when she looked down at it, and she pushed it quickly out of the
way.
“You
want to live with a crazy man?”
“I
want to read my book.”
Rhonda,
unobserved, rolled her eyes at Rita and turned back to Horace.
“What’s her 3%?”
“She
likes my posts on Facebook sometimes. Once in a while, she even
comments. She says she likes my writing.”
“So
she’s messaged you? That could be construed as cheating.”
“Oh,
heavens no! Nor have I ever sent her a message. That would increase
our involvement, and that would ruin it. 3% gives birth to hope.
10% gives birth to hassles.”
Without
looking up from her book Rita muttered, “100% give birth to
children.”
“So
how do you know she likes your writing?” Rhonda glanced back at
Rita. Her eyes seemed to be losing focus.
He
took another hit, and then, holding his breath, said, “She clicks
like.”
“Lots
of people like your stuff.” Rhonda seemed a little annoyed.
Horace
exhaled. “Yes,” he said as he emptied the remainder of the pipe
into the little red measuring cup in which he kept his supplies. He
covered the carb, and blew into the pipe to remove any clogs. He
began gathering bits from the bottom of the 1 ¾ cup container, and
loaded them gingerly into his pipe. “I’m not, however, secretly in
love with lots of people.”
“So,
what’s the other 97%?” Rhonda watched Rita’s eyes begin to droop.
“The
other 97% consists of messages unwritten except in my head, enjoying
the intimacy of my thoughts connecting with hers, even if only for a
few hundred words on my page or my blog, and vague leftover fantasies
from the last time I saw her nearly 40 years ago.” He smiled
nostalgically. “She was burning candles in her attic.
Rita’s
head fell to her chest.
“Get
her cigarette,” Rhonda said. “I don’t want her to burn herself.”
Horace
reached for the cigarette dangling loosely between Rita’s fingers,
and her head snapped up quickly. “I’m fine.”
Horace
watched her another moment to be sure she was coherent, and then he
turned back to Rhonda. “And I get to experience great joy when she
says or does something nice. I don’t, if you hadn’t noticed, get a
lot of joy.”
“You
get to live with me. How much joy do you need?”
He
picked up the clipboard, pulled the pen out from behind the clip, and
began to cross out something on the printed paper. “More than
that,” he said without looking up.
“I’m
going to throw something at you. And it’s going to hurt.”
“I
would very much prefer if you didn’t. That would decrease my joy.”
Rhonda threw nothing. “What’s her name?”
***
“Said you’d give me light But you never told me about the fire”
Stevie Nicks
“Rhiannon rings like a bell in the night…”
Stevie Nicks
Biddeford,
Maine
Saturday,
May 7, 1983
2:43
PM
Horace
had bought his mother a candle for Mother’s Day, every year for the
last 14 years, but always something basic, from Wal Mart or K Mart.
He was in college, now, and it was time to do better. Pier One
Imports would, he was sure, have something classier.
The
place smelled of strange foreign spices, and the light came from the
sunroof in the middle of the ceiling. The store was an eclectic
collection of items from anywhere other than Maine. There were
strikingly beautiful statues, and there were cheap, tasteless
trinkets. He walked through several aisles before he found the
candles. He studied them, but none of them stood out. There were a
few layered candles, with colors bleeding from one layer to the next,
but there was nothing unique. They were all variations of each
other.
“Did
you figure it out?”
Horace
turned around, and his eyes widened to see a singularly beautiful
woman standing in front of him. “Rhiannon?” he said after the
moment it took him to recognize her.
“You’re…
Howard, right?”
“Horace.
But close enough.”
“God,
I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since last I saw you.” She
looked him up and down. “You’ve changed a little.”
“I
got my shoelaces to match.”
She
laughed a little too hard. While Holden would have found it
appalling and phony, Horace found it appealing and charming, nearly
enchanting. “Were you funny in high school?”
“I
thought I was. But, I’ve always been unreasonably arrogant for
someone entirely lacking in social skills or physical attractiveness.
So, maybe I wasn’t.”
Her
laughter rang like a bell throughout the store, and Horace expected
someone to come and see what was wrong. No one did. And that’s when
he realized the store was, other than the two of them, empty. “Isn’t
it boring to be here with no customers?”
“Sometimes
it can be.”
“You
should hire someone to come and talk to you when you’re bored.”
“Want
a job?”
“No.”
He was too frightened to give any other answer, but he was determined
not to show it. “I want a unique candle. I’d love one of those
weirdly shaped ones you had years ago.”
Her
face darkened for a moment. “You won’t find one of those here.”
“Pier
One is too commercial?”
“Well,
we can’t make everyone
happy, so we just avoid hurting anyone.” She smiled again. “None
of these candles can be seen as offensive.”
“Or
interesting.” He looked around. “Have any artistic ones?”
When
he looked back, he saw her head turning as she scanned the entire
store. She looked back at him, and he couldn’t help but notice the
way she brushed her hair from her forehead.
“We
have a carved candle that really is beautiful, but it’s incredibly
expensive.” She walked toward the front of the store. Inside a
glass case at the front counter sat a candle that must have weighed
ten pounds. It was rich, dark green, and there was a cottage, in a
forest, in a glade carved onto it with exquisite detail. He could
almost see a light on in the attic.
“That’s…
incredible…You could never burn that. It would almost be a crime
against the Art.”
“If
it has a wick, Horace, it wants to be burned.”
He
couldn’t keep himself from staring, and he knew it, and he hated it
about himself. She didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes were like a
singer’s asking if the audience had any requests. He looked back at
her like a regular patron asking the bartender for “The Usual.”
And, for a moment, she slid her fingers lightly through her hair.
The
door opened, causing a bell to ring, and Rhiannon looked away to see
who it was.
They
were two lost hippies, women who were out of their time. They wore
their very long hair down, they each had a straw hat, long necklaces,
and bracelets that jingled whenever they moved. They wore plain gray
skirts that nearly touched the floor. “We’ve come for chairs,”
announced the taller one.
“Wicker
chairs,” said her companion.
Horace
watched Rhiannon scamper off toward them.
An
old man in a black hat moved behind the display case to which
Rhiannon had led him. “May I help you?”
“I
want to buy this candle,” said Horace pointing. He pulled out his
very first credit card, an American Express, and couldn’t help but
watch Rhiannon and the women discussing the comfort of wicker, in its
natural state, as opposed to processed material.
When
The Man In Black handed him the receipt and the boxed candle, Horace
nodded to him and walked toward the door.
Rhiannon
was behind a high backed wicker chair, and as she heard the bell ring
when he opened the door, she looked around the side of it, smiled far
too broadly, and waved to Horace. She was a woman who knew how to
wave from behind wicker.
***
“She is like a cat in the dark and then She is the darkness”
Stevie Nicks
“She comes back to tell me she’s gone As if I didn’t know that As if I didn’t know my own bed As if I’d never noticed The way she brushed her hair from her forehead”
– Paul Simon
Last
Night
Rhiannon
was beginning to take shape in the flickering candlelight of the 3 AM
darkness, as she often did while Horace was half conscious. She
wasn’t the 16 year old girl with whom he had been pointlessly in love
40 years ago, but she wasn’t the woman in her current pictures,
either. She was a lovely, if foggy, combination of those two
memories, and he was beginning to smile without being aware of it.
The cat crawled across his slowly rising and falling stomach, laid
his head down on Horace’s chest, and yawned wide and long. The bell
around his neck tinkled softly.
They
both jumped when the banging on the door began. “What’s wrong?”
He pulled his covers down. The breeze from the motion blew the
candle out. Rhiannon retreated to the depths of his misted brain, and
Horace rolled to his right and flipped on the bedside light.
“I
need you to get Christine out of my room,” came Rita’s not entirely
coherent voice.
Horace
frowned. “My sister’s in your room?”
“She’s
on the bed. She won’t leave.”
Mr.
Brown jumped from the bed to the floor, his tail high. “I really
don’t think she’s there, Rita.”
She
was almost crying outside the door now. “I just told you she is.
Make her go away.”
Horace
sighed and got out of the bed. He pushed his feet into his slippers
and walked to the door. When Horace opened it, Mr. Brown scampered
out of his room and across the hall into Rhonda and Rita’s room.
Rita nearly collapsed onto Horace who supported her the best he
could.
He
walked her back into her bedroom. Rhonda was sleeping deeply on her
side of the bed. There was no one else there. Horace pointed that
out to Rita.
“Where
did she go?” Rita was genuinely surprised by Christine’s absence.
“I
really don’t know. Maybe you could go back to bed.”
“I
wanna have a cigarette.” She started down the hall toward the
library, and its backdoor to the patio. Horace glanced at Rhonda,
still completely oblivious, and decided to follow Rita. He found her
on the best chair lighting a cigarette.
“Was
she really beautiful as a little girl?” Rita asked as he stepped
outside.
“My
sister? Yes, I suppose she was. My parents said as much. I never
found her beautiful, though.”
“She
looks like she must have been a beautiful little girl. She has the
prettiest hair. When she was young, I bet all the boys loved her.”
“I
don’t think you’ve ever met her, Rita.”
“Duh.
Just now? She kept playing with her hair. It was almost spooky.
And she didn’t seem like she was where she meant to be. I think she
got the wrong room.”
Horace
took a cigarette from his pack. “You talked to her?” He sat
down across from her.
“No.
I just freaked out when she woke me up and came and got you.”
He
watched her silently as she took a drag from her cigarette. In
another moment, her eyes drifted shut. He got up, took the cigarette
from between her fingers, set it in the ashtray, and then went to
wake Rhonda. It was evidently time to change Rita’s meds again.
He
locked his bedroom door.
Rhiannon
didn’t return that night.
***
“When I whispered I thought I could love her She just said, ‘Baby, don’t even bother to try.’”
Seth Justman
“Horace Wimp, this is your life Go out and find yourself a wife…”
Jeff Lynne
Orono,
Maine
July
10, 1986
3:27
AM
He
watched the woman beside him sleeping silently, and then Horace
rolled over in the bed and retrieved the remote. The TV came on
louder than he had anticipated, and he looked over to her as he
quickly turned it down. She was unfazed.
Jimmy
Durante was singing while the credits rolled on a romantic comedy
whose title Horace couldn’t quite remember. “Make
someone happy, Make just one someone happy…”
He
flipped the channel and a news reporter began explaining, in a far
too optimistic way, a crash that had occurred on Route 1 that
afternoon.
At
least, thought Horace, he had lost his virginity. He wasn’t stuck
with that particular badge anymore. If he ever returned to
Rhiannon’s attic, he would be at least a bit closer to her category.
He
was 23; she was 43. She was a divorced mother who had been far too
drunk at the bar. She had sought him out. Horace never, ever asked
anyone to dance. He was no good at it; it embarrassed him. He just
liked the band. And tonight, they had let him sit in on drums,
because everyone was a little drunk, and this particular crowd would
have loved them even if they played polka tunes in Ancient Coptic.
Horace wouldn’t hurt anything.
When
he came off stage, the woman, a complete stranger to him, had run
across the dance floor and thrown her arms around him. She hugged
him embarrassingly tightly. She had insisted on dancing with him the
rest of the night, and he obliged. They couldn’t really talk. The
music, particularly on the dance floor, was far too loud.
There
was nothing wrong with her. She was probably a very nice woman when
she was sober. She wasn’t unattractive. She had just moaned too
much about knowing young flesh would be good. Horace had no clue
what he was doing. It just felt wrong to him.
“…
and in our final story, a scandal involving local celebrity Rhiannon
Stark.”
Horace’s
attention went immediately to the television. He turned it up a bit.
“That’s
right, Danny, she was Miss Kensington County of 1985, and now she may
be disqualified because of rumours of her participation in
witchcraft. There are accusations of a practice called Astral
Projection…”
The
woman stirred, and Horace muted the television while he gazed at
Rhiannon’s face filling the screen. “So wild,” muttered Horace as
he watched her standing there with her hands in her hair. As she
walked from the courthouse steps, past the paparazzi, the breeze blew
lightly, and it lifted from her shoulders so that it glowed with the
late afternoon sun behind her. Rhiannon was a woman who knew how to
ignite cold contempt in the hearts of men toward any woman who had
the misfortune of not being Rhiannon.
Horace rolled over, as far from the woman as he could, and laid, shivering, in the dark.
***
“She rules her life like a bird…”
–Stevie Nicks
“All your life you’ve never seen A woman taken by the wind”
Stevie Nicks
Today
He
was nicely, serenely stoned. Her picture was on the 21.5 inch
monitor in front of him. He would have loved to see her in her
yearbook pictures from high school, to help him construct The Perfect
Rhiannon inside his mind, but these served as a reasonable guide. Her
previous beauty had been preserved flatteringly. “Age doth not
stale nor custom whither,” he muttered.
Horace
smiled unconsciously, and then clicked back over to the essay he was
writing. She would like this, he felt sure. It was close as he
would ever come to saying he loved her. But it was more than close
enough… if she ever read it.
“We’re
home!” came Rhonda’s voice.
Horace
looked up from the screen and watched the girls come into the library
from the kitchen.
“They
have me on a whole new set of painkillers,” said Rita. “I’m
sorry about last night.”
“We
brought you a present,” said Rhonda, handing him a donut.
“Oh,
thank you!” Horace was genuinely delighted. He took the donut, and
jelly dripped almost immediately onto his t shirt. He collected it
onto his index finger, and licked it off. “And it’s fine. It was
just a little weird.”
“She
doesn’t hallucinate often,” said Rhonda. “In the five years I’ve
been with her, it’s only the third time it’s happened.”
“Did
you wake up in the middle of the night while you were dreaming or
something?”
“No!
Your sister sat down on the bed, and she asked me some bizarre
question.”
Horace
smiled, perhaps somewhat indulgently. “What’d she ask you?”
“I
don’t know. I think it
was like whether you could make anyone happy without hurting
everyone, or something like that. What the fuck does that even mean?”
Horace
considered the question a moment. “That would be a hell of an
achievement.” He smiled. “And I think you reversed it.”
“It
means it was time to change your meds,” Rhonda said to Rita. She
turned to Horace. “We’re going to smoke. Join us.”
“Maybe
not,” muttered Horace as the girls went outside.
Rita
stuck her head back in the door. “What?”
Horace
stared into space a few moments. He was thinking of Rhiannon’s
candles. There was something he had heard about candles once, but he
couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.
Mr.
Brown strutted into the library, and looked up at Horace sitting at
the desk. There was an essay being written, and Mr. Brown felt
obliged to make his contribution. He jumped into Horace’s lap, and
Horace reflexively started stroking his fur. He looked once into
Horace’s eyes, closed his own for a moment, then opened them again.
He hopped up onto the desk, strolled across the keyboard, and the
screen glowed with Rhiannon’s picture again. Mr. Brown’s bell
tinkled gently.
Rita
started to yell at the cat, when her eyes caught the image in front
of Horace. “There she is!”
“Who?”
He looked from Rhiannon to Rita.
“That’s
who came into my room the other night. That’s your sister, isn’t
it?”
“No,”
said Horace, shaking his head slowly. “It’s not.”
When
the cat crossed the desk, and leapt from the mouse to the window
above, her status appeared: “Do you suppose you could make
everyone happy without hurting anyone?”
Mr.
Brown searched the backyard for birds.
Tomorrow
“Dear Horace, Please don’t write about me anymore.”
This is the final installment of “The Haunting Of Horace.” Parts 1 and 2 are farther down my blog.
When I whispered I thought I could love her She just said, “Baby, don’t even bother to try.”
– Seth Justman
“Horace Wimp, this is your life Go out and find yourself a wife…”
—Jeff Lynne
Orono,
Maine
July
10, 1986
3:27
AM
He
watched the woman beside him sleeping silently, and then Horace
rolled over in the bed and retrieved the remote. The TV came on
louder than he had anticipated, and he looked over to her as he
quickly turned it down. She was unfazed.
Jimmy
Durante was singing while the credits rolled on a romantic comedy
whose title Horace couldn’t quite remember. “Make
someone happy, Make just one someone happy…”
He
flipped the channel and a news reporter began explaining, in a far
too optimistic way, a crash that had occurred on Route 1 that
afternoon.
At
least, thought Horace, he had lost his virginity. He wasn’t stuck
with that particular badge anymore. If he ever returned to
Rhiannon’s attic, he would be at least a bit closer to her category.
He
was 23; she was 43. She was a divorced mother who had been far too
drunk at the bar. She had sought him out. Horace never, ever asked
anyone to dance. He was no good at it; it embarrassed him. He just
liked the band. And tonight, they had let him sit in on drums,
because everyone was a little drunk, and this particular crowd would
have loved them even if they played polka tunes in Ancient Coptic.
Horace wouldn’t hurt anything.
When
he came off stage, the woman, a complete stranger to him, had run
across the dance floor and thrown her arms around him. She hugged
him embarrassingly tightly. She had insisted on dancing with him the
rest of the night, and he obliged. They couldn’t really talk. The
music, particularly on the dance floor, was far too loud.
There
was nothing wrong with her. She was probably a very nice woman when
she was sober. She wasn’t unattractive. She had just moaned too
much about knowing young flesh would be good. Horace had no clue
what he was doing. It just felt wrong to him.
“…
and in our final story, a scandal involving local celebrity Rhiannon
Stark.”
Horace’s
attention went immediately to the television. He turned it up a bit.
“That’s
right, Danny, she was Miss Kensington County of 1985, and now she may
be disqualified because of rumours of her participation in
witchcraft. There are accusations of a practice called Astral
Projection…”
The
woman stirred, and Horace muted the television while he gazed at
Rhiannon’s face filling the screen. “So wild,” muttered Horace as
he watched her standing there with her hands in her hair. As she
walked from the courthouse steps, past the paparazzi, the breeze blew
lightly, and it lifted from her shoulders so that it glowed with the
late afternoon sun behind her. Rhiannon was a woman who knew how to
ignite cold contempt in the hearts of men toward any woman who had
the misfortune of not being Rhiannon.
Horace
rolled over, as far from the woman as he could, and laid, shivering,
in the dark.
“She rules her life like a bird…”
— Stevie Nicks
“All your life you’ve never seen A woman taken by the wind”
Stevie Nicks
Today
He
was nicely, serenely stoned. Her picture was on the 21.5 inch
monitor in front of him. He would have loved to see her in her
yearbook pictures from high school, to help him construct The Perfect
Rhiannon inside his mind, but these served as a reasonable guide. Her
previous beauty had been preserved flatteringly. “Age doth not
stale nor custom whither,” he muttered.
Horace
smiled unconsciously, and then clicked back over to the essay he was
writing. She would like this, he felt sure. It was close as he
would ever come to saying he loved her. But it was more than close
enough… if she ever read it.
“We’re
home!” came Rhonda’s voice.
Horace
looked up from the screen and watched the girls come into the library
from the kitchen.
“They
have me on a whole new set of painkillers,” said Rita. “I’m
sorry about last night.”
“We
brought you a present,” said Rhonda, handing him a donut.
“Oh,
thank you!” Horace was genuinely delighted. He took the donut, and
jelly dripped almost immediately onto his t shirt. He collected it
onto his index finger, and licked it off. “And it’s fine. It was
just a little weird.”
“She
doesn’t hallucinate often,” said Rhonda. “In the five years I’ve
been with her, it’s only the third time it’s happened.”
“Did
you wake up in the middle of the night while you were dreaming or
something?”
“No!
Your sister sat down on the bed, and she asked me some bizarre
question.”
Horace
smiled, perhaps somewhat indulgently. “What’d she ask you?”
“I
don’t know. I think it
was like whether you could make anyone happy without hurting
everyone, or something like that. What the fuck does that even mean?”
Horace
considered the question a moment. “That would be a hell of an
achievement.” He smiled. “And I think you reversed it.”
“It
means it was time to change your meds,” Rhonda said to Rita. She
turned to Horace. “We’re going to smoke. Join us.”
“Maybe
not,” muttered Horace as the girls went outside.
Rita
stuck her head back in the door. “What?”
Horace
stared into space a few moments. He was thinking of Rhiannon’s
candles. There was something he had heard about candles once, but he
couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.
Mr.
Brown strutted into the library, and looked up at Horace sitting at
the desk. There was an essay being written, and Mr. Brown felt
obliged to make his contribution. He jumped into Horace’s lap, and
Horace reflexively started stroking his fur. He looked once into
Horace’s eyes, closed his own for a moment, then opened them again.
He hopped up onto the desk, strolled across the keyboard, and the
screen glowed with Rhiannon’s picture again. Mr. Brown’s bell
tinkled gently.
Rita
started to yell at the cat, when her eyes caught the image in front
of Horace. “There she is!”
“Who?”
He looked from Rhiannon to Rita.
“That’s
who came into my room the other night. That’s your sister, isn’t
it?”
“No,”
said Horace, shaking his head slowly. “It’s not.”
When
the cat crossed the desk, and leapt from the mouse to the window
above, her status appeared: “Do you suppose you could make
everyone happy without hurting anyone?”
“I don’t want the surgeon
operating on your father to be stoned,” was the first argument I
ever heard in opposition to legalizing pot. And I remember my reply:
“I don’t want him to be drunk, either,” I said pointing to the
beer in front of my Mom. And I think that’s the heart of the issue.
There have been zero deaths
attributed to marijuana. Yes, people who are high have died. They
have probably caused car crashes. They may have done something
stupid while they were stoned that caused their early demise. I
don’t see that as a compelling argument to put people in prison for
smoking a plant. Stupidity is not caused exclusively by cannabis,
and it’s not its only effect.
Yes, but drug dealers are
dangerous people. That’s true. During Prohibition, bootleggers were
also dangerous people. People were murdered over alcohol. That
stopped happening when alcohol became legal again. The same is true
of marijuana. You’d be surprised how few dispensary operators are Al
Capone.
What is the real objection
to marijuana? I suspect that for many people it’s that pot changes
the way one perceives the world. It’s a means of altering one’s
relationship with reality. That was once accomplished exclusively
through religious avenues. Pot is encroaching on religion’s
territory.
That’s not a reason to deny
someone their liberty.
I’m in favor of laws. They
guide our behavior, and they keep us safe. I’m glad there are laws
against people hurting one another. Robbery, rape, murder,
kidnapping, and speeding are all behaviors that harm others. Those
who engage in such behaviors need to be stopped, and, if necessary,
denied their freedom to keep them from doing it again.
I don’t see how a man
sitting in his backyard smoking pot is hurting anyone. If he gets
stoned and gets in his car, yes, by all means, pull him over. He’s
putting himself and others at risk. But, if all he is doing is
changing his relationship with reality, leave him alone.
The biggest opponents to
legalizing marijuana seem to be those who operate for profit prisons.
They need the business. The rest of us have no stake in seeing
others locked up, and I can’t support destroying someone’s life over
a victimless crime.
There are real problems in
the world. Smoking pot is none of them. Let’s change these laws so
that people can enjoy their lives in the way they choose.
I
agree with Dostoevsky, but for that to mean anything, we’ll need to
work out what we mean by Love.
The
word is wildly overused. I love pastrami, and I love Star Trek, and
I love Genesis, and I love To Kill a Mockingbird. But, I think what
I really mean when I say those things is that I have a strong
preference for them. I’m not saying that I would put the needs of
any of those inanimate objects above my own. I’m not willing to die
to protect my sandwich.
When
I love a person, I mean that I am willing to put their needs above my
own. How much I love them determines how far I will go. There are
people for whom I would die, without hesitation, if the situation
required it. There are people with whom I’ll share my last
cigarette. There are people I will turn down, even for that small
request.
I
wrote earlier that in some ways I like to think I love all people,
but not in a way that is likely to change my behavior very deeply.
For that to be affected, they have to have secured themselves a place
deep in my heart. And, more people than I had thought have done so.
Being
in love is, again, something entirely different. I’m not in love
with the vast majority of the people I love. For me, being in love
requires an element of desire. Yes, a part of it is sexual, but
mostly it’s having “grown accustomed to her face.” It’s the
feeling of needing her presence in my life in order to be content.
It’s the Joy of believing somewhere, somehow, she’s thinking of me.
It’s the happiness I feel whenever I think of her. I miss being in
love. Valerie Bertinelli notwithstanding, I’m not entirely sure I
ever will be again. I joke often about being in love with her, but,
honestly, I’ve met her only once, for just over 30 seconds. That’s
hardly enough to call being in love.
But,
what would life be without the ability to love at all? If I can
never see or feel for anyone beyond myself, that would severely limit
my ability to feel at all. And, for as much as I worship at the
Vulcan Altar of Logic, I believe we all exist to experience feelings.
I believe Love to be the first emotion we ever feel. It’s usually
to and from our parents. And from there, it expands. We meet
people, and we learn to love them. And when we do, our lives are
enriched. There is more reason to continue to live, just for the
chance to love and be loved one more time.
I
don’t try to limit my love. I always hope to expand it. I love my
dog. I’ve learned to love the cats with whom I live, but mostly
because they forced me to do that by showing me love. When a cat
cuddles you as your dog becomes too old to do it, there’s a wonderful
feeling of being special, being important. It’s a feeling that you
matter.
You
matter to me. What does that mean? It means I think about you from
time to time. It means I want your life to go the way you want it to
go. It means I’m probably willing to make efforts, within my
pathetically small abilities, to help you reach those goals. It
means that I gain satisfaction from your happiness.
If
I couldn’t feel those things, life would, I’m convinced, be Hell.
“Said you’d give me light But you never told me about the fire”
Stevie Nicks
“Rhiannon rings like a bell in the night…”
Stevie Nicks
Biddeford,
Maine
Saturday,
May 7, 1983
2:43
PM
Horace
had bought his mother a candle for Mother’s Day, every year for the
last 14 years, but always something basic, from Wal Mart or K Mart.
He was in college, now, and it was time to do better. Pier One
Imports would, he was sure, have something classier.
The
place smelled of strange foreign spices, and the light came from the
sunroof in the middle of the ceiling. The store was an eclectic
collection of items from anywhere other than Maine. There were
strikingly beautiful statues, and there were cheap, tasteless
trinkets. He walked through several aisles before he found the
candles. He studied them, but none of them stood out. There were a
few layered candles, with colors bleeding from one layer to the next,
but there was nothing unique. They were all variations of each
other.
“Did
you figure it out?”
Horace
turned around, and his eyes widened to see a singularly beautiful
woman standing in front of him. “Rhiannon?” he said after the
moment it took him to recognize her.
“You’re…
Howard, right?”
“Horace.
But close enough.”
“God,
I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since last I saw you.” She
looked him up and down. “You’ve changed a little.”
“I
got my shoelaces to match.”
She
laughed a little too hard. While Holden would have found it
appalling and phony, Horace found it appealing and charming, nearly
enchanting. “Were you funny in high school?”
“I
thought I was. But, I’ve always been unreasonably arrogant for
someone entirely lacking in social skills or physical attractiveness.
So, maybe I wasn’t.”
Her
laughter rang like a bell throughout the store, and Horace expected
someone to come and see what was wrong. No one did. And that’s when
he realized the store was, other than the two of them, empty. “Isn’t
it boring to be here with no customers?”
“Sometimes
it can be.”
“You
should hire someone to come and talk to you when you’re bored.”
“Want
a job?”
“No.”
He was too frightened to give any other answer, but he was determined
not to show it. “I want a unique candle. I’d love one of those
weirdly shaped ones you had years ago.”
Her
face darkened for a moment. “You won’t find one of those here.”
“Pier
One is too commercial?”
“Well,
we can’t make everyone
happy, so we just avoid hurting anyone.” She smiled again. “None
of these candles can be seen as offensive.”
“Or
interesting.” He looked around. “Have any artistic ones?”
When
he looked back, he saw her head turning as she scanned the entire
store. She looked back at him, and he couldn’t help but notice the
way she brushed her hair from her forehead.
“We
have a carved candle that really is beautiful, but it’s incredibly
expensive.” She walked toward the front of the store. Inside a
glass case at the front counter sat a candle that must have weighed
ten pounds. It was rich, dark green, and there was a cottage, in a
forest, in a glade carved onto it with exquisite detail. He could
almost see a light on in the attic.
“That’s…
incredible…You could never burn that. It would almost be a crime
against the Art.”
“If
it has a wick, Horace, it wants to be burned.”
He
couldn’t keep himself from staring, and he knew it, and he hated it
about himself. She didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes were like a
singer’s asking if the audience had any requests. He looked back at
her like a regular patron asking the bartender for “The Usual.”
And, for a moment, she slid her fingers lightly through her hair.
The
door opened, causing a bell to ring, and Rhiannon looked away to see
who it was.
They
were two lost hippies, women who were out out of their time. They
wore their very long hair down, they each had a straw hat, long
necklaces, and bracelets that jingled whenever they moved. They wore
plain gray skirts that nearly touched the floor. “We’ve come for
chairs,” announced the taller one.
“Wicker
chairs,” said her companion.
Horace
watched Rhiannon scamper off toward them.
An
old man in a black hat moved behind the display case to which
Rhiannon had led him. “May I help you?”
“I
want to buy this candle,” said Horace pointing. He pulled out his
very first credit card, an American Express, and couldn’t help but
watch Rhiannon and the women discussing the comfort of wicker, in its
natural state, as opposed to processed material.
When
The Man In Black handed him the receipt and the boxed candle, Horace
nodded to him and walked toward the door.
Rhiannon
was behind a high backed wicker chair, and as she heard the bell ring
when he opened the door, she looked around the side of it, smiled far
too broadly, and waved to Horace. She was a woman who knew how to
wave from behind wicker.
***
“She is like a cat in the dark and then She is the darkness”
Stevie Nicks
“She comes back to tell me she’s gone As if I didn’t know that As if I didn’t know my own bed As if I’d never noticed The way she brushed her hair from her forehead”
Paul Simon
Last
Night
Rhiannon
was beginning to take shape in the flickering candlelight of the 3 AM
darkness, as she often did while Horace was half conscious. She
wasn’t the 16 year old girl with whom he had been pointlessly in love
40 years ago, but she wasn’t the woman in her current pictures,
either. She was a lovely, if foggy, combination of those two
memories, and he was beginning to smile without being aware of it.
The cat crawled across his slowly rising and falling stomach, laid
his head down on Horace’s chest, and yawned wide and long. The bell
around his neck tinkled softly.
They
both jumped when the banging on the door began. “What’s wrong?”
He pulled his covers down. The breeze from the motion blew the
candle out. Rhiannon retreated to the depths of his misted brain, and
Horace rolled to his right and flipped on the bedside light.
“I
need you to get Christine out of my room,” came Rita’s not entirely
coherent voice.
Horace
frowned. “My sister’s in your room?”
“She’s
on the bed. She won’t leave.”
Mr.
Brown jumped from the bed to the floor, his tail high. “I really
don’t think she’s there, Rita.”
She
was almost crying outside the door now. “I just told you she is.
Make her go away.”
Horace
sighed and got out of the bed. He pushed his feet into his slippers
and walked to the door. When Horace opened it, Mr. Brown scampered
out of his room and across the hall into Rhonda and Rita’s room.
Rita nearly collapsed onto Horace who supported her the best he
could.
He
walked her back into her bedroom. Rhonda was sleeping deeply on her
side of the bed. There was no one else there. Horace pointed that
out to Rita.
“Where
did she go?” Rita was genuinely surprised by Christine’s absence.
“I
really don’t know. Maybe you could go back to bed.”
“I
wanna have a cigarette.” She started down the hall toward the
library, and its backdoor to the patio. Horace glanced at Rhonda,
still completely oblivious, and decided to follow Rita. He found her
on the best chair lighting a cigarette.
“Was
she really beautiful as a little girl?” Rita asked as he stepped
outside.
“My
sister? Yes, I suppose she was. My parents said as much. I never
found her beautiful, though.”
“She
looks like she must have been a beautiful little girl. She has the
prettiest hair. When she was young, I bet all the boys loved her.”
“I
don’t think you’ve ever met her, Rita.”
“Duh.
Just now? She kept playing with her hair. It was almost spooky.
And she didn’t seem like she was where she meant to be. I think she
got the wrong room.”
Horace
took a cigarette from his pack. “You talked to her?” He sat
down across from her.
“No.
I just freaked out when she woke me up and came and got you.”
He
watched her silently as she took a drag from her cigarette. In
another moment, her eyes drifted shut. He got up, took the cigarette
from between her fingers, set it in the ashtray, and then went to
wake Rhonda. It was evidently time to change Rita’s meds again.
Fred's Thoughts 