A Couple of Poems

Here are a couple of poems I recently wrote that depict what I believe to be completely justifiable ways to relate to whatever we call God.  Acknowledging that faith is not a perfect knowledge and admitting that we are riddled with doubt is a good first step.  Rejecting the view that God is jealous and vengeful is a good second.  To do so would help render us more honest and forgiving.

Only Human

By my electric

Involuntary word,

Unseen legions rally

To battle the clandestine intruders

And renegade factions

That would destroy this vessel.

Making possible a storybook universe,

Embedded in dreams

And impenetrable longing,

Peopled by the captured and constructed,

Who cry for attention,

Then whisper in equal measure:

Truth and lies.

They have sentience

And also free will,

Capable of posing

That most disconcerting of questions:

Why should you be any different?

Maybe God, too, is an impulse

In the synapse of a greater consciousness.

Brushing Up to Godliness

I commanded, “No,”

But still he leaped,

Then whirled in midair,

Blinded and sneezing,

Frothing from the mouth.

The skunk wandered off,

Unbothered,

Just another day

For a being possessed with power

Worthy of a comic book character.

It was a bad morning to be without a leash.

Hand to collar,

We staggered to the nearest pond,

Barely able to breathe,

Rubbing the stink and the sting

From our tear-filled eyes.

Oh, I dunked him—

Be assured that I dunked him good—

Muttering all along,

“You damn dog.”

On the way home—

He in back,

Muzzle on paws,

Sad eyes only now opening

To the possibility of new

And disquieting hazards—

I lowered the window

And laughed into the passing breeze.

So what if the Jeep will never be the same?

Will I condemn the penitent

For his most endearing

Instincts and preoccupations:

Childlike enthusiasm

And boundless curiosity?

Perfection is unwarranted.

Give me quirkiness instead,

And other sweet foibles,

In all their glorious variety.

If so blessed,

Laughter will accompany me

Everywhere I go.

Why Lyra (my granddaughter) is the Star I Orbit

1. She does something new every day
2. Her favorite word is her own invention (A-dee-a!) which can mean anything from "Look over there," to "Hey, that was cool"
3. Beatles songs make her dance and sing
4. She drops food on the floor and laughs as the dogs scramble to eat it
5. She knows all the gestures to patty cake
6. She thinks "This little piggy" is hilarious
7. She climbs onto the dogs when they're napping and gives them hugs
8. She loves blackberries straight off the cane
9. Sleep is the only thing that can slow her down
10. When I sing the final line to the lullably, "You're the best little one, ever could be," she joins along, singing, "Beeeeeee" in something resembling harmony

Northern Hunk

I wrote this story a while back when thinking of how some people claim to be looking for love when they're really seeking something else entirely.  I hope you enjoy it. 

______________________

The folks at Northern Hunk magazine sent Benny Tookalook to Chicago for five days and nights. They checked him into a Motel 6—classy, he thought, for its miniature bottle of shampoo and its toilet sanitized for his protection. Every minute of his stay was scheduled, and since it was his second trip to the Midwest, Benny played the part of a seasoned hand. He was spontaneous during the modeling sessions, relaxed as the TV talk shows were taped.

And why not? The camera loved his wavy shoulder-length hair, his olive skin, and dark feral eyes. Producers for the Talk with Tina Show suggested he emerge on stage with his felt shirt unbuttoned and the waistband on his boxers showing. When he did so, women in the audience greeted him with whistles and catcalls.

“Do you get this response everywhere?”

Tina Carmichael had asked the question while the applause sign flashed: Ooh…Let’s give him a hand…Ah. She stood among the audience—leggy and beak nosed, dressed in a pink miniskirt. If not for the microphone in her hand, she might have passed for a flamingo.

Benny only shrugged and lowered his gaze. He knew it was best not to speak too much. His reserve would be judged as boyish modesty, a trait that drove women crazy—at least that’s what Roscoe, his best friend and employer often told him. Besides, what could he say? Back home in Flat Busted, Alaska, no one paid him a second look, but he didn’t want the whole world to know that.

“Now, Benny,” Tina said. “You’re Northern Hunk magazine’s Hunk of the Year for the second time in a row. When will you give up your title?”

Benny knew the answer to that question. Roscoe had supplied him with a list of likely queries and the answers hot babes would love to hear. “I’ll hang it up once I find the girl of my dreams.”

More catcalls and whistles followed, and Benny thought: Damn, that Roscoe never fails me.

“Sounds like a few ladies in the audience would apply for the job. Have you met anyone nice in Chicago?”

“I haven’t left Illinois, yet.”

An uneasy silence filled the studio until Tina replied gently, “Chicago is in Illinois,” which led to an equally nervous twitter.

Benny looked down at the floor again, then he raised his face and grinned. It was a response he’d practiced over the years, one that suggested he’d only been joking. “Just pulling your chain, Tina.”

Another round of cheers and applause erupted and Benny chuckled in a way that belied the thought roaming about in his head: Do I look like a damn roadmap, Lady?

###

That evening a radio interview didn’t pan out and Benny received some well-earned time off. Eager to sample Chicago’s fine cuisine and entertainment, he bought a hotdog from a street vendor—swallowed it in five easy bites—and waved down a passing cab.

“Take me to the nearest strip joint,” he said.

Within minutes Benny was standing in a promising sprawl of neon signs and ramshackle buildings, a place where he could compare g-strings and pole dances until the cows came home, but he didn’t have that kind of time. He spun on his heels with eyes covered and a finger pointed straight ahead, letting chance select his destination. His eyes opened to a turn-of-the-century theater that was lit up like a Christmas tree, the letters N-U-D-E doing the can-can across its marquee. Tasteful, Benny thought, as he entered through its double doors.

A young woman in a halter top and hotpants met him just inside and before he could say, “Wet my whistle,” she was leading him to a table up front and taking his drink order.

“Say,” she said. “Didn’t I see you on TV?”

“Maybe,” Benny replied. “I am a celebrity.”

The girl’s name, he learned, was Sally. She had puppy dog brown eyes and a boundless curiosity. Each trip to his table, she quizzed him without pause: What’s Tina Carmichael like? Have you ever met Tom Cruise? If the camera really adds ten pounds, how do you keep from getting fat? Before the evening was over she was asking for his autograph.

“Sure,” Benny said, “if you drive me home when your shift is over.”

From then the night lost its focus, like a drive through dense fog. Benny got the gist of direction, but lost track of all but the biggest bumps and turns. In short the girl accompanied him to his room, where they engaged in a combination medical exam and game of Twister. Then morning came and Benny woke. He called out to Sally, but she was gone. The only reminder of their time together was the double twist in his sheets.

Damn, Benny thought, she forgot my autograph.

###

A day after Benny’s return home, he and Roscoe began to prioritize the letters and e-mails already pouring in. Ladies from all over the country seemed hell-bent to offer themselves as playthings and brides. The correspondence included photos: a pictorial smorgasbord of blondes, brunettes, and redheads (not to mention augmented breasts, thongs, and come-on leers).

“Holy Smoke,” Roscoe said, as he studied a particularly explicit Polaroid from one angle, then another. “I knew there was a reason I kept you employed.”

Roscoe was a giant of a man with a laugh like a bullhorn and a single black eyebrow that stretched across his forehead like a caterpillar. He owned the hardware store where Northern Hunk’s two-time Hunk of the Year kept the bins filled with fuses, couplers, and ten-penny nails. They sat in Benny’s kitchen, at a fold-up card table that was covered with dirty plates and empty beer cans.

“Thanks for your help,” Benny said. “But why are you so interested, anyway?”

“Are you kidding? I’m a married man. I got kids.”

Benny sought a connection between his question and his friend’s answer. “And you want the same for me? Marriage and kids?”

“Hell no. You don’t need that.”

“I don’t?” Suddenly Benny was confused. Hadn’t he told Tina Carmichael—motivated, in part, by Roscoe’s advice—that he wanted a true love, a partnership to last until the end of time?

“Variety’s the spice of life," Roscoe said, "and the truth is: I wouldn’t mind planting a camera in your bedroom. If it’s okay with you, of course.”

###

Benny nixed his friend’s camera idea and resolved to check the light fixture above his bed from time to time. Then to insure Roscoe’s continued support, he promised to kiss and tell—to hold nothing back about his love life. It was a wonder to him how a respected man with a pretty wife and tons of life experience could gain so much pleasure in tales of seduction. Yet in exchange for full disclosure, his boss agreed to edit the correspondence they would send to women who showed special promise.

“Now look here,” Roscoe said, waving a sheet of paper. “You can’t just jump in and ask: ‘Do you want to do the fandango?’ That isn’t good form—especially when you put it in the first sentence.” He was reading the original draft of a letter Benny had written to a college gymnast named Danielle. She’d sent a picture of herself taken during a balance beam performance. Both Benny and Roscoe agreed she looked plenty limber.

“Then what should I say?” Benny asked.

“You got to be sly and sneak up on her. You got to work up to questions like that.”

In the end they put their heads together and wrote what seemed to them a true masterpiece. It read:

Dear Danielle,
I like your picture. You sure are flexible. How did you ever learn to bend over like that? It would hurt my nut sack to even try.

Speaking of nut sacks, do you like to fandango? I do. Let me know.

Sincerely,
Benny Tookalook

###

Danielle never wrote again, but Marla, a motorcycle cop from Las Vegas did—a couple of times. She offered to bring her collection of handcuffs and leather undergarments. The notion made Benny dizzy with desire and put a dream in his head of being strip-searched by a sandy-blond Amazon. A week later, while he and his boss were watching from inside Flat Busted’s air terminal, Marla stepped out of his dreams and onto the tarmac.

“Holy sweet knockers,” Roscoe said.

Benny was already smitten by the long legs and lanky torso waltzing across the pavement to the terminal. He liked what was riding in her sweater, too, but he didn’t need his friend’s admiration focused in the same direction. “Don’t be ignorant,” he said. “I just might marry the girl.”

Roscoe turned to him and rolled his eyes. “I got things to do,” he said and added before leaving, “You owe me stories. Don’t be early for work tomorrow.”

Marla entered the waiting area with a look that suggested she was smitten, too, a sentiment she affirmed by raising her top in greeting. Benny—as well as two bearded oil workers, a lady at the car rental counter, and three huskies in their travel crates—were granted a view to a smiley face drawn on each breast. During the ride home Marla babbled at the speed of light. The mountains reminded her of lovers holding hands. The trees looked like lovers kissing. The ocean was a restless bed of lovers. She saw the world in ways that were unique and unsettling to Benny. Damn, he thought, this here is a sophisticated woman.

Only fifteen minutes through the door of his fifth-wheel trailer, the level of sophistication reached new heights. Marla flashed her patrol badge and read Benny his rights, giving him a wedgie to emphasize each point.

“You have the right to play doctor,” she said, while putting another twist in his shorts.

“Ooowee,” Benny replied and he assumed the position with legs spread wide and palms against the wall.

True to her word Marla broke out her collection of handcuffs, yet nothing was as stimulating as the billy club she brandished like a foil. The seduction progressed and gained urgency, but Benny had become too aroused to progress very far.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment of awkward silence.

“Don’t be. It was the best twelve seconds of my life.”

###

The next morning Benny arrived five minutes early for work and waited at the front counter. A half-hour later Roscoe strolled in and stopped at the cash register, frowning. “Didn’t I tell you to sleep in?” he said.

Benny didn’t know how to break the news. His friend had invested time and emotional support to the task of finding a love match and Roscoe wouldn’t take kindly to the prior evening’s events. In the end, Benny came clean in the same way he might rip off a bandage—quick, so as not to prolong the agony. “I broke it off. It wasn’t going to work between Marla and me.”

Roscoe shook his head sadly. “What happened? Wouldn’t she put out?”

“No problem there. It's something she said--the worst possible thing.”

“She wanted to get hitched?”

“No, not that. She said, ‘You’re really into missionary, aren’t you?’ And that’s when I knew we were over.”

Roscoe scratched his head and winced. “Why, for heck’s sake?”

Benny exhaled in a manner that sounded like a balloon deflating. For all his friend’s smarts, sometimes the man was just plain dense—sometimes he needed things spelled out to him. “Come on Roscoe,” he said. “You know me better than that. I won’t have anything to do with missionaries. Religion and me don’t mix.”

###

After Roscoe explained the nature of Benny’s error, Mr. Hunk-of-the-Year rushed to the airport and caught Marla before she boarded her plane to Anchorage. He asked the woman to stay—begged her even—but she was inconsolable. “I can’t see loving a can of worms,” she said. “And that’s just about how dumb you are.”

The words stung, but he’d already decided Marla was too cultured and clever for him anyway. How many women, after all, owned a collection of handcuffs, or could see trees as lovers? Putting that episode of his life behind him, Benny looked forward to the rest of summer and hoped for a deeper and truer love connection.

Now, this is what happened: Candice was too skinny, Jennifer too tanned. Heather didn’t like to fish. Beatrice was a teetotaler. Billy Jean had big feet and Nell complained about the length of Alaska’s summer days. One by one each girl who passed through his door turned out to be flawed in some vital way. Benny was bummed, but Roscoe took joy in the variety of new faces.

September came and so did cold weather. Benny drove Rachel, his most recent attempt at love, to the airport and thought of the long nights he would have to endure with no warm body to cuddle beside him. He was home before the six o’clock news and the sky was already black. His trailer was as quiet as a sigh. Suddenly he wished Marla was there to flash her badge and read him his rights, but in the midst of this despair he found hope in an e-mail message from someone new, a woman who appeared to be some kind of foreigner. It read:

Dear Benny:
I from Japanese. You know Japanese? I see you picture Northern Hunk magazine. I like you. Here my picture. I want go Alaska for to see a northern lights. Maybe I see each other.

Sincerely,
Kumiko Takei

At first Benny wondered how to reply. He thought of calling Roscoe for help, until a sudden realization struck him broadside: Their joint efforts had earned him little more than an empty bed and a heart full of longing. What might have happened if he’d relied on instinct, rather than the opinion of others? Maybe he’d be with a woman right now, enjoying a romantic evening complete with bowls of popcorn, bottles of brew, and a carefully selected sporting event on television. Besides, Benny thought, he’d learned a thing or two by watching Roscoe edit letter after letter.

After a moment of consideration he wrote:

Dear Kumiko:
I like the northern lights, too. They are bright and colorful. They come out during winter. It is almost winter now. Winter is a good time to stay in bed out of the cold.

Speaking of staying in bed, do you like to fandango? I do. Let me know.

Sincerely,
Benny Tookalook

Now that, Benny thought as he clicked the send button, was a masterpiece worthy of true love.

I Have a Novel Coming Out

Several months ago I was contacted by someone at a small literary press about the availability of a novel I had written and tried to get published five years back. At first I thought it was a pitch by a vanity press, but it turned out the person had seen my novel while working for another publisher. In short, the book will soon be in print. Here is the cover.

The book is about Alaskan bush pilot, Patch Taggart, who spots a woman stranded on open tundra, but he has no choice except to leave her to face winter's imminent arrival alone. Spring arrives and he returns to the area, only to discover a tent with a body inside it. Tormented by guilt and obsessed by the contents of a journal the woman had kept, Patch resolves to follow her path through the stark Alaskan wilderness in search of something she buried and left behind.

Meanwhile, Athabascan Indian, Jesse Toyonek, is lost in a fog after delivering gillnet to a fisherman. When his skiff washes onto a volcanic island, he comes face-to-face with the mummified remains of an ancient Aleut and believes the event marks a new calling for him. He leaves his village to live the way of his ancestors, but survival without a rifle and boat—products of the modern world he hopes to avoid—is impossible.

Together, Patch and Jesse begin a journey of self-discovery through a place shaped by thunderous herds of caribou and vast salmon runs.

The publication date is just around the corner. I'll give details on where to purchase it.

Why I Joined the Glenn Beck is an Idiot Club

 Recently, the fact that I’d joined a Facebook club was posted on my wall for all my friends to see. I was horrified, because I quickly realized that my action may have been taken as a political statement, which certainly wasn’t my intention. I didn’t even know the information would be made public.

The truth is I’m not easily defined politically. My friends belong to a broad range of political persuasions that extend across the spectrum. If I were to categorize them into conservative versus liberal camps, I’m sure the breakout would be evenly split. On most topics—especially those that foster controversy—I disagree with the prevailing views of both groups, because it almost always occurs to me that there are better out-of-the-box approaches to problems than those proposed by the major parties. Yet, despite our differences of opinion, I get along well with all my friends, and for the most part, I appreciate their reasoned political arguments. On the many occasions when we don’t see eye-to-eye, I don’t call them stupid (I don’t even think the word). Neither do I believe they have ulterior motives to deceive me or to steal something of value from me.

To the extent that I’m successful at this, it’s because I do a couple of simple things. I try to remember that if I don’t see both sides to an argument, I don’t understand the argument, AT ALL. More importantly, I attempt to define the argument in terms of personal worldviews. No matter how hard we try to make tough decisions based upon facts, in the end, logic and available evidence leads us to judgments rooted in individual values and beliefs. Two people can possess the same evidence, IQ and ability to reason, but come up with differing conclusions when their values are not shared.

In this context, I believe the conservative-liberal gulf can be described as a metaphorical interaction akin to the following.

• The Conservative says: Get off my porch or I’ll shoot. This is my property. All I want is to be left alone.
• The Liberal says: Don’t be like that. Some of us are getting together to sing Kum Bah Ya. Let’s share in building a better world.

This may be an oversimplification, but as a model of the world it explains a lot. It describes, for example, the conservative distrust in government, not to mention the desire for a strong defense, love of guns and insistence upon strict property rights that translate into an appreciation for capitalist principals. This also describes the liberal reaction to problem solving, which is to organize centrally in order to accomplish notions of a common good.

The points I hope to make here are two-fold. First, there is nothing wrong with wanting to be left alone to enjoy the fruits of one’s own labor, just like there is nothing wrong with striving to work with others to promote a better world. In fact it can be argued that both are legitimate human claims central to ideals contained in the Declaration of Independence. Second, because they are both legitimate claims, we should never demean people just because they espouse one of the worldviews over another. Calling one group Pollyanna and the other Scrooge misses the central idea upon which each political platform is based. It’s even worse—no, it should be deemed unacceptable—to impugn people’s intelligence and honesty because of a legitimate value they hold dear. If we can’t get beyond the name calling and histrionics, and understand the basis for each others’ hopes for the nation, the gulfs that separate us will ever widen.

For this reason, there are groups of people I do despise passionately. They are those, on both sides of the political spectrum, who shout epithets, invent conspiracies, and question the sincerity, compassion and intelligence of individuals for the sole purpose of disparaging personal philosophies. It bothered me when our previous president was called a liar for his role in invading Iraq. It bothers me just as much that the same word is being used to describe our president today for his efforts to grant greater access to healthcare. Having a different worldview, in and of itself, doesn’t make one a liar (or a fascist, warmonger, socialist, moron, dictator, baby-killer, or any of the number of epithets being slung about like so much crap). The people who claim otherwise cry wolf on the camera and laugh all the way to their private jets. They don’t deserve a platform, nor do they warrant our attention. They relish in our hate. They seek to divide us.

Let's hope they don't.

Choosing Our Truths

Many years ago, my church was involved in a pissing match with its own academics who were examining church history from a dispassionate scholarly perspective. Before taking drastic action (eventually several professors were excommunicated) one of the church's Apostles, Boyd K. Packer, gave an address that was meant to rein in activities that had been deemed overly critical. His remarks have haunted me ever since. Among them Packer made several statements that have since been repeated at various times when the church experienced one embarrassing episode or another. The central theme of his address can be summarized by the following excerpt.

There is a temptation for the writer or the teacher of Church history to want to tell everything, whether it is worthy or faith promoting or not. Some things that are true are not very useful.

This begs a question: Useful for what purpose? Packard goes on to describe the effort to explain church history as a kind of war--a war in which members should take strong positions.

In the Church we are not neutral. We are one-sided. There is a war going on, and we are engaged in it. It is the war between good and evil, and we are belligerents defending the good. We are therefore obliged to give preference to and protect all that is represented in the gospel...In an effort to be objective, impartial, and scholarly, a writer or a teacher may unwittingly be given equal time to the adversary.

(The entire discourse can be found at: http://byustudies.byu.edu/shop/pdfSRC/21.3Packer.pdf)

There is so much in his comments that sadden me, as it's a perfect example of the problem of apologetic thinking. Packer profers the Mormon view that the church is "true" (i.e. perfect and correct in all its particulars) as an undisputed fact and condemns any action that would question it. By getting members to agree to this thinking, the only option they have is to build upon the premise without ever considering its value. He essentially says, "Don't worry about the truthfulness of the church. That has been established. Your duty is to do everything in your power to depict the church as true--even by ignoring evidence that contradicts the premise."

This idea reminds me of what happened during China's cultural revolution (not to mention other horrific episodes in our earth's history). Ying Chang Compestine, who was a child living in China during the 60s, summarizes the advent of the cultural revolution by saying: One day children were encouraged to ask questions--the next day, they were told they didn't need to know. In this way, to tell members that there are things they don't need to know about their church--things that are perhaps true, but not useful--is little more than an attempt at mind control.

There are all kinds of ways to effect mind control. All it takes is to prevent otherwise curious people from asking questions. Today's debate on healthcare, which appears more focused on ideology than fact, is a case in point. Recent coverage of town hall meetings record a public discourse that has become a shouting match full of unproven and hollow assertions, where people seem more concerned with scoring points--even to the extent of distorting the truth--than in ascertaining what is best for the public good. Arguments are couched in terms of their consistency with the ideals of our nation's founders, when those who make such claims are clearly no more familiar with the Constitution as they are with Shinto scripture. Shouting down people's questions and misquoting Jefferson are two ways to prevent an "un-useful" truth from getting heard.

The Only Excuse

I used to think there was only one excuse in life and it was this:

I didn’t want it badly enough.

I honestly believed that the only thing keeping people from achieving their greatest aspirations was the kind of desire that led to perseverance and hard work. For myself, I literally thought no accomplishment was beyond my grasp. If I so desired, I could be a billionaire or president of the United States (not that either was ever my goal). All it would take is uncompromising single-mindedness and hard work.

That personal philosophy made me incredibly intolerant. (Actually, my wife had a better word for what it made me: an asshole). I had no patience for the castoffs of the world. I reckoned they had nothing to complain about, since they simply hadn’t wanted the alternative—a productive and fulfilled life—badly enough. And now that I think about it, that viewpoint led me to believe all people got what they’d wanted most. So what if after a few life lessons and their attendant consequences, the castoffs would now opt for a different set of circumstances. That, too, was obtainable. All they had to do is want it.

Then something happened. First, one of my sons got sick. That was certainly something I couldn’t will away. Though he has since recovered and is fine today, dealing with the illness and its aftermath stole much of my former optimism and replaced it with a recognition that there’s something deceitful and mean in my old worldview. Other disappointments followed, leading me to understand that humans are incredibly fragile creatures, despite their chest-pounding demonstrations of toughness. The truth is, for all of us the difference between a good life and a miserable existence will occasionally be measured in a second’s hesitation, or an inch in the wrong direction.

Many accomplished people believe their successes are the rewards of great desire and stick-to-itiveness. Since that’s partly right they’re welcome to their belief, but they should also know that many others are just as deserving, but didn’t get the luck of the draw. This idea is central to Robert Frost’s wonderful poem, The Road Not Taken. It's not so much about the value of choosing the less-traveled path, as how much of life is left open to chance. Seemingly innocuous decisions (should I go right or left?) can “make all the difference.”

That’s why we must do everything in our power to make sure all people have access to medical care. Perhaps you won’t need the guaranteed coverage, but you can never tell about the luck of the draw. Besides, someone you love might need it and all you'll be able to do is watch and wonder why there isn't help available.

Heal the Sick

I've been on vacation the last week, which partially explains why I haven't written here lately. I was in the American heartland, in an area where the majority of people seem to think our president is a Muslim terrorist. Despite that prevailing worldview, I enjoyed my vacation, but there was an unspoken agreement between me and those I'd gone to visit: We would not broach the subject of politics. In the past, doing so had only lead to rancour between us.

Yet, I suppose the temptation was too great and the topic did come up once when I was asked if I was still glad that I'd voted for President Obama. My answer lead to two follow-up questions, both of which were asked with utmost incredulity:

• Even with respect to cap and trade?
• Even with respect to healthcare?

There was a lot I could have said about both topics, but I didn't. I knew a response would lead to no good and I'd promised myself that I wouldn't be goaded into any arguments. So I walked away.

But my inquisitors don't read my blog--just like I don't read their emails speculating about where the president might really have been born--so let me offer a couple of observations. Regarding the first follow-up question, as I've mentioned elsewhere in this blog, though I don't believe the Bible to be the final arbiter on the subject, I can highly recommend its commandment to replenish the earth. While the history of civilization suggests we're more inclined to rape and pillage the world we live in, the least we can do is to put limits on our actions and minimize their effects. Apparently, however, there are a great number of people in the world who don't believe global warming is caused by our rampant consumption of natural resources.

If anything, I'm even more emotional about the second follow-up question--so emotional, in fact, that I'm willing to offer this bitter pill and risk offending others: Anyone who is working to derail our chance at making healthcare available to all, cannot in good conscience call him or herself Christian. I base this assertion on the following claim Jesus made:

For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.

Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee? Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.

Isn't it clear that Christ would have us minister to all the sick? But even if I didn't believe in His gospel, I would still be an ardent supporter of any reasoned attempt to make heathcare available to all. Why? Because: 1) I have empathy for people and 2) I know that despite the best of intentions and plans, human beings--through no fault of their own--occasionally find themselves in the most precarious of circumstances. Here is how it can happen.

• Despite the messages of their schmaltzy commercials, the objective of most insurers is to make money, not to help people. They will rescind policies any time it makes economic sense to do so. The possibility of losing public trust is all that stands in the way of capricious behavior on the part of insurers. When they get in trouble, policy rescission becomes an integral part of their business strategies. And it happens at the worst possible time--when a health condition has been diagnosed and the policy is most needed.
• Insurers occasionally go bankrupt, in which case policyholders with pre-existing conditions are left with few--if any--options.
• For young people just starting out, health insurance premiums can be prohibitively expensive. My son, Matthew, can't get his wife covered by his graduate school's insurance policy due to university budget cuts. The cost of private insurance is over half his take-home pay.
• Coverage can change or be eliminated with a boardroom decision made by an insurer or a group policy sponsor. If you're diabetic (or suffer from any range of chronic ailments) and you lose coverage, where do you go today for healthcare?
• And at this time in which an unprecedented number of people are unemployed, how can anyone say they're safe from a loss of coverage? Of course, there is COBRA, but in the event that coverage was curtailed due to job loss, who can afford to pay COBRA premiums (not to mention mortgage payments) without a job?
• During any temporary loss of insurance, the development of pre-existing conditions can limit people's insurance options and even render them uninsurable. Chances are by the time a typical child becomes an adult, he or she has undergone a surgical procedure or drug regimen that can be indicative of a pre-existing condition. Someone I care about dearly was recently denied coverage because of a drug regimen prescribed to her that might have indicated the occurence of OCD.

At the very least, we should be engaged in a thoughtful conversation about healthcare and avoid screaming epithets and clever sound bites at each other. Before derailing the effort, let's put a face to the problem and think of what we might do if one of our own children were sick and uninsured. But as a final word, I'm going to repeat my earlier assertion: Anyone who is working against the effort to bring healthcare to the least of these, cannot in my mind be called a Christian.

Things that Bug Me

Here are a few things that really bother me. Tell me if they bug you, too.

Wine tasting snobbery—Even if I were a drinker, I’d still be annoyed by the pompous comments made by the literati of the wine world. They make me want to scream: Just drink the damn thing. To me, the descriptions are tedious: It’s supple, yet verging on austere, in a way that dances on the palate, with a heady taste of something earthy—like mushrooms—and a cedarwood finish. You know what? If that’s what you like, barbeque some shiitakes on a two-by-four, but spare me the color commentary, okay? Someday I hope to see a Saturday Night Live skit about people at a wine tasting. After sipping and spitting, each person offers an obligatory observation that increases in haughtiness. And then it’s Elmore’s turn. He takes an enormous swig and swallows—apparently having been doing so for much of the morning—and pronounces: “Oh, yeah, I can taste an undercurrent of sweaty tee-shirt in this one. “

Today's cycling—I used to peddle everywhere on an old Schwinn that lasted me until I graduated from high school. Then, while living in Tokyo, my wife and I bought matching okusan cruisers—Japanese three-speed bikes built for packing kids and groceries. Most weekends we would split the boys up between us and go sightseeing, stopping wherever the fancy hit us. We found some great parks and eateries that way. But today cycling isn’t a leisure activity. It’s a sport you have to train for—one that has been completely co-opted by Madison Avenue. You can’t ride without the right clothes, which require bright colors and a logo written in a European language. When did that happen? The development has put me in a quandary: I refuse to succumb to pack mentality and buy the necessary crotch-padded leotards and $200 shoes, but I’m too self-conscious to ride in trousers. It’s a shame really.

Commuting in a Hummer—I know what some people think: If it’s legal and you can afford it, go ahead and do what you please. While I support people’s rights in this way, there’s a message we have to deliver to owners of Hummers (and other people who believe bigger is always better). That fact is when we use a scarce resource in a willy-nilly fashion, it does two things:

1. It raises the price of the resource, because as any economist will tell you, prices are established by the marginal transaction
2. In so doing, it puts the resource out of the reach of others, some of them poor, but deserving

There was a time when civilized people thought nothing of killing as many buffalo as they could. Someday, future enlightened generations will put us in the same category as the buffalo hunters, who laid waste to a resource for purposes of entertainment.

Famous for being famous—Why does Paris Hilton get so much attention? While people are being laid off in unprecedented numbers and losing their homes, let’s occasionally put a spotlight on Joe and Jenny Rest-of-Us and see real stories about perseverance in the face of awful luck. We don’t need more tales about silver spoons and wasted lives. And as long as I’m on this rant, let me ask you this: Did you see Kobe Bryant’s interview at the end of the NBA championship? Did you hear him talk about how much he’d sacrificed to win? He’s getting paid $20 million a year (not including his endorsements) and he’s talking about sacrifice? Hard work is what’s expected for any pay at all. $20 million should demand an extra mile, or two. I don't mind him earning more money than I'll ever see in a lifetime, but for heck's sake, he’s playing a game for a living. Let’s not call it sacrifice.

The pretense of knowing—As they flew into the Twin Towers on that terrible day we remember all too well, those who were at the controls apparently proclaimed, “God is Great!” Who were they trying to convince? Did God need to know He was great? To assume so is to believe God suffers from low self-esteem. Perhaps the terrorists were only trying to convince themselves of the point. From that perspective, I’m not sure we’re much different. People speak on and on about their love of God and His goodness, as if words rather than actions are important, and sometimes it strikes me as the spiritual equivalent of muscle-flexing on Venice Beach. It’s as easy to say, “God is great” as it is natural for a bully to boast, but to me, one's spirituality is a deeply private matter that is as intimate as the events of a wedding night—neither of which should be shared casually. What takes true courage and integrity is to admit: I don’t know if God is great, but I will emulate what I believe to be great in Him.

Our notion of perfection—Ask a person what his idea of perfection is and he’ll say something like this:

Perfection is having a body like a youthful Arnold Schwarzenegger, the creativity of Albert Einstein, the wit of Woody Allen, the magnanimity of Mother Teresa, the athletic prowess of Kobe Bryant, the knowledge of William Buckley, and so on.

Notice that no one ever says perfection is having Woody Allen’s physique and Kobe Bryant’s magnanimity. The truth is we gather into a ball what we admire most in others and call it perfection. If that’s the way we judge ourselves, we’re in a sad state. As Allan Bloom says in the Closing of the American Mind:

Man is a being who must take his orientation from his possible perfection. As it now stands, students have powerful images of what a perfect body is and pursue it incessantly. But…they no longer have any image of a perfect soul, and hence do not long to have one. They do not even imagine that there is such a thing.

The War in Heaven

According to Mormon theology, we all lived prior to our mortality as spirits in God's presence. In this condition (referred to as the pre-existence) God sat in counsel with those who would go on to be great leaders in mortality, among them the premortal Jesus and the spirit whom Isaiah would one day call the Son of Morning.

At some point, God decided to enact a plan that would give His spirit children the opportunity to progress and be like Him. It required that they take on physical bodies and come to earth to live by faith and be tested. After hearing the plan, however, the Son of Morning sought to modify it. Essentially, he said: Put me in charge and I'll ensure that all mortals live sufficiently worthy to return to heaven as exalted beings.

God, however, would have none of it. Rather, He wanted all mortals to be free to choose their own paths, a condition that required them to make choices: good versus evil, virtue or vice. Angered by the decision, the Son of Morning left God's presence and took with him a third of the hosts of heaven. In the process he became Lucifer and--again, according to Mormon theology--the source of all evil, an enemy to God and the one who tempts mortals to sin.

If you're confused by this, you're not alone, since according to the account, a former stalwart in heaven:

1. Heard the particulars of God's plan, but wanted to modify it so that all his spirit brothers and sisters would return to heaven (not such an evil objective--after all, missionaries hope to convert us all, too)
2. Then, not getting his way, he became so angry that he left heaven to fight against God's plan
3. But due to his new role as tempter and source of all evil, he makes it possible for mortals to have and make choices (after all, there is no freedom to choose evil, if evil doesn't exist)
4. So each time he is successful at tempting a mortal, he works against the objective he proposed in council with God

When will it ever occur to Lucifer/Satin (i.e. the devil) that he can thwart the cause of heaven and end God's plan by withholding temptation? In other words, if he stops tempting people, they don't sin. If they don't sin, they return to God unblemished. That's exactly what he'd hoped to achieve in the first place! When I've pointed this out to my Mormon friends, they say, "Well, Satan is stupid and angry." But does that sound like someone who was once called Son of the Morning and a fallen angel? He has to be smarter than that.
Clearly the account doesn't make much sense, but that on its own doesn't concern me. As I've said elsewhere, many of the narratives included in the scriptures fall in the same category, yet may still contain lessons of value. While I don't take them literally, they can provoke productive thought. This one, however, is a bit different because of the worldview it engenders. While people should be worried about exacting some amount of discipline over their own passions and appetites, many are instead concerned about a shadowy tempter who is only mentioned obliquely in a handful of scriptural references. Let's not worry about the devil. Whether you do or don't believe in him, let's agree that it's in our control to live unselfish and compassionate lives.

The Road Map and the Compass

My son, Matt, tells me that all of quantum mechanics can be written down on a half-sheet of paper. In fact, he did it, and here it is:

• The state of a system is entirely represented by its wave function, which is a unit vector of any number of dimensions (including infinite) existing in Hilbert space. The wave function can be calculated from the Schrodinger equation.
• Observable quantities (like position, momentum) are represented by hermitian operators, which function as linear transformations that operate on the wave function.
• The expectation value (in a statistical sense) of an observable quantity is the inner product of the wave function with the wave function after being operated on by the observable’s hermitian operator.
• Determinate states, or states of a system that correspond to a constant observed value, are eigenstates of the observable’s hermitian operator, while the observed value is the eigenvalue. (ex. energy levels that give rise to discrete atomic spectra are eigenvalues corresponding to energy determinate states.)
• All determinate states are orthogonal and all possible states can be expressed as a linear combination of determinate states.
• When a measurement is made, the probability of getting a certain value is the square root of the inner product of that value’s determinate state with the wave function.
• Upon measurement, the wave function “collapses”, becoming the determinate state corresponding to the value that was measured.

I know it all sounds complicated, but Matt assures me that as a body of scientific discovery, it’s all quite elegant and conceptually simple. A person need not be a physicist to understand the laws. Physics undergrads are required to master them before they graduate.

People who seek common ground between science and religion often say that God works through (or at one time defined) the physical laws that we observe in nature. If that’s the case, why didn’t He take the opportunity to jot down the half-page in Genesis? Why did He water down the truth by claiming the world was created by “His word”?

If you’re a religious person, you’re likely to answer what is obvious—that, in short, people weren’t prepared to hear about such laws at the time Genesis was written. Given the scientific advances our world has experienced recently, we can all relate to the notion. Furthermore, our interactions with kids, too, teach us that due to human limitations the facts can’t always be apprehended. As I’ve mentioned before, we seldom divulge the full truth on any topic to children and this isn’t because we’re devious. If a three year-old boy asks why the sky is blue, for example, do we explain the nature of light—how it travels in waves, with each wave length corresponding to a color? No, that would be too much information for him. Whatever answer we do provide won’t be a complete reckoning, because the child isn’t prepared for it.

Now, despite what my son says, I think the majority of people today—and that includes me—are ill-prepared to understand the physical concepts he has described above. Yet, can’t the same be said regarding a range of topics that continuously advance beyond general understanding? For this reason, I think of the gospel as something more akin to a compass than a roadmap. Though ultimately we may want to head in a specific direction, a compass will sometimes point us to impassable terrain, around which we must detour. Christ’s gospel says precious little about how we should love our neighbors, only that we must. Though circumstances may cause us to meander, compassion is the true north that establishes our orientation.

That, however, begs a question: Why didn’t Christ offer a roadmap instead of a compass? The Mosaic Law, after all, was an attempt to answer any and all questions about correct and moral behavior, and it would seem logical that Jesus would attempt to accomplish the same. Perhaps the reason is due to the fact that the world changes and the terrain of our lives morph constantly in terms of complexity and degree of difficulty. The problem with a map is that it’s static and doesn’t account for washed out bridges and pathways that are subject to redevelopment. If you happen to be in a new city and need directions to get around, will you refer to a map commissioned by the city’s founders? It would be better just to know an ultimate heading and improvise a way there.

For this reason, I’m not impressed by assertions that God commands this or that. In my mind, there are two rules of thumb that, if followed objectively and sincerely, will invariably lead to what is decent and lovely, albeit with some allowance for meandering.

Of course, you know what those rules are.

Go ahead--treat me like a dog

I once had a dog named Jesse. He was a long-legged black lab, who loved the long walks we took along the oak-line trails of an old rancho not far from our house. He was a gentle and affectionate companion and I used to think there was nothing quite as graceful as the sight of him leaping through tall grass.

One day we were out early before the day broke and while I was studying a strange object on a hill, I realized too late that it wasn’t a plant with a white stripe down its center, but the tail of a skunk held straight up in warning. I yelled for Jesse to come, but my effort was in vain. He leaped after the creature, only to paw at the air mid-stride in an effort to spin away. When he landed, Jesse was blind and sneezing, having taken a hit of skunk spray to the face. It probably goes without saying, but he stunk so awfully that it hurt to stand next to him.

It was a bad day not to have a leash with me. Since Jesse couldn’t open his eyes, I had to lead him by the collar, both of us gagging each step of the way. I directed him to a pond and coaxed him into the water, where I gave him a good dunking. The drive back home was not fun and my thoughts were not charitable. I kept muttering, “That damn dog,” while he rubbed his face on the upholstery. Though I opened all the windows and hung my head outside, the smell was as insidious as a swarm of angry bees. The Jeep, as you might imagine, has never been the same since.

Today I laugh about the episode, proud of the fact that the next time we saw a skunk, Jesse obeyed my directive to stay. The memory resides beside others—like the time we scared a flock of vultures off a steer carcass and watched horrified when two stragglers crawled out of a hole in the steer’s brisket before following their kinfolk into the sky. Jesse looked at me as if to ask: “Did you see that?” and I told him I had.

A few years later, he was diagnosed with a tumor in his hip. Lori and I were beside ourselves and unprepared to say goodbye, so we opted for surgery and chemo treatments. For the next year, Jesse was as active and enthusiastic as he’d always been—except now as a three-legged dog—and we took joy in his apparent recovery. Once again he could leap unaided into the Jeep. He even found a way to lift his remaining hind leg to pee.

Eventually, however, the cancer returned in a more virulent form. Lori and I told ourselves that we would know it was time to let him go when he couldn’t enjoy his food or walks anymore. That day came all too soon. During his last week, he took to wandering off—to die, we speculated. At night I slept with him, listening to him whimper and wondering if the pain medication was doing him any good. I prayed that he would be spared, but he was clearly in pain. Rather than let him suffer, we took that difficult drive to the vet, hoping we were doing the right thing.

Why am I telling you this?

This story isn’t unusual, rather something we all relate to. The fact is people are capable—and even susceptible—of developing great love and compassion for the fellow creatures sojourning with us here on earth. If so, why do we expect anything less from our Heavenly Father? It disturbs me, when we use guilt as a sledge to pound out conformity in others. At some point we stop saying, “bad dog,” to our goofy canine friends and overlook their indiscretions born out of exuberance. It horrifies me when we warn children that God will punish them for their disobedience. If these acts are appropriate, God is not as great as we assume. Children, like puppies, are better motivated by love than constant badgering and warnings of impending doom.

Adam's Transgression

There are aspects of the biblical account of Adam’s transgression that I’ve always found disturbing, but never heard addressed—never, that is, except once in a youth Sunday School class that I attended thirty years ago.

The teacher, Sister Brownlee, had handed out Bibles and asked us to take turns reading the story of Adam and Eve. You’re familiar, no doubt, with the account. It tells of how God gave His first human creations a fertile garden and only two conditions regarding its use. First, He told them to multiply and replenish the earth. Second, He forbade them to eat a certain fruit, even warned them not to touch the tree bearing it or they would die. Though God’s mandate was clear, Satan—disguised as a serpent—slithered into Eden’s tranquility and tempted Adam and Eve to break that important second commandment.

He told them, “Ye shall not surely die: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.” In the end, the temptation was more than Adam and Eve could ignore.

Of that day the Bible says:

And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons. And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God amongst the trees of the garden.

Sister Brownlee asked us to consider the charity of our Creator. Adam and Eve had everything they needed, but do you see what they did? They stole from the source of their good fortune. She seemed ready to complete the thought and offer a comparison to our own lives, to say that God has given us much, yet we turn on Him in disobedience. Before she could do so, I raised my hand.

“God told Adam and Eve that they would die if they ate the fruit,” I said, “but they didn’t. Why is that? Was God just bluffing to make His children obey?”

Today, the question still seems like a good one to me, but by Sister Brownlee’s reaction, it was clear that I’d treaded into sensitive theological territory. Perhaps she thought I was accusing God of lying. “God speaks only the truth,” she said, frowning. “In a way, Adam and Eve did die because their offense robbed them of life with God. They became sinful and unworthy of His spirit. They were so guilt-ridden that they hid themselves from their Creator. The real liar was the serpent, Lucifer, who convinced Adam and Eve to transgress.”

It occurred to me as I pondered Sister Brownlee’s answer that it hadn’t really addressed my question. In fact, if anything, it had only suggested other questions that I couldn’t wait to ask. Without raising a hand, I said, “The serpent told Adam and Eve that they would learn the difference between good and evil, and that happened. Their eyes were opened. The Bible says so. The serpent led them to knowledge—a knowledge God seemed happy to keep from them. Why is that?”

There was a nervous twitter in the class, but Sister Brownlee forced herself to smile and explained. “Your confusion is understandable,” she said, “but this is an example of how the devil uses half-truths to confuse people. That’s why we need faith to keep from being deceived.”

Suddenly a thought entered my head, like traffic noise through a thin wall. At first I tried to ignore it, but it got my attention. Sister Brownlee had been dealt a question for which there was no answer, but she wouldn’t admit to the deficiency. Instead, she used the same wedge that has separated humankind from a great deal of worthwhile inquiry: the admonition to accept without questions. I knew even then that logic leads to intellectual canyons into which we must take a leap of faith. Yet our teacher had couched that leap in terms of truth and that wasn’t right, even if she could create an ignorant bliss by doing so.

But I digress. For those of you who believe the Bible to be the unadulterated word of God, let me reiterate the two questions:

1. Why did God warn Adam and Eve of a consequence that ultimately did not occur?
2. Why did God seem to want Adam and Eve to remain ignorant? (Not until they ate the forbidden fruit were their eyes opened, which was exactly what the serpent promised would happen).

The Physics of Immortality

Frank Tipler’s book, The Physics of Immortality, came out in 1994 to mixed peer reviews and much hoopla. I read it that same year, hoping it would point to a future in which science and spirituality might rest together in harmony. While I’m still hopeful that the two disciplines will find common ground, to me, Tipler’s book points to some of the difficulties in getting there. In case you haven’t read it, let me offer my take on the book.

Tipler is a mathematical physicist and former agnostic, who while attempting to debunk the notion of a resurrection, inadvertently convinced himself that life after death was not only possible, but inevitable. His methodology was similar to a process mathematicians have, for centuries, used to disprove a false premise: First accept it as true and then show how such acceptance leads to a logical inconsistency. In this manner, Tipler considered ways the resurrection might occur, looking to prove its impossibility. Along the way, he developed a theory that he subsequently called the Omega Point, which he claims is a logical proof of life after death. How is the resurrection to occur? Essentially, we’re brought to life as part of a computer simulation that is so accurate that all possible quantum states for all human beings—including everyone’s DNA—is part of the code. Tipler shows how this could happen by “proving” that:

• At some point in the future there will be sufficient computing power to accomplish the task
• Until such time, all information about the universe will be preserved
• The preserved information will be used in a virtual reality emulation of infinite experiential time that will simulate the universe and all the intelligent creatures that have lived in it
• All of this must occur to avoid breaking known physical laws.

To me, the thesis is intriguing, but it doesn’t make me any less uncertain of immortality than I was before reading the book. Specifically, I have two problems with it. First, I don’t understand the logical leap Tipler makes by showing how the resurrection is possible then asserting it’s inevitable. After reading a few peer reviews, I can happily say I’m not alone in this regard. The theory includes what Tipler calls an Omega Point Boundary Condition that results in the inevitability of the resurrection, but other physicists have not found the idea compelling. Second, the theory assumes that any emulation that precisely models the DNA of individuals will essentially create (or recreate) the humans emulated. In other words, there is no perceived difference between reality and a perfectly accurate simulation. As a consequence, Tipler claims there is no such thing as a soul—that DNA determines everything about a person that experience does not, including sentience and self-awareness.

While I’m open to the possibility of the non-existence of the soul, I’m disturbed by the idea that DNA describes everything about us. It seems to me that while DNA puts constraints around our development, growth is representative of a chaotic system that leaves considerable variability, even if the genetic code is identical. One need only observe identical twins to find proof of that notion. While they share the same DNA and may resemble each other, they can exhibit a range of physical and behavioral differences. The same can be said of a cloned pet that may have different mannerisms—even coloration—than the Fifi who provided its genetic material.

The study of such chaotic systems (sometimes referred to as chaos theory, which is a misnomer since it hasn’t resulted in a practical or workable theory) is the study of systems that are bounded but unpredictable since they are not subject to any physical laws we understand. These systems include, for example, weather and turbulence. To illustrate their unusual qualities, let me mention that the great physicist, Werner Heisenberg, once said he had two questions for God. They were:

1. Why is general relativity so weird?
2. And how do you explain turbulence?

Heisenberg claimed he was certain God would know the answer to the first question, but not so the second. This is from the man who, as author of much of quantum mechanics—including the Uncertainty Principal that bears his name—was arguably as familiar with bizarre physical systems as anyone. To him, however, turbulence went beyond weird into the realm of inexplicable. It’s not a deterministic system. In other words, try to predict the movement of a grain of sand moving through a water pipe, and it quickly becomes apparent that there are no discernible physical laws guiding it. Such is the case no matter how precisely one models the imperfections in the pipe, the weight and dimensions of the grain of sand, the flow and pressure of the water, and all other possible variables.

Weather, too—which has been modeled with as much precision as is humanly possible—is another chaotic system. Climate simulations that measure the precise interactions of thousands of variables, including geothermal, solar, air current, tidal and others, have done little to accurately forecast weather more than two to three days into the future. In fact, time and time again, such simulations have predicted that the earth will freeze over and remain in that condition. Why? In the course of its normal range of climate variability, the earth will eventually receive an unusually high amount of snowfall, which will deflect the sun’s rays and lead to a cycle of even greater precipitation and falling temperatures. Yet, experience teaches us that there are moderating influences directing changes in climate that we don’t understand.

The same lack of predictability is true of growth. After inception, the subsequent division of the fertilized cell first resulting in a zygote, then an embryo, then a baby, is a chaotic process that is subject to great variability. This variability can’t be understood by referencing known physical laws—including DNA replication or even the probabilities associated with quantum fluctuations. Like weather, growth can’t be simulated in a computer, no matter how sophisticated the program. That’s just my opinion.

I suppose in the end, Tipler’s book contributes to a debate that the writings of Plato and Aristotle first introduced. Do we have souls independent of our bodies as Plato claimed? Or are our souls simply the actuality of our bodies as is the opinion of Aristotle? These are perhaps more examples of questions that can only be answered on an individual level through a leap of faith. Like I said earlier, Tipler’s book is intriguing, but it doesn’t reduce the uncertainty of life after death. Maybe uncertainty was always meant to be.

The Courageous Thing To Do

During my last year at Lehman Brothers, I wrote the following short story that appeared in Razorfish, a now defunct literary journal. Please don't think of this as autobiographical, but when I read it today, it speaks volumes about my mindset at the time.

I hold the birthday gift my wife gave me: star-spangled red, white, and blue boxer shorts with the inexplicable picture of a bulldog on the front. Earlier Beth convinced me to model the garment, promising with a wink to chase the kids out of the house. I did as she suggested and stepped upstairs, naked but for the patriotic underwear, and posing like Atlas. That’s when a crowd of our neighbors leaped from behind the living room furniture and yelled, “Surprise!”

Surprise? More like shock—more like a heart attack. My father, who was decidedly blue-collar in his choice of vocation and amusements, used to describe his moments of astonishment by saying, “I could’ve shit.” Suddenly the phrase made sense to me.
Then something on the coffee table caught my eye. It was a pile of wrapped packages waiting to be opened. I left to get dressed and returned to a chorus of birthday congratulations, a cake, and presents. My favorite gift (other than the bulldog underwear, of course) is a bottle of Chinese folk medicine purchased by my best friend, a lawyer who travels to Asia on business. The label has this inscription: Sea Horse Gonads—For Genital Strength and Energy. The accompanying card includes a poem written in his neat cursive script.

Hey there, Gary, you’re over-the-hill.
So we suggest you take this pill.
Sea horse gonads really hit the spot.
They make you amorous (and that means hot).

No need for Viagra with a bottle of these.
You’ll be transformed—more able to please.
Be careful though, Gary, there’s a lot in store.
Don’t hurt yourself, when Beth asks for more.

The guests are gone now and the house is still. I’m forty-five-years old and sitting in the room that serves as my personal study. Life is good, I tell myself (hasn’t the evening been proof of that?) and I repeat the phrase while opening a cedar box in my lap. To the hodgepodge of keepsakes inside, I add my new underwear, when the temptation to relive old memories causes me to search among the items.
There are various awards and certificates, the first baseball I ever knocked out of a little league park, a ten-year old photograph of Beth napping with our three daughters, and several diplomas. A folder, however, causes me to take pause. It contains the product of my earliest aspirations, a nearly forgotten collection of music I composed in high school.
The first piece is a motet. I study it and hear the music in my head. It begins with a tenor solo, Gregorian in simplicity and style, before the other voices emerge like the weave in a tapestry of sound. The words are from Proverbs: With all thy getting get understanding. In the pensive minor chords are occasional hints at resolution, but it builds in a way that fills me with longing. Eager to see how it plays out, I turn to yet another page, but the notation ends unfinished.
Disappointment smacks me head-on. How had I meant the composition to end? Should it, to its final measure, be a melancholy reflection on human understanding? Or might it reach a point of inflection, a magical change from minor to major key that offers a determined ray of hope?
I am still musing over the question, when Beth appears and asks if I’m coming to bed. She leans against the doorjamb, wearing a kimono that she opens to expose her breasts and flat belly. Her real present, she says, is ready for unwrapping. I put the box away, but tuck the folder under my arm and go downstairs. Life is good, I tell myself again, but it’s a personal affirmation rather than a statement of fact. If life is so good, why do I sometimes wish I was dead?

###

Shadrach, my twelve-year old black lab, wakes me in the morning. He makes a noise that is equal parts woof and a drawn out whine, his endearing attempt to produce human speech. I ignore him, but he lays his head on the edge of my pillow and breathes on my face. Except for his confusion over daylight savings, the dog is an uncanny keeper of time and infinitely more persistent than the best snooze button. I rise, knowing he’ll be on the bed otherwise.
While I put on shorts and running shoes, the dog waits with his head on his paws. He stands as I emerge from the bathroom, and bounds upstairs to the front door. Our house, a six-bedroom Tudor, sits on the Connecticut coast with an unobstructed view of the sea. We cut through the garden past the greenhouse and pool, and run to the beach.
Forty minutes later the sky is still dark, but we’ve been to the marina and back. Beth is in the kitchen now, fixing lunches for our girls. She talks to Shadrach in a way meant for babies and feeds him a slice of lunchmeat. Though I’m perspiring, she kisses me and asks about my run. Her dark hair is wet from her shower, but she’s beautiful. I could stay here forever, even if work wasn’t my alternative.
A limousine, however, arrives just as I finish getting dressed. I holler goodbye to my girls, step into the car, and grasp the folder of music from my satchel. The driver knows I prefer quiet and doesn’t speak. He closes the door behind me, and soon we’re on the narrow road leading to I-95 and the city. While we travel, I study my unfinished motet and decide it should end in a resolute, albeit subdued, manner. I hear the last shining chord, but a logical transition eludes me. Before I can consider options, the phone rings.
It’s Awano, the head of fixed income in Tokyo, and I know what he wants. We’ve talked about little else in two days. A trade I endorsed, one we call the “kitchen sink” deal, has soured. It’s backed by a pool of our old inventory—mortgage derivatives mostly—that we couldn’t unload any other way. Despite its single-A rating, it has lost a boatload of value. From my perspective, however, the deal was a runaway success. We disposed of the paper before the problems arose.
Awano wants to know where the deal is trading and I tell him we had a bid of 80 for it yesterday, but today, who knows?
“80?” he says. “Shinwa can’t take that kind of loss.”
“Well, it’s not our fault.” I allow exasperation to seep into my voice. “You got to know how to tread water before jumping into the deep end.”
“But can’t we cut him a break? The guy’s been a good client, and he didn’t understand the trade. Hell, listen to the marketing material: A duration-neutral combination of IOs, POs, inverses, and Treasury options. I’m not sure I understand it, either.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Can’t we buy him out at par?”
I allow a moment of silence to pass and let the man sweat in his own juices. “Sure, Awano. And let’s take the difference out of your bonus.”
My words have their intended effect. The man sounds beaten and offers a last argument that comes out like a whine. “But he’s threatening to take legal action,” he says.
“I don’t give a damn. It’s your job to keep that from happening. So don’t call me again, until you’ve fixed the problem.”
I hang up the phone and take a deep breath. My driver doesn’t look back or even glance in the rearview mirror. Awano, I tell myself, is a smart man. There are a dozen things he can do. (I know, because for three years I worked in Tokyo and was a party to them all). He might, for example, exchange the paper for a Cayman Island trust, hide the loss by taking advantage of lax Japanese accounting standards, and engage the client in risky trades to recoup. If that doesn’t work, another opportunity will fall into Awano’s lap. Behind every problem is a profitable solution. He’ll figure that out and thank me later.

###
I’m on the trading floor during the calm before the storm. The market hasn’t opened yet and the squawk boxes are silent. The expanse is filled with hushed phone conversations and the hum of computer screens. Traders and salespeople are conferring with their clients, checking out the firm’s inventory, and studying our research. They’re getting a sense for how the day will shape up and formulating the sales talk they’ll use to push our offerings.
I walk past the commercial paper and mortgage desks, and unlock the door to my office. A hundred eyes watch me step inside, and I know what people are saying behind my back. Occasionally they express their feelings directly—like last month, for instance, when I laid off sixty of their colleagues. Bastard was the epithet of choice then.
That’s fine, because since I began managing the firm three years ago, our stock price—and the perquisite shares I was given—have quadrupled in value. That doesn’t occur by chance, or by winning popularity contests, either. It happens when a man knows what he wants and is driven by achievement. As for me, I abide by a single notion. There’s only one excuse in life: I didn’t want it badly enough.
Based upon our success, you might assume deal volume has increased, but that’s not the case. Investment banking is a competitive business and you can’t gain market share without buying it. The fact is I don’t care about league tables, those high-brow measures of banking prowess. You can’t eat that kind of prestige. Cash is all that matters to me.
What I have done is pay attention to how our results look on paper. I’ve cut loose a quarter of our people, sold off the retail unit, and focused on a handful of strategically connected businesses. We’ve incurred restructuring costs—no doubt about that—but they’ve been small compared to the savings in our bonus pool. And I learned long ago that on Wall Street a man’s future is determined by how well he slices the pie.
That’s why I’ve changed the way we compensate people. Today, everybody gets a third of their bonuses paid out in stock, but here’s the catch: the shares don’t begin to vest for three years. We say it’s to insure behavior beneficial to the long-term interests of the firm—a compelling half-truth—but even I see the irony. While the company’s capital base grows, our long-term interest in people diminishes. We jettison even good employees and pocket the value of their compensation not vested. It’s a course I hesitate to take, but the courageous thing to do.
These thoughts are at play in my head for a reason. Our bonus pool is skinny this year and my compensation interviews will begin in a few hours. I sit down at my desk, having already determined who among our employees we can afford to lose. For those on the list I’m cutting pay. I plan to take their verbal abuse, then suggest they find work elsewhere if that’s how they feel. We sacrifice the weak in order to retain the strong. Isn’t that what nature teaches us?

###

My first meeting is with Greg Emissary, the head of our government desk. Greg usually does a good job, but he was on the wrong side of a bet when the Fed raised interest rates earlier this year. He’s been working himself out of a hole ever since.
Six years ago he joined us to trade the belly of the curve—that’s what we call seven to ten year Treasuries. It’s tough work with a lot of action. Every couple of seconds someone asks for a bid or offer, and while you hope to make a half-tick on each trade, you struggle to keep your position hedged. The work will frazzle you, but Greg keeps his cool.
After his first day on the job, a few of us took him to dinner and one of the guys inquired about the name Emissary. Greg said it was Polish, but a corrupted version of the way it’s pronounced in the old country.
“So, you’re a Pollack, huh?” someone said.
Greg laughed and asked if we knew how a fellow of Polish descent pulled up his socks. Before anyone could speak, he dropped his trousers—even let them hit the floor—then bent to give his stockings a tug. He did this in the middle of a crowded bar, wearing briefs for God’s sake. It was hilarious.
Now Greg walks into my office and he has the springy gait and physical size of a linebacker. He used to play football for Stanford, but who on my trading floor didn’t play ball? I motion for Greg to sit and his dark eyebrows furrow. His mouth forms a taut line across his face. People don’t smile in my presence. It’s an occupational hazard.
He takes a seat and I don’t waste any time. I slide a sheet of paper toward him and there’s a number on it. Salaries on Wall Street are designed to keep you hungry, so we all work for what comes at yearend. When a trader dreams of leaving the street, it’s the number of bonuses—not the years of work—he counts before making a getaway. Greg takes the paper. He looks up and his face is impassive.
“You seem to be missing a zero,” he says.
“I’m afraid not.”

He shakes his head and I wonder: If it came to blows, could I take him? All I know is it would be a good fight, one plenty of folks would pay to watch. They would root for Greg, of course, but that’s okay. Being liked isn’t everything. Someone has to take a stand and create value. Someone has to do the courageous thing.
“What am I supposed to take away from this?” he asks.
“No particular message. It was a tough year for us. You might do better elsewhere, but that’s for you to decide.”
I can guess what he’s thinking: A whole year wasted. But Greg doesn’t say a word. He only stands and walks out. The guy will be missed, I tell myself. Hell, I’ll miss him, and my stomach turns at the thought of another empty seat on the floor.
A minute later I hear a knock and Marta Calloway enters. Marta is the head of research. She’s lean and lanky—a redhead with startling green eyes. I hand a paper to her and she smiles. “Are you staying in the city tonight?” she asks.
I nod.
“Where did you say your place was?”
The address spills off my tongue as I get a key from my desk and toss it to her.

###
That evening I go to my loft in Chelsea, a place I rent for the nights work keeps me late. I open the door—unsure of what awaits me there—and the scent of Chinese takeout wafts from inside. In the time it takes to slip off my jacket, Marta emerges from the bathroom dressed in a cotton bathrobe. She fidgets for a moment, then motions me to the breakfast nook where there are cartons of food.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” she says.
We sit together and I recall an anecdote regarding the inhabitants of heaven and hell. In both places a daily banquet is prepared and served with eating utensils that are six feet long. While the devil’s minions are frustrated by their predicament, angels in paradise feed each other and leave the banquet satisfied. That’s the difference between the two worlds: It’s in the way people react to them. I try to keep that in mind as Marta grasps a pair of chopsticks and lifts a bite of lemon chicken in my direction. I take it in my mouth, when a dizzy mix of desire and guilt passes through me. If you’re smart, I tell myself, you’ll back out now.
But how can I do that?
“I hear you’ll be writing a new emerging market piece,” I say, hoping the nervousness in my voice isn’t apparent.
Marta chuckles. “You heard wrong then. That’s not a priority for me.”
“Maybe it ought to be. It could generate business. We have inventory to unload.”
“Then why don’t you write it?”
Marta feigns haughtiness. She rests a fist on her hip and inserts her chopsticks into a carton, letting them protrude from the mu shu pork like hands on a clock. I pick up the utensils and rest them across the container. In Japan, I tell her, placing chopsticks upright in food is taboo and tolerated only at funerals.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because it invites spirits of the dead to eat.”
Marta rolls her eyes and says in an almost breathless way, “Shit, Gary. This is Chinese food. Will you relax?” She extends a hand to loosen my tie, then her eyes seem to lose focus. She touches my chest and her fingers work to unbutton my shirt.
I don’t love Marta. In fact, I’m not even sure I like her, but adrenaline clouds my judgment. Seeing her here for the first time is akin to closing a high-profile deal. The secretive glances that led to this moment—the intimate disclosures and weeks of waffling and acquiescing—were titillating beyond measure, but nothing compared to the feeling of power that flows over me now. I pull on the terrycloth tie at her waist and reach inside her robe. She shudders and scoots toward me.
You’re almost mine now, I think. I’m going to own you.
We shower together before tumbling into bed, a tangle of limbs and tongues. At first I’m lost in lust and free of guilt, but all too soon an inexplicable moment arrives and my most urgent desire becomes my deepest revulsion. I roll off of Marta, but she clings to me and immediately falls asleep. With all thy getting get understanding. The motet plays in my head as I stare at the ceiling, but the tortured sound defies reconciliation.

###
I’m up before sunrise, trying not to make a noise. Marta is still asleep—one of her long legs stretched over the covers and arms akimbo. She’s on her back, vulnerable and owned. Through the dim light and thin blankets I can see her every contour. How many times have I imagined this scene and been aroused by it? Yet no such feeling possesses me now. I get ready for the day and leave without speaking.
From the office I call my wife and her surprise is obvious. “Is something wrong?” she asks.
Beth’s question is disarming and leaves me at a loss for words. The truth is too difficult to relate—that I need to hear her voice and know I haven’t put an end to something dear between us—so I lie. “There’s a message here on my desk,” I say. “The handwriting is illegible. Was it you who called?”
“No, Baby,” she says and laughs. “I know better than that.”
Her answer bruises me and I ask what she meant by it.
“Come on, Gary. You’re busy. We all know that. There’s no criticism in what I say. It’s just how things are.”
I allow too much time to pass without a reply, unsure if I can handle the conversation.
“Are you okay?” Beth asks.
“Just bummed about being a year older, I guess.”
“Uh huh. And bonus season doesn’t help. The decisions you have to make—all those people and their families to consider—it can’t be fun.”
I close my eyes and tell Beth that something has come up. I hang up the phone and swivel in my chair. Beyond my office window the Hudson River passes thirty stories below me. Lady Liberty is to my left in the distance. I gaze across the water into New Jersey, puzzled by words that escape my lips.
“It’s the courageous thing to do, Beth.”

###

That evening it’s nearly eleven-thirty when the driver pulls into my driveway. I step through the door and Shadrach meets me there, head lowered, his eyes half-closed and tail wagging. These are the expressions he reserves for me, his way of paying homage to the alpha male.
“I love you, too,” I say and mean it.
Beth is sitting in an armchair. Her head is back and she’s asleep with a magazine in her lap. She stirs and smiles when I kiss her cheek.
“I thought you might’ve stayed in the city again,” she says.
The idea had occurred to me, but I’ve been craving what’s here at home, a refuge away from the chaos. On bad days, I long to hold Beth. She’s a rare source of comfort and solace. I stoop to hug her, and she seems to sense my need.
“Bonus season,” she says. “It takes a lot out of you, doesn’t it?”
Her words sting for their tenderness, and I know I’ll be crushed if Beth ever learns of my infidelity. She’ll think I don’t adore her, but the truth is more complicated. On the trading floor cold logic and adrenaline guide me. I sever feeling from conduct, never allowing one to clash with the other. It’s the only way I can survive at work. Yet here and now I honor the sanctity of our marriage, and across a battlefield in my heart everything I believe observes all that I’ve done and grieves.
My wife rises to get a plate of dinner from the refrigerator and set it in the microwave. We talk briefly about the kids (they’ll all make honor roll again) then Beth apologizes, saying she’s helping at school tomorrow and needs to rest. She heads downstairs just as the microwave beeps. I get the food—roast chicken, wild rice, and red potatoes—and sit down to eat.
Shadrach joins me at the table and rests his head on my knee. I give him a piece of chicken that he gobbles without chewing. The dog, I recall, accompanied us to Tokyo when the firm transferred me there. He tolerated the two-week quarantine and the dearth of leash-free walks. The whole time he never drank from standing rainwater (aware, I suppose, of pollutants washed out of the city sky) and I felt sorry for him. That was long ago, but I haven’t forgotten a promise I made—that we would give him daily walks on the beach once we returned home.
I decide to treat Shadrach to a midnight run and change into sweats. Outside, the moon is full and it lights the trail ahead of us. We race along the ridge overlooking the water and New York in the distance. I try not to think about work, and my unfinished motet comes to mind. Suddenly I’m humming all the notes to the final tight chord and the words fill my head. With all thy getting get understanding. Various transitions occur to me, but I like one in particular. The alto line retains the minor third that gives the piece its angst. Then as if by a strange alchemy, the final syllable is reached and the alto part resolves to the base note. It’s subtle, yet grand.
I’m so caught up in the music, that I almost miss the fact that Shadrach is no longer beside me. I turn, and the dog is a few yards back squatting below the rim of a steep rise and facing downhill with his tail extended. He drops a round turd. It’s firm and rolls between his legs past him. Even in the dim light I can see Shadrach’s reaction. His eyes brighten in a way that seem to say: It’s alive! He gives chase, but before taking the dung into his mouth, he sneezes and turns away.
I begin to laugh, and the sound of it is swallowed up by the surf. Suddenly I realize how alike we are, Shadrach and I: We’ve both been led astray by the crap of our own making. My laughter turns to a groan, and I fall to my knees and cover my eyes.
Once I believed work and home were separate worlds, and I could pass through one without conveying its taint to the other. But how can I believe that now, when the music of life is all but snuffed out of me—when each day is tolerable only with its dose of adrenaline? Understanding finally comes, but there’s no resolution, no shining and resonant chord. There’s only the taste of bile in my mouth and a war in my chest, everything I believe finally clashing with all that I’ve done.