Awaking in the middle of a
prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together,
Clinton had no need to be told that the hangover was again upon him. He
felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of time, for
the especial purpose of holding another conference with the messenger dispatched
to him through Hillary’s intervention. He slowly pulled back the covers,
unsure what occupant he would discover, spied Monica, and let out a yelp.
Monica leapt out of bed and stared back at him, crying out “What’s the
matter with you?”
Clinton stared at her,
waiting for her to become someone else. “Is it you? Is it really you? Is
it...JUST you?”
“Of course it’s really
me,” Monica answered, puzzled at his lack of recognition.
“You’re not going to change
into someone else, are you?”
Monica thought about that
a second. She considered changing into any number of people before answering
“No one in particular. Are you okay?”
Clinton decided not to
clue her in to his evening’s activities. “It’s nothing, nothing, just a
bad dream. I’m sorry.”
Monica rubbed her eyes
and looked at the clock. “Well, it’s just about time to get up anyway,”
she said while merrily kissing him on the cheek. “Next time, can you think
of a more gentle way to wake me up?”
Clinton watched from the
bed as she went through her morning ablutions. “Got a case today?”
“In front of the judge,”
said Monica, standing in front of her closet, deciding on the proper killer
attire. “Defending a deadbeat dad, as a matter of fact. How’s that for
Karma? On Valentines Day.”
On that, she reached into
her coat pocket, removed a Valentine, and handed it to Clinton. He smiled,
started opening it, then realized he had nothing with which to reciprocate.
“Oh, darn I, look, there weren’t any card shops, okay? You saw what I was
like when I got here. I couldn’t remember my name...”
Kissing him on the forehead,
Monica said “It’s all right. You weren’t prepared. Get me one, okay? You’ve
got the whole day.”
Clinton looked at her
with total respect, thinking maybe he’d get her more than a card or flowers.
Maybe he’d splurge on a new dress, though the last time he did that it
really got him in trouble. He started thinking of all the gifts they had
gotten each other. “I guess I still feel weird giving you things,” he finally
admitted. “Jesus, I tried to do something nice like help you get a job,
which I did not have to do, and even that blew up in my face.”
“Not as much as you blew
up in my face.” replied Monica.
Clinton did not laugh.
“My God,” he said, “when did it happen? You’ve changed from a nice little
intern to a talk show host.”
“All thanks to you, Bill.
Believe me, if I’d gotten my law degree before I met you, things
would have turned out different.”
“Nobody ever gave you enough credit,” he complimented.
“Like that tie thing. It was brilliant.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, you never gave
me a tie, and you certainly never told me that if you saw me wearing it
on TV, you’d know I was thinking of you. You were just watching TV, you
pointed to a tie that I happened to be wearing, and you made up this beautiful
romantic fantasy, that I was sending you secret messages, that we were
fated to be together.”
“And it turned out to
be true,” she said, planting him another smacker.
“That’s beside the point.
You’re remarkable. A true romantic. I don’t deserve someone as good as
you.”
“Now THAT’S the truth,”
she said. “I know you just come here for legal advice.”
Clinton did not want to
be reminded. “That’s right. The lawsuit. I wasn’t thinking about it at
all, honestly. What a pain. I can’t seem to go a year without being sued
for some damn thing or another. This one’s ridiculous. You don’t think
they have a case, do you?”
“Well, we’ll see, but
it really doesn’t matter. You should know that by now. All it takes is
accusations and innuendo. You’re a perfect target. Still, honey, you could
make this all go away by just hiring some waiters.”
“They wouldn’t look good
in the costumes. You know, this case really pisses me off, more than the
others. This isn’t just my word vs. somebody else, this is a matter of
principle. How can it be illegal to create a heterosexual atmosphere? Why
does every place have to be for everybody? I don’t hire cripples or ugly
people either. Why don’t they sue?”
“Don’t worry, sweetie.
Just hire one ugly crippled man and you’re safe.”
“That’s your official
legal advice?”
“Unless you want me to
fight it. Then I say give ‘em hell. In the meantime, I’m deposing the guy
today but you don’t have to be there, so go back to sleep. You’re making
me late.”
Clinton grumbled and rolled
over. Monica blew him a kiss and flew out the door. Exhausted, Clinton
fell back asleep till noon.
He awoke with a startle, jumped out of bed and
got dressed. Putting Monica’s Valentine in his coat pocket, he was surprised
to find something loose at the bottom of the pocket. He pulled it out.
Confetti from his five-year-old birthday party.
What time did Hillary
say the second spirit was due? He wasn’t sure, maybe one or two that afternoon.
What to do till then? To work.
Hooters was packed with
the lunch crowd. Clinton fought his way behind the bar, walked to the refrigerator,
opened it, and took out a raw egg. He checked his watch, snapped his fingers,
then walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a healthy shot of
very fine whiskey. He broke the egg into the whiskey, added a few drops
of Tabasco, downed it in one gulp, then shook his head violently. “Mmmmm,”
he declared to the room. “Breakfast.”
He left the bar and headed
for the grotto, checking his watch again, looking around the place, finding
nothing unusual, beginning to wonder what form this new specter would take.
He wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance, and
did not wish to be taken by surprise.
Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was
not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when one o’clock
came and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling.
Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came.
All this time, he sat in his grotto watching the crowd thin out, more alarming
than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to stop them, even if he were
to, at that very moment, spontaneously combust. However, he began to think
- as you or I would have thought at first; for it is always the person
not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and
would unquestionably have done it too - at last, I say, he began to think
that the source and secret of this malaise might be lack of alcohol. This
idea taking full possession of his mind, he considered getting up and shuffling
back towards the bar, but he stayed put, paranoid as can be, jumping at
every strange sound.
Gentlemen of the free-and-easy
sort, who pride themselves on being acquainted with a move or two, express
the wide range of their capacity for adventure by observing that they are
good for anything from football to manslaughter; between which opposite
extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and comprehensive range
of subjects. So I don’t mind calling on you to believe that Clinton was
ready for a good broad field of strange appearances, and that nothing between
a carrot and rhinoceros would have astonished him very much.
He closed his eyes to
enjoy the buzz from breakfast. When he opened them he found the room had
undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling of the grotto
were so hung with living green, that it looked like a rainforest; from
every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves
of ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been
scattered there. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were
turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs,
long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters,
red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears,
and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious
steam.
Somewhere, between the
music and constant rustle of the busboys, he heard a baby crying. He searched
till it got louder, then quiet again. He sat back on a log in the grotto,
oblivious to the little baby cherub sitting on one of the branches on the
log, who loudly exclaimed “Hey, watch it, bub.”
Clinton looked around
to see if anyone else noticed. They didn’t. He looked at the baby with
resignation. “Are you talking to me?”
“I don’t see anyone else
here,” answered the Cherub in its best DeNiro. “Who the hell do you think
I’m talkin’ to?”
“There are lots of other
people here,” said Clinton. “There, look at that guy. Go bother him.”
“Piss off,” replied the
Cherub.
“Now you see?” said Clinton
“You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Like what?”
“You’re just a baby. You
shouldn’t be swearing.”
“Idiot! I’m a baby. I
shouldn’t be talking, period. You should know me better, man.” At that,
the Cherub stood up, stretched out its wings, and began fluttering around
Clinton’s head.
“And you definitely shouldn’t
be flying,” said Clinton, dreaming of another egg shot.
“Hey, bud, snap out of
it. I’m a cherub. We fly.”
“Well fly back to Cherubville,
or wherever you came from.”
“Sorry, toots, we got
some visiting to do. Come with me.”
Clinton had had enough.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ve had a bad night and I had a bad morning,
I just got here, and I’ve only had one egg to eat all day. You want me
to go somewhere, you gotta zap me there.”
The Cherub got agitated
at this, giving Clinton a poke on the nose. “Okay, shut up and listen.
I’m the Ghost of Valentines present. Look upon me.”
Clinton reverently did
so. It was a naked baby with wings, cute as a button, though I don’t mean
to say, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly cute about a button.
“Haven’t you been paying
attention?” asked the Cherub. “Three ghosts. Three. I’m number two. You
have never seen the like of me before.”
“Please go away.”
The Cherub pulled out
a bow and arrow from God knows where and aimed at Clinton. “You want I
should give you one through the heart? It’s pretty painful.”
“Hey, come on now, put
that thing away. You could hurt someone.”
“That’s the point. Love
hurts, or haven’t you noticed?” The Cherub flew towards the front door.
“You coming?”
Clinton resigned himself
to his fate, got up and followed the Cherub through the front door.
They stood in the city streets on Valentines Day
afternoon, where everyone was jovial and full of glee, laughing heartily
at the joy of existence. A happy couple went by on a bicycle. Was that
“Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head” that he heard gently in the background,
the sun refracting through the leaves of the trees? Yes. Another couple
walked by, kissing each other while walking their dogs, cross-fading into
another couple smooching while eating lunch in a grand manner at a fancy
hotel. Floating above the beach at Santa Monica, he saw joyous joggers
blowing kisses at each other. Materializing at the carousel in Griffith
Park, he was made to witness couples French kissing in public. It was as
though the whole world were in love, not a care in the world. With a gasp
of horror, Clinton realized what was happening. He was trapped in a love
montage, one of those sickening homages to innocence that the French were
so good at. He recognized that last scene from A Man and a Woman, and what
was this? Mozart and a couple in a boat? Elvira Madigan.
“Why are you showing me
this?” asked Clinton. “It’s making me sick.”
“Love makes you sick?”
“You call this love? These
people all look braindead. I bet they call each other honeybunch. Why does
everyone behave like an idiot when they’re acting in the name of love?”
“There are some upon this
earth of yours,” returned the Spirit,” who lay claim to know us, and who
do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and
selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all our kith and
kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings
on themselves, not us.”
“Huh?,” said Clinton.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Anyway, what you just showed me was pretty
cliché, not to mention pathetic.”
“I guess this is more
like your style,” said the Cherub.
And Clinton found himself
in a cheesy porno house, surrounded by leather costumes and chains, dildos
and love potions, videos and magazines, sex toys of the oddest and curiously
satisfying persuasion, all augmented by a smell beyond comprehension, a
vile mixture of Lysol and bodily fluids. He walked towards the back, through
a dimly lit hallway, the Cherub fluttering about. On either side of the
hallway, there were booths where a man of little means could deposit a
quarter for three minutes of a film or an actual live woman.
“Well I’ve got to say
that this is the most delightful place I’ve been all week,” Clinton said
to the Cherub. “Come here often?”
The Cherub opened a door,
inviting Clinton to enter. “Oh, we’re going in, are we?” Clinton hesitated
before stepping forward. “Well, it’s your quarter.”
The booth was small, just
big enough for a man and a cherub. The Cherub took out a quarter from God
knows where and deposited it in the receptacle protruding from beneath
a small glass window. A partition on the other side of the window went
up and Clinton looked through. Inside was a single naked woman dancing
in front of ten little windows surrounding her. She was three windows away
and closing in. Clinton watched with mild curiosity, then turned to the
cherub. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you sure they can’t see you? Because
I can hear it now: ‘Warning, there’s a man with a cherub in booth two...’”
With a sudden click, the
window closed. Clinton quickly peeked at the blocked window, then turned
on the Cherub. “Wait a minute, I didn’t even see her.” He searched his
pockets. “Got another quarter?”
The Cherub happily obliged.
The partition opened and the dancer was now right up to the window, displaying
her bounty to the world. After moments of serious perusal below the neck,
Clinton finally got a glimpse of the dancer’s face. “Isn’t that one of
those girls I auditioned yesterday?” he asked.
“Sadie,” answered the
Cherub.
“Yeah, she was cute.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“Why didn’t you hire her?”
“You want me to say it?”
“Go ahead. Let it out.”
“Her tits weren’t big
enough, okay? I know what my customers want. After all, the place IS called
Hooters.”
“They want what you give
them. Look at her. Think she deserves to be in a place like this?”
“Puh-leeze, are you trying
to blame me for this woman’s condition? I can’t hire everybody. If I had
hired her instead of the one with the big tits, the one with the big tits
would have ended up in here. Same difference. This is really lame. Next!”
And perhaps it was the
pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else
it was his own mischievous nature, that led him straight to a pawn shop
as who should enter but Clinton’s ex-assistant, Bob Crotchet.
“You take me to the nicest
places,” Clinton told the Cherub. “This is breaking my heart.”
Crotchet stepped up to
the counter, took off his watch, and handed it to the clerk, saying “How
much for this?”
“Hey, I gave him that,”
Clinton remarked.
The clerk examined the
watch and declared it a fake. “That can’t be,” said Crotchet, but the clerk
pointed out that it was not a real Rolex but a knockoff.
“Oh shit,” said Clinton.
“I guess this one really IS my fault.”
“You’re kidding me,” Crotchet
said softly. “That bastard. You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” said the
clerk. “Couldn’t give you any more than $20.”
“What?” Clinton was outraged.
“Don’t take it. It may have been a knockoff, but it was an expensive knockoff.”
“God, I need a lot more
than that,” said Crotchet, considering his alternatives.
The clerk uttered his
standard “Take it or leave it.” Crotchet took the $20 and shuffled out
of the shop.
Clinton and the Cherub followed him to a card store
where he sadly searched through the Valentine cards, buying two with fabulous
frills. The strange duo, man and itty-bitty baby, followed as Crotchet
got in his car, drove off, then pulled up to a ramshackle house in a bad
neighborhood. He walked up to the front door, considered knocking, then
thought better of it. Leaving the Valentine tucked into the front door,
Crotchet got back in his car, and stopped for groceries before heading
home.
With Clinton and the cherub
invisible by his side, Crotchet entered his small bachelor apartment with
a bag from the store. “Okay,” said Clinton, “let’s see that family I’ve
heard so much about.” Crotchet headed for the kitchen where he unpacked
a frozen dinner, which he placed in the microwave. Looking around, he cried
out “Tiny Tim? Tiny Tim, where are you?”
Before Clinton’s startled
eyes, in hobbled a three-legged dog, a mutt, a cross between a poodle and
a Pekinese with a hint of terrier, which Crotchet picked up and cuddled,
saying “Hello sweetness. How’s my little Peke-a-poo? Daddy got fired today,
yes he did. But I’ve got something special for you.”
Crotchet pulled out a
Valentine. “This is for you,” he said to the dog. “Would you like me to
open it for you?”
Tiny Tim barked.
“Yes, yes, of course you
do.” He opened the card and started reading. “For a very special dog on
Valentines Day. Here’s to days that can’t be merrier, even though you’re
just a terrier, to make this Valentine complete, here’s a special bag of
meat.” At that, Crotchet pulled a package of fresh chicken livers out of
his bag, opened it, and put it on the floor. Then he settled down for an
evening of television.
“Spirit,” said Clinton,
with an interest he had never felt before, “What the hell happened to that
dog?”
“I see a vacant blanket,”
replied the Cherub, “in the corner, and a doggie bowl without an owner,
carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the
dog will die.”
“Who gives a shit,” said
Clinton. “I suppose you’re going to blame it on me?”
“Man,” said the Cherub,
“if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you
have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what
dog shall live, what dog shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven,
you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor
man’s dog.”
Clinton just stared. “This
is too pathetic for words,” he said to the Cherub.” What on earth did he
spend that money on? I thought at least I’d get some answers here. Once
again, Cherub, you seem to have missed the point. Why have you shown me
this? Two pathetic people whose problems really are not my fault, despite
your innuendo.”
“Hey,” said the Cherub,
“I’m a baby. This is my first assignment. Give me a break. It’s hard to
get the hang of this.”
“Try this on for size,
“ said Clinton. “How about making our next visit something the least bit
interesting.”
By this time it was getting
dark, but the heat still lay heavy upon the city; and as Clinton and the
Spirit went along the streets, the rattle of the roaring air conditioners
was awful. Suddenly, walking down the street before them, were Clinton’s
nephew and new niece. “Aww, gimme a break,” Clinton complained to the Cherub.
“Don’t make me spend more time with my family. It’s really not fair, you
know. An accident of blood. So we share some DNA, but that’s all. This
guy’s really a creep. My sister was killed in a boating accident one week
after he was born, and he was raised by his father’s family who were Presbyterians
or Mormons or one of those wacko cults. He’s brainwashed. Not a thought
in his head. My sister hated me anyway. I didn’t need her, and I don’t
need her kids.”
“You think I’m here to
take you places you WANNA go?” answered the Cherub. “Wise up, dickhead,
cause you’re missing some pieces of the puzzle.”
“What puzzle?”
“The puzzle of life, man,
don’t you get it? We’re trying to put your life together but there are
some pieces missing. I’m filling them in for you. This is vital stuff;
nobody on earth gets treatment like this. But if you don’t want the big
picture, the REALLY big picture, then I’m out of here. Who needs this?
I’m doing you a favor. Are you coming with me or not?”
“If you put it like that.
This better not be boring.”
Marion Merrybody considered
herself much too hip to be middle class, but that’s what she was. This
was her favorite day of the year, the day of her annual Valentine party,
and she greeted everyone at the door. She was more than delighted to see
Clinton’s nephew and niece at her front door, greeting them with a hearty
“The newlyweds! Welcome, welcome, glad you could come.”
Clinton and the Spirit
followed his nephew and niece into a lavish dwelling, clearly designed
by a woman with nothing better to do than spend her days decorating her
house. Her focus of the evening was the living room, which seemed the pillow
center of the universe. Pillows of every shape and size, from overstuffed
argyle monstrosities to fringe encrusted mini-pillows in the dozens. There
was no place to stumble where one’s fall would not be cushioned.
“So how long have you
two been married?” asked Marion.
“Just a week,” answered
the niece.
“Just a week. How brave
of you to attend. Do you know how it works?”
“I told her a little bit
about it,” said the nephew.
“Sounds fun,” the niece
meekly squeaked.
Ms. Merrybody pointed
to a fishbowl full of credit cards. The nephew got out his wallet, removed
a credit card, and deposited it in the bowl.
“I see you already know
the rules,” said Ms. Merrybody, leading them further into the living room,
which was happily full of couples who eyed the young couple like lions
contemplating a wounded elk, roaring out lustily.
“I don’t get it,” said
Clinton to the Cherub. “What’s going on here?”
“It’s a credit card party.”
“What’s that?”
“Only couples allowed,”
explained the Cherub. “Every man has to put a credit card in the bowl.
At the end of the evening, each woman closes her eyes, reaches in the bowl,
and goes home with the owner of the credit card.”
Clinton stared at the
Cherub with utmost incredulity. “This is the party they invited me to?
Sweet.”
“Ha, ha.” laughed Clinton’s
nephew. “Ha, ha, ha.”
If you should happen,
by any unlikely chance, to know a man more obnoxious in a laugh than Clinton’s
nephew, all I can say is, I would not like to know him too. Introduce him
to me, and I’ll cultivate your demise.
It is a fair, even-handed,
noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and
sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter
and good-humor. When Clinton’s nephew laughed in this way: holding his
sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant
contortions: Clinton’s niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he.
“And to think that my
uncle said that Valentines Day was a humbug,.” cried Clinton’s nephew.
“He believed it too.”
“What a jerk,” said Clinton’s
niece, indignantly. Bless this women; who never does anything by halves.
Here she is, prepared to bestow her body in earnest upon a stranger, all
at the behest of her husband.
She was very pretty: exceedingly
pretty. With a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little
mouth, that seemed made to be kissed -- as no doubt it was; all kinds of
good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when she
laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature’s
head. Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know;
but satisfactory, at least in the eyes of the men in the room, each and
every one of whom was imagining, at that very moment, the pleasures awaiting
the owner of the correct credit card.
“He’s a comical old fellow,”
said Clinton’s nephew, aware that everyone was always eager for gossip
of his celebrated uncle. “That’s the truth: and not so pleasant as he might
be. However, his offenses carry their own punishment, and I have nothing
to say against him.”
“I’m sure he is very self-satisfied,”
hinted Clinton’s niece. “At least you always tell me so.”
“What of that, my dear.”
said Clinton’s nephew. “His dick is of no use to him. He doesn’t do any
good with it. He doesn’t make himself comfortable with it. He hasn’t the
satisfaction of thinking -- ha, ha, ha. -- that he is ever going to benefit
us with it.”
“I have no patience with
him,” observed Clinton’s niece. Clinton’s niece’s sisters, and all the
other ladies in the room, expressed the same opinion.
“Oh, I have.” said Clinton’s
nephew. “I am sorry for him; I couldn’t be angry with him if I tried. Who
suffers by his ill whims. Himself, always. Here, he takes it into his head
to dislike us, and he won’t come and dine with us, to share his limitless
bounty of adorable women. What’s the consequence?” He looked around the
room. “Just witness the possibilities he is missing.”
“Indeed, I think he loses
a lot,” interrupted Clinton’s niece. Everybody else said the same, and
they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just
had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were amiably clustering
about the fishbowl.
“Well. I’m very glad to
hear it,” said Clinton’s nephew, noticing for the first time that many
of the men in the room clearly had their eyes upon his new bride, momentarily
causing him confusion.
“Do go on,” said Clinton’s
niece, clapping her hands. “He never finishes what he begins to say.”
“DON’T go on,” exclaimed
one drunken reveler, “unless you’re going to tell us about that stupid
lawsuit against Hooters.” This caused the room to erupt in laughter, as
one of women was heard to say “What a scumbag.”
“Hey, wait a minute,”
said the nephew, getting his dander up, “That’s my uncle you’re talking
about.”
“Clinton’s you’re uncle?”
blurted out another Partygoer. “Cool. Can you get into Hooters for free?”
At this, the nephew could
not help but to leap to his uncle’s defense. “He’s an entertainer. It’s
like he’s casting a movie. He should be able to cast whoever he wants.”
Clinton, knowing he couldn’t
be heard, still found himself shouting out “You tell ‘em, kid.”
“Great,” said another
man with a drink. “If he were casting Titanic, Pamela Anderson would have
been the chick.”
“And Drew Barrymore would
have been the guy,” someone piped in.
“The lesbian Titanic,”
declared the hostess. “I love it. Gives a whole new meaning to going down
with the ship.”
“I’d go,” said the niece.
“So would I.,” said Clinton.
“Let’s get out of here,”
said the Cherub.
“Wait a minute,” said
Clinton. “This was just getting interesting.”
But the Cherub would hear
no argument, though he was curious himself as to who would end up with
what credit card. He had an agenda to fill, transporting them in great
haste to a law firm on the 30th floor of the great triangles of Century
city, where Monica was up on a ladder, searching for a book in the law
library. Her dress was riding up as Arnold Peashooter, a young go-getter
in the firm, sneaked up behind her, his hand going up her leg.
Knowing something is futile
is no excuse for silence, so Clinton couldn’t help himself, blurting out
“Hey bud, stop that. Monica, tell him to stop that.”
She doesn’t. She likes
it, giving a slight purr, giving in to Arnold’s embrace, slipping down
the ladder into his arms.
“Okay, okay, let me out
of here,” Clinton said to the Cherub. “Knowing someone is cheating on you
is one thing. Actually watching them do it is another.”
“Look,” pointed out the
Cherub. “He’s pretty good.”
“Okay, okay, do you have
to rub my nose in it? PLEASE get me out of here.”
But the Cherub refused,
instead making them stay in the same placing, watching them make love in
fast motion, till they started conversing in the afterglow.
“So, how’s the case going?”
asked Arnold while straightening his tie.
“What case?” asked Monica.
“You know, the sex discrimination
suit, the guy who wants to work at Hooters.”
“Well Clinton wants to
settle, but the waiter won’t settle for anything but employment, which
Clinton won’t do.”
“So you’re actually going
to court with it?”
“I know, it’s loser, and
Clinton’s pretty creepy.”
“That’s not what you said
last night,” whispered Clinton in her ear.
“He does have a point,”
said Arnold. “I don’t know if I want to see some guy covered in mud while
I’m eating.”
“We get paid either way,”
Monica pointed out. “We’ll get publicity either way. Who cares.”
“Ain’t the law great?” Arnold couldn’t let it rest.
“What’s he like to work with?”
“Only got his mind on
one thing, as always.”
Clinton was astonished.
“I don’t believe this,” he said. “She really had me fooled.”
“You’re not trying to
tell me that you love her, are you?” said the cherub.
“Do you mind? You’re just
a baby. You think you know everything about love? I’m not an amateur, you
know. I’ve had my heart broken a couple of times, but I’m not going to
let this get to me. I was a good lover to her, considerate, always taking
my time...”
“In bed.”
“Of course in bed. That’s
what makes her my lover. Friends who you sleep
with are called lovers. Lovers who you don’t sleep
with are called friends, and sometimes other things that I won’t say in
front of a goddam cherub. Wouldn’t want to hurt your widdle feelings.”
“You see, that was crude
and unkind.”
“Damn right it was.”
“Just giving perspective,
like any good friend.”
“What, you think you’re
my friend? Friends make things easier. You’re not making ANYTHING any easier.
You’re making my life more complicated than it already is.”
At this point, Monica
and Arnold, having finished straightening up their clothing, left the room
in a hurry, followed closely by the Cherub and Clinton. They wound their
way through a maze of corridors, past potted palms and luxurious wallpaper,
into an office, past a secretary, and into a conference room where a meeting
was already in progress. Seated around the table were Phyllis Formout,
a straight-laced officer of the court, Noah Peel, the plaintiff, a scrawny
asexual man in his 20s, and his attorney, Anna Turney, a Gloria Allred
clone.
“Sorry I’m late,” said
Monica, throwing her briefcase on the table.
“That’s all right,” said
Ms. Formout. “We haven’t started the deposition.”
Monica settled down and
looked at the plaintiff. “Mr. Peel?”
“Yes?”
“We just have a few questions
and we’ll send you on your way.”
Clinton stared at Mr.
Peel, giving a shudder of disgust. It was an age old problem. He had hated
shower rooms all through school. Believing himself a full-hearted heterosexual,
the last thing on earth he wanted to see was another naked man, especially
in close proximity. Aside from the possibility of his getting killed in
Vietnam, his primary repugnance towards the draft involved the whole idea
of living, eating, and showering with a bunch of men. The thought of what
two men did together was totally repugnant to him, which confused his initial
response to the AIDS virus. How would you feel if you found out that there
was a deadly virus that could only be gotten by doing something that you
found repugnant? If all you had to do to prevent getting a disease was
not do something repugnant, wouldn’t you just not do the repugnant thing?
But Clinton came to realize that gay men couldn’t
help doing what they did any more than he could help doing what he did.
He learned to tolerate homosexuality, an amazing hurdle since he found
the actual practice so disgusting. He did it through a solid belief that
what people did in the privacy of their own bedrooms was nobody’s business.
After all, he realized, whatever you did in the bedroom, there would always
be someone on earth who found what you did to be disgusting. Reverend Jerry
Falwell found any sexual practice other than the missionary position between
a married couple to be deprived, depraved, and morally reprehensible. Homosexuals,
and Clinton himself, found such narrow practice of sex to be boring
beyond belief. There was no such thing as safe sex if others found out
about it. Have sex in any way, shape, or form, and there would undoubtedly
be someone somewhere who would think you were a sicko if they found out.
He knew that the only safe sex was sex that nobody found out about, a pretty
difficult proposition since it usually involved another person, and other
people were not to be trusted. That’s why “don’t ask, don’t tell” became
the policy of the armed forces, a policy Clinton firmly believed had nothing
to do with the issue before him.
“Mr. Peel,” continued
Monica. “Why do you want to work at Valentines?”
“I just needed a job,”
came the reply. “And I’ve got experience waiting tables. It seemed like
a popular place.”
“When did you become aware
that they only hired waitresses.”
“When you felt your dick
shrink when you entered the place,” piped in Clinton, getting an immediate
shush from the Cherub.
“Why? They can’t hear
me.”
“Don’t you want to hear
this? Listen in unless you want a rewind.”
Noah went on “…so I didn’t
really expect to be hired, but it I was actually quite shocked when they
refused to even accept my application.”
“What exactly did they
say when they refused you?” asked Monica.
“I believe it was ‘Sorry
sweets, you ain’t got the boobs for it.’”
“And how did you feel
about this?”
“Depressed, that’s how
I felt. I mean it’s tough enough finding work without having to worry about
the size of my boobs. I mean I haven’t got any boobs. I’m a man.”
Clinton laughed at this,
receiving another shush.
“So what did you do next?”
Noah looked sorrowfully
at his attorney, who gave him a nod. “Well, I started telling everybody,
like my roommate, because, you know, it really hurt. I mean it’s hard enough
making that relationship work, believe me, I mean who’s the man, you know?
So to be rejected by the outside world because I’m a man sort of complicated
things.” The pressure became too much and Noah started to weep. “He left
me. I’m sorry, it was just so sudden…”
“I don’t believe this,”
said Clinton.
“I don’t believe this,”
said Monica. “Move to strike.”
“It goes towards emotional
damages,” Ms. Turney threw in. “I want the court to take record of my client’s
emotional state.”
“And I want the court
to take note that he’s gay,” said Clinton.
The Cherub had had enough.
“So what?”
“So what? I run a straight
bar. Gay men turn off straight guys. It’s a fact. I can’t have this guy
serving food in my place. They’d beat the crap out of him. I’m doing him
a favor.”
“Some favor,” said the
Cherub, realizing this little visit was having the wrong effect. He decided
to move on.
It had been a long day,
if it were only a day; but Clinton had his doubts of this, because the
Valentines Day Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time
he had passed together with the spirit. It was strange, too, that while
Clinton remained unaltered in his outward form, the Cherub grew older,
clearly older. Clinton had observed this change, but never spoke of
it, until they left Monica’s office, when, looking at the Spirit as they
stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was gray, its
legs spindly, its form weak.
“Are spirits’ lives so
short.” asked Clinton.
“My life upon this globe,
is very brief,” replied the Cherub. “It ends tonight.”
“Tonight.” cried Clinton.
“Tonight at midnight.
The time is drawing near.”
The chimes were ringing
the three quarters past eleven at that moment.
Clinton felt a strange
stirring upon his left ankle, then his right, as though something were
under the cloth of his pants. “What’s going on?” asked Clinton, looking
intently at his legs.
“It might be a claw, for
the flesh there is upon it,” was the Spirit’s sorrowful reply. “Look here.”
The Cherub flew forth
and lifted the cuffs of Clintons pants, revealing two children; wretched,
abject, frightful, hideous, miserable, both unclad and humping his legs.
“Oh, Man. look here. Look, look, down here.” exclaimed the Ghost.
They were a boy and a
girl. Yellow, meager, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in
their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features
out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shriveled hand,
like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds.
Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing.
No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through
all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible
and dread.
Clinton started back,
appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were
fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties
to a lie of such enormous magnitude.
“Spirit. are they yours.”
Clinton could say no more.
“They are Man’s,” said
the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to you. This boy is
lust. This girl is depravity. Beware them both, and all of their degree,
but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which
is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it,” cried the Spirit, stretching
out its hand towards the city. “Slander those who tell it. Admit it for
your seditious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end.”
“Have they no refuge or
resource?” cried Clinton.
“Are there no brothels?”
said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. “Are
there no streetwalkers?” The bell struck twelve.
Clinton looked about him
for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he
remembered the prediction of old Hillary, and lifting up his eyes, beheld
a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground,
towards him.
