The saviors

     Yes, yes: I know there’s only one Savior. That’s why I departed from longstanding practice by not capitalizing the word in the title. But I have something in mind to which the word saviors is relevant.

     It’s about you, Gentle Reader.

* * *

     Long, long ago, for a website far away, I wrote a piece titled “A Beautiful Older Woman With A Breadbasket And A Great Big Gun.” It’s reprinted here. It was stimulated by a squib from Britain’s Daily Telegraph about the chaos and violence in Liberia in 2003. That squib quoted a Liberian woman, Fanny by name, who said this:

     "There's no food anywhere," said Fanny, a Liberian refugee who had trudged for two days to reach the stadium. "People are dying. The Americans must come. We want peace."

     Listen to Fanny once again:

     “There’s no food anywhere.”
     “People are dying.”
     “The Americans must come.”

     Suffering, tragedy… and a plea for rescue. “The Americans must come.” Had Fanny ever met an American? Perhaps, but more likely not; there aren’t many reasons for Americans to go to Liberia. But it’s plain from her words that she knew us.

     It’s commonplace to praise “the men who run to the sound of the guns:” those who dash toward danger and violence to place themselves between the victims and what threatens them. We have them among us. Just this past Friday we commemorated an atrocity, visited upon us by savages who had to steal the weapons with which to strike us, in which we lost many of them: the bravest and best members of our species. But even those of us who lack that particular response will “run” toward the sound of suffering and tragedy. We do so, not to feast upon them like vultures, but to relieve them as best we can.

* * *

     Just now there’s a lot of bad feeling among us. Political divisions, significant social pathologies, finger-pointing, even a lot of genuine suffering. Times like these incline us toward self-doubt. Paul Simon caught the flavor of it many years ago:

I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
Or driven to its knees
Oh, but it's all right, it's all right
For we've lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road we're traveling on
I wonder what's gone wrong
I can't help it, I wonder what's gone wrong

     Simon wrote that in the early Seventies, which historian Paul Johnson characterized as “America’s Suicide Effort” in Modern Times. Things didn’t look good for the U.S. back then. But we recovered. Indeed, we resumed our place as “the indispensable nation.”

     What makes us “the indispensable nation?” Why is ours the nation relied upon by other nations to maintain the peace of the world? Why do billions of human beings immediately look toward the United States of America when disaster strikes and tragedies accumulate? Why, given the general impression of Americans as brash, crude, and violent, is it our role?

     The late P.J. O’Rourke, in telling off a disparaging Englishman, leaped to the brash, crude, and violent:

     Back in London, I was having dinner in the Groucho Club—this week’s in-spot for what’s left of Britain’s lit glitz and nouveau rock riche—when one more person started in on the Stars and Stripes. Eventually he got, as the Europeans always do, to the part about “Your country’s never been invaded.” (This fellow had been two during the Blitz, you see.) “You don’t know the horror, the suffering. You think war is—”
     “A John Wayne movie,” I said. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? We think war is a John Wayne movie. We think life is a John Wayne movie—with good guys and bad guys, as simple as that. Well, you know something, Mister Limey Poofter? You’re right. And let me tell you who those bad guys are. They’re us. WE BE BAD.
     “We’re the baddest-assed sons of bitches that ever jogged in Reeboks. We’re three-quarters grizzly bear and two-thirds car wreck and descended from a stock market crash on our mother’s side. You take your Germany, France, and Spain, roll them all together and it wouldn’t give us room to park our cars. We’re the big boys, Jack, the original, giant, economy-sized, new and improved butt kickers of all time. When we snort coke in Houston, people lose their hats in Cap d’Antibes. And we’ve got an American Express card credit limit higher than your piss-ant metric numbers go.
     “You say our country’s never been invaded? You’re right, little buddy. Because I’d like to see the needle-dicked foreigners who’d have the guts to try. We drink napalm to get our hearts started in the morning. A rape and a mugging is our way of saying ‘Cheerio.’ Hell can’t hold our sock hops. We walk taller, talk louder, spit further, fuck longer, and buy more things than you know the names of. I’d rather be a junkie in a New York City jail than king, queen, and jack of all you Europeans. We eat little countries like this for breakfast and shit them out before lunch.”

     [From Holidays in Hell.]

     That’s the typical American response to being denigrated by some supercilious foreigner. We do it there, and we do it here:

     Today, during an afternoon conference that wrapped up my project of the last 18 months, one of my Euro colleagues tossed this little turd out to no one in particular:
     "See, this is why George Bush is so dumb, there’s a disaster in the world and he sends an Aircraft Carrier..."
     After which he and many of my Euro colleagues laughed out loud.
     And then they looked at me. I wasn't laughing, and neither was my Hindi friend sitting next to me, who has lost family in the disaster.
     I'm afraid I was "unprofessional", I let it loose --
     "Hmmm, let's see, what would be the ideal ship to send to a disaster, now what kind of ship would we want?
     Something with its own inexhaustible power supply?
     Something that can produce 900,000 gallons of fresh water a day from sea water?
     Something with its own airfield? So that after producing the fresh water, it could help distribute it?
     Something with 4 hospitals and lots of open space for emergency supplies?
     Something with a global communications facility to make the coordination of disaster relief in the region easier?
     Well "Franz", us peasants in America call that kind of ship an "Aircraft Carrier". We have 12 of them. How many do you have? Oh that's right, NONE. Lucky for you and the rest of the world, we are the kind of people who share. Even with people we don’t like. In fact, if memory serves, once upon a time we peasants spent a ton of money and lives rescuing people who we had once tried to kill and who tried to kill us.
     Do you know who those people were? That's right Franz, Europeans.
     There’s a French Aircraft carrier? Where is it? Right where it belongs! In France of course! Oh why should the French Navy dirty their uniforms helping people on the other side of the globe. How Simplesse...
     The day an American has to move a European out of the way to help in some part of the world it will be a great day in the world, you sniggering little f**knob..."
     The room fell silent. My Hindi friend then said quietly to the Euros:
     "Can you let your hatred of George Bush end for just one minute? There are people dying! And what are your countries doing? Amazon.com has helped more than France has. You all have a role to play in the world, why can't you see that? Thank God for the US Navy, they don’t have to come and help, but they are. They helped you once and you should all thank God they did. They didn’t have to, and no one but them would have done so. I'm ashamed of you all..."
     He left the room, shaking and in tears. The frustration of being on the other side of the globe, unable to do anything to assist and faced with people who could not set aside their asininity long enough to reach out and help was too much for him to bear. I just shook my head and left. The Euros stood speechless.

     [Written by Frank Martin of varifrank.com, after the Christmas Tsunami]

     If we stipulate that yes, we are brash, crude, and violent, then why are we considered “the indispensable nation?” Why not the more civilized Britons? Why not the more refined and artistic French? Why not those masters of overcoming tragedy after tragedy, the Russians?

     Because we are, and they’re not. Because it’s what we do.

* * *

     We’re not all heroes who “run toward the sound of the guns.” We know those men and love them. May they forever be celebrated as the very best of us. But we’re something else that’s more creditable than is usually admitted.

     Americans are the most charitable people who’ve ever existed. When we see privation or desperation, we give. Some give money; others give time and effort; still others give prayers and encourage their fellows to do the same. We give with both hands, and we never demand a reckoning or a counting-up. If we’re not bodily among those who distribute our gifts, nevertheless we’re with them in spirit.

     In 2025, American material charity from private sources amounted to over $600 billion. That was in one year. And we keep going, year after year. Human suffering and tragedy never cease, so neither do we.

     Sniggerers in other lands can say what they please about us. They don’t do what we do. Mostly, they can’t, but even the wealthiest of them come nowhere near to our generosity. Millions of faceless, nameless persons have benefited from our giving. Some are alive for no other reason.

     No, our gifts aren’t always sufficient unto the need we seek to relieve. We know that; we give anyway. We give out of hope: our own and the hopes of those in need.

     The Savior exhorted us to give. Christians are often told by their clerics to “be the hands of Christ in this world.” All those who do so, no matter the magnitude of their gifts, are saviors of a lesser order.

     Fanny knew where to find us.

Today’s Thorn In My Flesh

     Get a load of this:

I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm over escapism as fiction's driving force. It's been something of a stitch in my side for a while now.

I'm not against escapism. It's good to dream. I'm concerned that too much escapism, without the moral compulsion to pioneer what we…

— Daniel P Riley (@Misterdpriley) September 9, 2026

     Bloody hell. Just how far would I have to travel to get away from people who try to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do? Now it’s come to what I read and write. That is the veritable “crossing of the line,” the unforgivable sin.

     People read fiction for a variety of reasons, but paramount among them is the desire to step away from their real lives and cares. In other words, to escape! Escapism is at the root of all consumption of fiction. Stories about the lives and cares of fictional characters provide us with some distance from what bedevils us personally. If that temporary separation from reality brings usable insights, that’s a wonderful bonus, but the great majority of fiction readers don’t insist on that.

     A lot of fiction tells us what we already know to be true. Indeed, the reinforcement of the “eternal verities” is one of fiction’s principal services to us. The truly great storytellers all do so. But telling someone what he already knows doesn’t detract from a story’s value as a personal escape hatch.

     Some of the very worst fiction ever written is anti-escape. Those stories practically demand that the reader suffer. I have a few “classics” in mind, though I shan’t name them here. Well, all right, but just one: A Death in the Family. If you want to put a young person off reading for the rest of his life, insist that he immerse himself in that dreary exercise in grief.

     If there is a maxim every storyteller must follow, it’s this:

Give the reader
Something he cannot get
From “real life.”

     If you can’t – or won’t – do that, you have no business telling stories. No matter how literate you are, how erudite, how eloquent in print or in speech, you will not serve the reader.

     I do it by telling stories about heroes that don’t exist, places the reader can’t visit, and events so improbable that they can only occur in fiction.

     Take it from a grizzled old veteran of the Pixel Wars: that is how to make your readers love and praise you. And who knows? They might even make you wealthy and famous. But they assuredly won’t do any of that if you mire them in troubles much like the ones they read to escape.

Anniversaries

     Anniversaries pile up on us as we get older. Birthdays, wedding anniversaries, the days of our beloveds’ passings, other significant events accumulate until the calendar seems to hold nothing else. We’re chided about forgetting them, sometimes very harshly. We’re asked what we’ll do to commemorate the ones we remember.

     This whole year has been treated as an anniversary: the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, which the late Gene Burns called the birth document of our nation. In truth, it announced our political separation from the Crown of England and proclaimed the thirteen original colonies to be “free and independent states,” but that’s mostly word-mincing. George Washington led a unified army against the British, and there was little doubt that the liberated colonies would unite politically after the Revolution was won.

     But today, specifically, is an anniversary of another sort.

     I have no fresh fountain of words to spew about Black Tuesday, September 11, 2001. I’ve emitted enough verbiage on that subject over the years behind us. If you’d like to pick at some leftovers, nibble on these. I have nothing new to say about it.

     The date remains vivid in my recollection for both historical and personal reasons. I’m sure it will remain so for as long as I live.

     I lost friends on that day twenty-five years ago. Of course, many other Americans could say the same. I have no idea whether the day remains as vivid for them as it does for me. It’s a subject I’m reluctant to broach.

     Today, in this Year of Our Lord 2026, we’re not the nation we were back then. We were united, animated, energized. We were ready to put forth our power to take vengeance, to slay and spare not. We could have taught the whole would the unwisdom of striking the United States of America. We could have made it a lesson that would ring down the centuries.

     Needless to say, we didn’t. We restrained ourselves. President George W. Bush, a good man if a so-so president, limited our counterstrike to the nation that harbored the architect of the atrocity. No doubt he felt that wholesale slaughter would be morally and geopolitically wrong. I haven’t got it in me to argue with his decisions.

     But from where I sit this morning, it looks like those who struck us are winning.

     A memorial event has been scheduled for later today, at the World Trade Center site. I can’t be there, and in truth I wouldn’t attend even if I were capable. Perhaps some of my Gentle Readers will go. If so, please let me know about the mood of those that gather there. Bloodthirsty? Weary? Defeated? What and who are we today, anyway?

     And however you choose to spend the twenty-fifth anniversary of the greatest atrocity ever inflicted upon these United States of America, the day nearly three thousand American lives were ended by murderous Muslim savages in service to the most violent and primitive creed ever foisted upon men, the day that Muslims here and elsewhere were seen celebrating the deaths of our countrymen and the destruction of New York City’s proudest edifice… well, do have a nice day.

Light, Sweet, Crude

     [A short story for you today. This one is for all the men in overalls and hardhats. The ones with dirt under their fingernails. The guys who actually make things work. If they were ever to down tools and mean it, we prissy white-collar types wouldn’t survive a single winter.
     This short story first appeared at the “V2.0” site on September 11, 2024 – FWP]

---

     I’m not a typical roughneck. I look the part—I’ve got the brawn, the bruises, and the broken fingernails—but the illusion dissolves the instant I open my mouth. I can’t help that. Working class origins and all, academia can do a number on you.
     Most of my colleagues on these rigs are high school graduates at best. Not that I think less of them for that. They’re competent, sturdy, and tough. If there’s one life lesson I’ve absorbed in its fullness, it’s Take what they have to give you, and ask for nothing more.
     These guys would give their lives for one another… and for me.
     Still, I get lonely, spending month after month here with no one to play chess with, or discuss physics or philosophy with. My breaks are precious to me; they allow me to go back east and immerse myself in what I’ve been missing. Yet I’m unsure that it’s a wise practice. The semiannual week I spend at McGill is time I could have spent bonding with the guys, learning from them, and figuring out how to be one of them. Not to mention that management gives me the stink-eye for demanding the travel vouchers I need, even though they’re part of my agreed-upon compensation.
     I was contemplating staying in Calgary for a change when Colin Atwood came by the dorm with a “request” that was really a command.
     “Mike?”
     I looked up from my Kindle. “What’s up, Colin?”
     “New hire. I need someone to walk her through the procedures, make sure she knows her stuff.”
     Her?
     “You committed to going back east next week?”
     I winced. “Actually, I hadn’t decided.”
     He grinned. “Two weeks at double time if you stay and keep her from getting herself killed.”
     “Well… okay.” I set my Kindle aside, stood, and stretched. “I can use the money. Where is she?”
     He looked back over his shoulder. “Janet!”
     And in she walked.
     I don’t think I could have been more surprised. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. She was a blue-eyed blonde, barely five feet tall. She couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds. She was dressed to the nines: white linen skirt suit, high-heeled pumps, a couple of tasteful bits of gold, and perfect makeup. She looked ready for an interview with a white-collar firm, not for what we do. She was way too pretty and delicate to be a roughneck.
     She stood there smiling as if the total incongruity of her presence was a dismissible detail, a trifle.
     “Janet Kaczmarek,” Colin said, “this is Mike Pryor. Mike, Janet. Get to know each other.” He turned and made to leave. It took a lot of self control to keep my mouth shut until he’d closed the door behind him.
     She stuck out a hand. “Good to meet you.”
     We shook. “Likewise.”
     She must have sensed my puzzlement. “You really want to say ‘what the fuck are you doing here,’ right?”
     The profanity made me start. “Well, yes. Did you really apply for a gig as a roughneck?”
     “It seemed like a good opportunity. The money’s good, anyway.”
     I grimaced. “You might not think so after you’ve done some shopping in town.”
     She cocked an eyebrow. “They bleed you?”
     “They know how much we make, and besides, we’re a captive audience.”
     She sniffed. “Well, shit.”
     “Uh, yeah. I assume you’re new to oil rigs and such?”
     “New like a newborn… Mike, was it?”
     “Yeah. Well,” I said, “it’s hard, dangerous work. Pardon my saying so, but you look like you belong in a… more refined environment.”
     She shook her head. “Not with the mouth I got.”
     “Oh.”
     “That gonna be a problem around here?”
     That made me chuckle. “Janet,” I said, “that way at least, you’ll fit in better than I do. Would you like to get some dinner, meet some of the guys? The cafeteria’s actually decent.”
     She straightened, made an exaggerated turn, and stuck out an arm. “Lead the way.”
     So I did.

#

     Janet knew her stuff, all right.
     Yes, she was short. But she was tough and strong. Yes, she needed a little help wrestling with some of the big assemblies and high-torque fittings. I helped her out a few times. Okay, more than a few, but then, Colin did ask me to be her rig-rabbi. But she was game for anything and everything. Sweat and dirt didn’t faze her in the least. And the guys loved her, especially after she demonstrated that she could and would banter, josh, and swear with the best of them.
     She had qualifications for roughnecking that I lacked.
     After I was sure she had the know-how and the skills she would need, I hung back. She charged ahead in ways I hadn’t as a new hand. Before her first week was over, she was “one of the boys” in all but sex.
     More so than I was, honestly. They didn’t shun me, mind you. They just treated me a little differently than they treated one another. As if I were someone from the corporate office whose presence was unexplained. Someone who couldn’t be trusted all the way. Someone to be kept at arm’s length.
     I envied her, a little. But I didn’t let that interfere with her as she bonded with the guys. Once it was clear that she needed nothing from me, I resolved to keep my distance.
     There was one episode in the cafeteria that was noteworthy. I’d finished my lunch and was checking some commodities brokerage sites through my Kindle. Janet and the other guys were bantering back and forth, all of them more comfortable with her than they’d ever been with me. There was enough profanity in the mix to make any Navy man feel right at home. At one point she stopped, turned to me, and said “Whatcha readin’, Mike?”
     I looked up. “Futures trading website. Call contracts for the third quarter.”
     “Huh?”
     “You know, bets on whether the prices of stuff will go up or down. Stuff like what we produce.”
     “Oh.” She squinted at me. “Oil seems to have a pretty good future.”
     “It better,” Al Dumont interjected, “or we’ll be out of work.”
     “Be out of work anyway,” Chaz Engram said, “if the new field don’t turn out.”
     “Yeah.” I peered at the quote for light sweet crude. “But if it does, the bonuses are going to be very substantial.”
     Dumont snorted. “Get him. ‘Very substantial.’ Couldn’t get him to say ‘fucking huge’ if you put a gun to his head.”
     “Come on, Al,” I droned, “leave off with that crap.”
     “Oh, crap!” Dumont said. “You’re ridin’ the edge now, Mike. What’ll it take to get you to say shit?”
     I shrugged. “Maybe if I get my hand caught in a gear. Anyway, light sweet crude is at a fifty-two-week high. Whatever we pull out of this field will sell fast.”
     “Good to know,” Engram said. “I like having my bills paid.”
     “What’s light sweet crude?” Janet said.
     I looked up. She was looking directly at me.
     I started to explain the various grades of oil, but the sight of the other guys rolling their eyes at my exposition made me shut down in mid-sentence. “Anyway,” I said, “it’s what we get from this field.”
     “Gotcha,” Janet said. “Light sweet crude. I like it.”
     “Hm?”
     She stood up and pushed her chair against the table. “Give me a good look, Mike,” she said. “I’m light, right? And I know I’m crude. Sounds like this gig was made for me.”
     “Well…” I hesitated. “What about sweet?”
     She shrugged. “Like the man said in the song, two out of three ain’t bad.”

#

     You don’t exactly see the process by which a new hand melds with the bunch. But if you watch with attention, the peripherals are pretty obvious. The morning welcomes. The invitations to the card games. The ribbings, the ripostes, and the tone they take. I could go on.
     Janet fitted in with the guys like a perfect puzzle piece. Most ways, anyway.
     There isn’t much serious conversation. What would a bunch of roughnecks have to talk about, anyway? While we’re here, the rest of the world ceases to matter. On breaks, the rigs are the furthest things from our minds. When we come back from a break, the one and only question anyone asks is “d’ja get laid?” Ours is a social camaraderie expressed almost exclusively in expletives and grunts.
     But Janet liked to talk. And the person she picked to talk to was me.
     Not while we were at work, mind you. That wouldn’t have gone over at all. It’s way too dangerous to have your attention split when you’re wrestling with a rig. Either they get your full attention, or pretty soon you’re wearing a sheet and a toe tag. No, she looked me up during our off-times. Usually after dinner, when most of the crew is playing cards or watching TV. And damn if she didn’t pretty herself up to do it.
     After I got over the surprise, I strove to reciprocate. Conversationally, that is. I didn’t have any nice clothing in the dorm; my suits and ties were all far away. But her obvious interest in me was as flattering as it was puzzling.
     The subjects of her chatter were a good distance from anything that had ever mattered to me. Fashion. Soap operas. Pop music. Prominent entertainers. I listened and responded as best I could. Mostly I listened. If she could tell that those things were alien to me, she never let on.
     She needed to talk. That was obvious. And she charmed me, potty mouth and all, with her attentions.
     There came a time when, dolled up as usual for her visits and talking a blue streak about some TV show, she stopped in mid-sentence and said, “You’re not into any of this shit, are you?”
     It set me back. I decided on candor.
     “Well, no. Not really.”
     Her expression shifted to something like resignation.
     “Okay, I’ll stop. Nice talking to you.”
     She rose and started toward the door. I practically shouted “Wait!”
     “Hm?”
     I was off my bunk and had my arms around her before I knew what I was doing.
     “Janet, I…” I shook my head, then did it again. I strove to marshal a few words.
     “I don’t know anything about your—your interests, no,” I said, “but I’m flattered all the same. I love having you come to chat with me. It’s… it’s too complimentary for words. Please don’t go!”
     She looked up at me, unspeaking, for what seemed an hour. Then she nodded.
     “Okay. But one thing.”
     “What?”
     She freed herself from my embrace, went to my door, closed and locked it, and returned to me.
     “Enough with the bullshit preliminaries. Let’s get to the main event.”
     And her fingers found my belt buckle and unlatched it.

#

     That evening I learned more about Janet than I’d expected. For one thing, she wasn’t on the Pill.
     “Makes me feel like a bloated sack of shit,” she said.
     “Ah, okay. Should I head into town, pick up some condoms?”
     She nodded. “Gonna have to, if you want to do anything more than what we just did.”
     “Tomorrow, then.”
     She grinned. “Good. I was starting to think you weren’t into this shit, either.”
     I cringed. “Ah, no, I am ‘into this shit.’ Most definitely.”
     That goosed a laugh out of her. “You’re starting to sound like me.”
     I hugged her. “Just quoting you, dear.”
     “You know,” she said out of the blue, “you could fuck me in the ass if you want. I wouldn’t mind.”
     I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so I just hugged her again.
     After a few moments’ silence, she said “So what happens next?”
     I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
     “You mean tonight?”
     “Yeah. I wasn’t thinking about running into town and getting hitched.”
     “Well,” I said, “we get a night’s sleep. You can do that here or at your place. Might be better at your place.”
     “Hm? Why?”
     “Because,” I said, “there’s gonna be talk. Even from just these visits. And if we start spending our nights in the same bed, it’s gonna get worse.”
     She peered at me. “You’re worried about a little gossip?”
     “Janet,” I said, “you’re the only woman on the rigs. That’s already cause for talk. I’ve heard some of it, and it’s been pretty rough. It got rougher when you started coming to my bunk. Now you’ve picked a lover. The others will notice. They don’t miss much. And when they do, it’ll get a lot worse. I guarantee it.”
     “I don’t mind being talked about,” she said.
     I didn’t reply.
     “Anyway,” she said, “this is our private business, isn’t it? We have a God-damned right to do as we please in our off-time, don’t we?”
     What could I say to that? “Yeah.”
     She snorted. “Then let ‘em talk. You want to know what else they talk about?”
     The intonation got my attention. “What else?”
     She grinned. “You.”
     “Well, yeah,” I said. “I’m the crew oddball. The guy who doesn’t drink, or play cards, or watch TV. The intellectual who thinks about something other than booze and sex. And oil, of course.”
     She shook her head. “Not even close, Mike.”
     “Well, what then?”
     “You’re their idol.”
     My mouth dropped open. “What?”
     “You’re the go-to guy. The God-damned number one rigger on this field. Yeah, they tease you about the way you talk, but if they had to choose an indispensable man, it would be you. Whenever one of them doesn’t know what to do, or doesn’t think he’s up to it, he comes to you. You’re bigger, smarter, stronger, and tougher than they are, but you don’t swagger. You don’t strut like you think you’re king shit. You help out, and you never say anything about it. They love you.”
     I was speechless. But it was her addendum that floored me completely.
     “And so do I.”
     She got up, dressed herself, and made her exit.

#

     Yes, it was noticed. Yes, there was more talk. But that’s all there was, and it was a lot more respectful than I could have expected.
     The guys treated it as what they expected. A pretty-much anticipated development. And while we got a little more ribbing, I couldn’t detect any envy or resentment in it. Janet, God bless her, let it roll off her back.
     Management was a different story. After we’d been together for a couple of weeks, we got a company-wide bulletin. There was an all-hands meeting coming up. A mandatory training meeting. On Saturday, our off-time, when the field gets a skeleton crew whose only duty is to sound an alarm if one of the rigs ruptures or runs wild.
     About sexual harassment.
     I wasn’t the only one taken aback. The guys were uniformly gobsmacked. The prevailing comment on the announcement was “Can you believe this shit?” Unfortunately, I could. It was all too clear that Janet and I were the reason.
     Yeah, the guys knew it, too. But they didn’t say a word about it.
     I blew a lunch period to look up Colin and ask about it. He had nothing to say except “It’ll be in the cafeteria. You’ve got to be there. I do too.”
     So I was. We all were. Janet and I walked in hand in hand. I seated myself, and she sat in my lap. With her arms around me and her head on my shoulder. We figured we might as well be open about it, seeing as to how we were the reason for it.
     The “trainer” was, of course, a woman in a pantsuit. A podium and lectern had been erected for her. She strode onto it and stood before the podium, drawing herself up as if she were the prime minister. Her eyes went directly to Janet and me. She glared at us in a fashion designed to intimidate, to assert dominance.
     Janet wasn’t having it. She hopped off my lap, stood next to me, and returned glare for glare.
     It visibly shook the trainer. I saw her flinch, as plain as daylight. She resettled herself, and started her pitch.
     Janet wasn’t having any of that, either.
     “Stop right there,” she said. “This is bullshit. You know it, and so do we.”
     Outrage blossomed on the trainer’s features. She said “Do you have something relevant to say, Miss?”
     “You’re God-damned right I do,” Janet said. “This is because Mike and I are lovers, isn’t it? After all, I’m the only girl on the rigs! And before you rev up again, nobody’s said one fucking word about it. These guys are fucking princes. They’re all gonna be at the wedding.” She swept the cafeteria with a grin. “Open bar, boys.”
     Yes, that was the first I heard about her long-term plans. No, I wasn’t unhappy about it, not at all. Still, it did come as a surprise.
     That silenced the trainer. But the guys were something else. To a man, they stood and applauded. And applauded. And applauded some more. Every face in that crowd of two hundred plus roughnecks was split by a huge smile.
     It went on for a long time. Janet and I just stood there, stunned.
     The trainer fled.

#

     Colin was slightly miffed. Not because he disapproved of what Janet had done. Not at all. It was because, alone of all the men who worked on that field, he’d had no idea about Janet and me. But he did agree to come to the wedding. Open bar, remember?
     And today, on our silver anniversary, we’re surrounded by the men we’ve worked with since then. Princes, all. They threw us a huge surprise party. A lot of them go all the way back to the days when Janet was new to the rigs. She doesn’t roughneck anymore. I stayed at it, though. Why not, after all? I already had the brawn, the bruises, and the broken fingernails. So what if I can’t play chess or talk physics or philosophy with the guys? We talk about other stuff. Politics, football, hockey. Booze, sex, the rigs. The price of light sweet crude. You know, the sort of thing that interests roughnecks. So what if we swear a lot?
     Besides, the money’s really good.

==<O>==

Copyright © 2024 Francis W. Porretto. All rights reserved worldwide.

“The Winning Side”

     I’ve been having some exchanges with a brilliant fellow, Armond Boudreaux, about the different mindsets of materialists and theists. My contention is, in essence, that it’s about premises and ontological boundaries. The materialist bounds his ideas and his questions in the material realm; the theist goes beyond that. In neither case can anyone argue about the choice. Premises are like that.

     Boudreaux observed that there are villains whom material forces and social mechanisms don’t punish. Inarguable! Moreover, there always have been and always will be. Such persons choose to do evil. Those that escape their just deserts in this life are emulated by others.

     That’s the Siren song of evil: “You’re clever! You can get away with it!” It appeals to persons of malformed conscience and excessive self-regard. And yes: some of them do “get away with it.” Temporal mechanisms for correcting and deterring evil conduct are imperfect, as is everything else about Mankind.

     The great danger lies in the perception that the villains are “on the winning side.”

     We joke about that, sometimes: Come to the dark side! We have cookies! But it only stays funny so long as that perception fails to attain a critical mass. That ignites a positive-feedback cycle. Should the successes of the villains become irresistibly attractive to too many people, that society is doomed.

     Once again, I’m in mind of a passage from C.S. Lewis:

     “Hang it all—the preservation of the human race—it’s a pretty rock-bottom obligation.”
     “Well, personally,” said Feverstone, “I’m not indulging in any Busbyisms about that. It’s a little fantastic to base one’s actions on a supposed concern for what’s going to happen millions of years hence; and you must remember that the other side would claim to be preserving humanity, too. Both can be explained psychoanalytically if they take that line. The practical point is that you and I don’t like being pawns, and we do rather like fighting—specially on the winning side.”

     Discerning the “winning side” involves a limited view of things – a choice of premises and ontological boundaries. Lewis tried to expand that from the purely material to the eldila, a quasi-angelic race of spirits, one of whom functions as evil’s chief agent on Earth. The materialist won’t go that far. But even theists make some assumptions about “the winning side.” James Blish demonstrated this in his novel Black Easter:

     ‘Impossible!’ Father Domenico cried, though choking with the dust of the exploded crucifix. ‘It is written that in that war you will at last be conquered and chained!’
     OF COURSE, BUT WHAT DOES THAT PROVE? EACH OF THE OPPOSING SIDES IN ANY WAR ALWAYS PREDICTS VICTORY. THEY CANNOT BOTH BE RIGHT. IT IS THE FINAL BATTLE THAT COUNTS, NOT THE PROPAGANDA. YOU MADE A MISTAKE – AND AH, HOW YOU WILL PAY!

     The speaker in capitals above is a Prince of Hell, the demon Put Satanachia, after the workings of a black magician have brought about Armageddon.

     Good and evil both make promises. Evil has an advantage: its promises can be fulfilled in this life. Good must work overtime to counter that lure.

     Should the villains ever seem to get the upper hand – think of that as “Cthulhu’s Return” – we’ll be in mortal trouble.

* * *

     Concerning that “limited view of things,” the C.S.O. and I saw an excellent movie just recently: The Witch, which stars the young Anya Taylor-Joy. The scripting and performances were both impressive, but the capper for me was the demonstration of how that limited view of things can function to corrupt a previously innocent soul. The central character, Thomasin, is the eldest child of a 17th Century New England family that has chosen to live apart from other society. That family is beset by a series of tragedies, which Thomasin’s mother and siblings put down to witchcraft. I won’t go any further than that, except to say that the movie demonstrates the ways in which seemingly unmerited suffering can make one see evil as “the winning side.”

     It is part of the moral duty of the good man to counter those influences that make evil, whatever form it may take, appear to be “the winning side.” Too many subconsciously equate might with right, and victory with moral or ideological superiority. When we speak of “the still, small voice” that tells us to avoid evil and to remain aligned with good, we are appealing to a standard that doesn’t always offer temporal rewards. It’s why we must be faithful to that standard. Unless admirable men, men of honor who are satisfied to live honorable lives, outnumber the villains, the perceptions of persons of weak, poorly formed conscience will be swayed.

     You wouldn’t want to hang around after that.

I Almost Missed It

     Glory be to God! Today, as I’ve only just discovered, celebrates my favorite ASCII character: one without which a great many important phrases – including a lot of company names – would be both longer and less memorable:

It’s World Ampersand Day!

     Yes, Gentle Reader, the mighty ampersand has been honored with a special day to be celebrated around the globe for its contributions to concision, calligraphy, conjunctionless conjunctions, and…and…

     Well, and!

     According to the National Day Calendar, here are the facts:

• The ampersand used to be the last letter of the alphabet.
• It is a ligature of “e” & “t”? That’s “et” in Latin, meaning “and”!
• The word “ampersand” is a slurring of “real words” run together over time.
• Even the plus sign is actually an ampersand!

     Why, there’s even a website devoted to Ampersand Art!

     So get out there and use it! It’s fun! It’s quick! And it’s international! The ampersand isn’t just an American thing; it’s celebrated around the world for its contributions to our written and printed text.

     Here’s a teaser for you: My novel Doors contains more ampersands than any of my previous novels! Yes, Gentle Reader: I’ve embraced the glory of this elegant and supremely useful character. And if I can, so can you!

A Study In Passion And "Cool"

     [This piece first appeared at the old Eternity Road website, on November 12, 2004. – FWP]

---

     Your Curmudgeon had a strange experience this morning. His group is part of a larger, project-oriented software department which meets every Friday for general status review. Now and then, the department head will use that meeting to introduce some question or topic for general consideration and input from the troops. Today was such a day. The question was: "Do employee appreciation events (e.g., company parties and comparable special events) have a positive effect on employee morale?"

     As you might expect, most of the other engineers there mumbled something ambiguous and unengaged. Your Curmudgeon did not. Almost without intending to, he lit off on a grand tirade about how "employee appreciation events" missed the whole point of employee morale, that morale is not about time-delimited events intended to compensate for the travails of one's job, but rather about the time one spends actually doing it, and whether the holistic experience is interesting, exciting, and comfortable -- in short, whether the employee can be induced to love his work.

     The reactions were mind-expanding. The department head was stunned -- wide-eyed, open-mouthed, speechless, and unable to continue. The other engineers and group leaders were distributed across a spectrum that ranged from baffled to resentful.

     Probably the most piercing reaction came from one of your Curmudgeon's own group members, an older man about a year from retirement. He characterized the meeting as "a complete waste of time, pure bull****."

     In some ways, this seems consistent with what your Curmudgeon knows of himself and of most other working people. As a rule, engineers are embarrassed to admit their enthusiasm for their work. Most employees of any sort would be unwilling to tell their supervisors that they love their jobs and have committed to them voluntarily; it would seem a stick to beat them with at some unspecified future time. But there's more, apparently stemming from the societal worship of "cool."

     Passion of any sort is widely regarded as embarrassing. A raised voice is an unacceptable disordering of the social norm. A Juggernaut-like charge into difficulty, with the intent of smashing obstacles flat by sheer power of will, is considered disrespectful toward one's more restrained colleagues. It's "uncool."

     The "cool" phenomenon is a promotion of disengagement over enthusiasm. "Be cool, man." Don't commit yourself. Don't invest your emotions. Don't let anyone know that there's something that lights your boilers, charges your condensers, and gets you greased and ready to kick ass.

     Your Curmudgeon, despite his scholarly demeanor, is anything but detached, anything but "cool." He has much more animation and much less inhibition in him than the average guy. He's a fighter and a lover. He's most definitely "uncool," and always has been.

     But it's not "in" to be "uncool," to pledge one's life, fortune and sacred honor, to lead charges and build barricades, to declaim on subjects such as love, commitment, and passion for one's work. Such a recognition can leave a passionate person feeling very much alone.

     Do the "cool" folks have any idea how they're shortchanging themselves?

     Your Curmudgeon is an old man by the standards of the engineering trade. Most of his departmental colleagues are in their twenties and thirties. It feels massively incongruous to outmatch them so on the field of passion. But there's no denying the facts.

     Peer pressure might have had something to do with it. In sober retrospection, it almost certainly did. Large meetings are like that. Embarrassment at being lifeless and unexceptional when an oldster was an uninhibited firebrand probably had something to do with it, too.

     In one sense, it was saddening, but in another, it reminded your Curmudgeon how much he has to be thankful for.

     Our passionate moments are the times when we're most alive. The rejection of passion in favor of the slightly bored, can't-arouse-me demeanor known as "cool" that's held the favor of the youth culture for God knows how long now is a poorly disguised rejection of life itself. Its incongruity against the surging fire of life that burns in the body and brain of a young adult is an irony that defies capture in mere words.

     Your Curmudgeon will continue to engage himself. He'll continue to sing in the car. He'll charge up the hill with his torch and his pitchfork whenever the fit takes him. And he'll be glad that his is a personality unmarred by "cool."

     Let the Limbo people, the willfully disengaged and uncommitted ones, the gray souls who prefer a twilight world in which there's neither true life nor true death, have their "cool." They'll never know what they've missed. More's the pity.