Читать книгу A philosopher, a psychologist, and an extraterrestrial walk into a chocolate bar … - Jass Richards - Страница 7

The next day was relatively eventful. Spike didn’t see the point in having any other kind.

“So what are we doing in Montreal?” she asked about half an hour from the city limits. She knew Jane would’ve googled and prepared a list.

“We’re going to Sophie’s Croissant Café. Apparently she has ‘the best ever pain au chocolat’. A logically indefensible claim, of course, but—”

“Because of the definitional problem, right?” That’s what happens when you hang out with a philosopher.

“No, that can be solved easily enough, by establishing some arbitrary definition of ‘best’.”

“Or you could just appeal to God.”

Jane squinted at Spike with suspicion. And concern.

“What? Just sayin’. If there was a god, surely she’d know what ‘best’ means, as it applies to pain au chocolate.” She slowed down a bit to accommodate the increasing traffic.

“True,” Jane conceded. “But more likely, she’d just make a proclamation, willy-nilly, about her pain au chocolat preference, which we would then accept and call ‘best’. Unable, being god-believers, to think for ourselves, but, and this is more likely, unwilling to die an infinite, and infinitely horrible, death. You see the problem, right?”

“Yes.” But she suspected it wasn’t the same problem Jane saw.

“The willy-nillyness is critical, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Because if, as you say, she just knows what’s best, as it applies to pain au chocolat, because, supposedly, she’s omniscient, then she must be appealing to some higher standard, beyond herself. So she wouldn’t, then, be god. In the conventional sense of the word. You know, ‘the supreme being above which there is no other’ or some such.”

“Ah.”

“And if she declares ‘best’ willy-nillyly, then we’re at the mercy of a supreme being who makes pronouncements—willy-nillyly.”

“I see.”

“Which, also, doesn’t make her very godlike. The willy-nillyness. Not our being at the mercy of.”

“But wouldn’t that also make her ungodlike? Putting people at her mercy? Regarding pain au chocolat quality?”

“Hm.” Jane hadn’t thought of that. “I think it would. Good one!”

A moment later, Jane picked up the other thread. “The reason Sophie’s claim is logically indefensible is because ‘best ever’ necessarily implies that all instances of pain au chocolat that have ever existed have been sampled. And there’s no way to be sure, to be conclusively certain that …” Jane trailed off, no doubt thinking about sampling every instance of pain au chocolate ever to have— The scream of a siren tsunamied her reverie.

Spike looked in the rear-view mirror, then pulled over. A white van went by, lights flashing, but it had BERT’S CAR LOT written on it. Not AMBULANCE. And the siren gave way to “COME DOWN TO BERT’S CAR LOT TODAY! RIGHT NOW! BERT’S CLEARING THE LOT! COME DOWN TO BERT’S CAR LOT TODAY! RIGHT NOW!”

“It’s a frickin’ ad!” Spike said, with, surprisingly, surprise. She pulled back onto the road and sped after the van.

“And I am so frickin’ tired of advertising!” she shouted at the moving white chunk of crap that obliterated her view of anything beyond itself. “You can’t go for a walk, you can’t listen to the radio, or watch tv, or check your email, and half the time when you answer your phone it’s someone wanting to sell you something—”

She broke off to concentrate on safely passing the several cars that had, like them, pulled over.

“What gives them the right to be so frickin’—”

“Intrusive?” Jane had her hand on the dashboard to brace for impact. Not that that would make any difference. At the speed they were going.

When they caught up to the van, Spike pulled into a position beside it, and Jane rolled down her window. “PULL OVER!” she commanded in a voice she didn’t know she had. She was frickin’ tired of advertising too. The constant assault on the senses, on the mind, the imposition of someone else’s interests— And no doubt the interruptive nature of advertising was single-handedly responsible for the two-second attention span that was now, apparently, the norm. She figured she’d shoot herself in the head when marketing companies discovered holograms. The very thought of ads popping up in front of her wherever she went—

“What?” The driver looked across at her in confusion.

“PULL. OVER.” Spike boomed across Jane.

The van pulled over, and Spike pulled over in front of it. She and Jane got out of their car, Jane thoughtfully setting her phone to record. Back-up.

“What the hell are you doing?” Spike stomped over to the man, who had also gotten out of his vehicle. Unwisely.

“I pulled over!” he replied. “I thought you were, whatchamacallit, unmarked cops.”

“Yeah, and I thought you were, whatchamacallit, an ambulance!”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that gets ’em every time. People hear the siren, they pull over.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“What?”

“Why do people pull over for an ambulance?” Spike asked, barely containing her impatience at such stupidity. Despite having had a great deal of experience with it.

“Because it’s the law, I guess.”

Jane groaned. Legal moralism is the source of all evil. Discuss.

“Or maybe it’s because they think it’s on its way to save someone’s life,” Spike suggested.

His face lit up triumphantly. “And my siren fools ’em!” He chuckled again.

“You think it’s funny?” Jane took over. Before Spike hauled back and decked him one. “If it happens often enough, people won’t pull over anymore when they hear a real siren.”

The man started to get the idea that they weren’t too supportive. Despite their being women.

“Yeah, well, not my problem.” His smile was gone.

“Moral Excuse #1,” Jane said quietly. To no one in particular.

He turned to get back into his van, but Spike grabbed him, whipped out the utility knife the hardware store cashier had given her, and held it across his throat.

“It could be,” she said to him. Then to Jane, “Better call 9-1-1.”

Jane pretended to make the call.

“If I slit your throat, how long would it take you to bleed to death? A min­ute? Two?” She turned slightly to Jane. “I don’t hear the ambulance, do you?”

“No. That’s odd.” She pretended to make a second call.

“They did dispatch an ambulance,” she reported, “but no one’s pulling over. So it’ll be at least an hour. Because it’s stuck in traffic. That won’t pull over,” she added. Necessarily.

“Gee, you’ll be dead by then,” Spike observed. “Oh well, not our problem.”

She shoved him away. Having not slit his throat.

“Look, you got no call to—I’m just minding my own business here—”

“Moral Excuse #1b,” Jane said.

“That other stuff you’re talking about, it’s not my concern!”

“#1c.”

“Not your concern?” Spike repeated. “What, if it doesn’t affect you, right here and right now, it’s not your concern?”

He stared at her, the look on his face saying Yeah. What’s wrong with that?

Jane turned to Spike. “That’s what, stage one of Kohlberg’s moral development?” She knew very well what stage it was.

“Two. Late childhood.”

“Hey gimme a break here,” he protested. “I’m just doing my job. My boss tells me to do something, I do it.”

“Moral Excuses #2, #3a and b.”

“Yeah, well, get another frickin’ job!” Spike all but screamed at him. “You can do that in this country, you know.”

“It’s not that easy! I got a wife and kids to support.”

“Moral Excuse #4.”

“What, and that justifies—”

“I’ll bet the guys at the nuclear weapons plant say the same thing,” Jane offered.

“Whose decision was that?” Spike asked the man.

“What?” It was clearly a reflex response. Perhaps initially intended to give him a few seconds to come up with something that didn’t require him to actually process what had been just said.

“You decided to keep a woman. And you decided to make some kids. Why should we make allowances for your choices?”

“Look, lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about—Mr. Reynolds, he’s got a business to run.”

“Moral Excuse #5.” There was simply no justification for the desires of one person, let alone the desire of one person for money, to be imposed on everyone. Let alone granted immunity from morality.

“So?” Spike was relentless. “That gives him the right to kill people?”

“Look, I don’t mean no harm!”

“Moral Excuse #6,” Jane said. “The one favoured by people too stupid or lazy to consider the consequences of their behaviour.”

“What did you think would happen,” Spike screamed, “when you put a firecracker into a dog’s mouth—and then lit it?”

Jane turned to stare at her, eyes wide.

“Some kids—boys—male kids—did that,” she explained, quietly. “Saw a picture of the poor thing on YouTube.”

They were both silent. What the hell is wrong with them?

The one standing before them had had enough. There’s only so much self-examination a man can take. Only so much blame. So he drove off. That’s why men love cars so much.

“Quite apart from”—Jane wasn’t done, even though they were back in the car and on the road again—“there are enough alternative venues for advertising—radio, tv, newspapers, magazines, websites, malls. And every single one of them is preferable to the use of public space because one can choose, at least to some degree, whether or not to be a target.

“Advertising in public space is especially reprehensible when that public space is otherwise beautiful.” They passed an impossibly ugly billboard sign smack in the middle of a long stretch of forest. Possibly the only remaining such stretch within fifty kilometres of Montreal.

“Would those of us who can hear allow a deaf person to make a clamour with cymbals all day long?”

“We would not.” Spike thought she’d get a word in.

“Then why do those of us who can appreciate beauty allow aesthetically impaired CEOs to do just that?”

“You know”—Jane still wasn’t done—“the internet could make advertising totally unnecessary. Whenever you want to buy something, you could just look it up in a complete directory with a really good search engine that could provide a shortlist based on your preferences. The shortlist would have product information and customer reviews.

“Then instead of spending $500 billion to make their products look good, companies could spend the $500 billion to make good products. And to clean up their messes.”

“Like that’s what they’d do with it,” Spike muttered. Mostly to herself.

“Did you know,” Spike added a moment later, “that drug companies spend more on marketing than on research and development?”

Jane looked over, horrified, but said nothing.

“Twice as much more.”

Five kilometres later, Jane was revisiting the scene of the crime. “And you know, there’s something objectionable about a perfectly-capable-of-­working adult being ‘kept’ by another adult. It seems to me the epitome of laziness and immaturity to be supported by someone else, to have someone else pay your way through life.”

“Worse,” Spike agreed and went one further, “we subsidize their keep. Typically, if a couple files their income tax jointly, they pay less than if they filed separately.”

“Yeah, but that goes for same-sex couples too.”

“True, but initially …”

“Yeah … Why does our government reward men for keeping a woman? Encourage them to do so? Oh.” She knew very well why. Sigh.

“Not just the government. It’s cheaper to add your wife to your car insurance as a second driver than for her to buy her own policy.”

“Or for a woman to add her husband— But again, yeah, initially …”

“And what that means,” Spike continued, “is that the rest of us pick up the slack. We have to pay extra income tax so what’s-his-name’s wife can pay less. We also subsidize her discounted car insurance. Her discounted club membership. Should either of us ever belong to the same club. If he wants to pay her way, fine, but her way should cost the same as ours. It’s not like she’s making some huge contribution to society by being married.”

“Yeah!” Jane said with renewed passion, having just thought of something else. “Why should a professor’s wife get health and dental, when she’s not even teaching? Not even one class!” Jane had often taught three classes.With no health or dental.

“So, you’ve got directions to Sophie’s Croissant Café?” They both needed chocolate.

“I do. But first we’re going to the last remaining feminist bookstore in the country.” Almost better than chocolate. Jane gave directions.

“Cool.” Spike looked forward to spending an hour in such a haven. It was so relaxing, to be surrounded by validations rather than challenges. To not be compelled to say something, to do something, about the otherwise ever-present sexism.

“Remember the Montreal massacre?” Jane asked. As they passed the BIENVENUE! sign.

“Of course.”

“I was subbing at a high school at the time. And the next day, all the male teachers at the school vehemently denied that it was a crime of miso­gyny, a reflection of the so-ordinary-it’s-normal misogyny in our society. Even though the guy had killed only women. And had said—said—that women were ruining his life. They all insisted that what he did was symptomatic of mental illness. ‘Yes!’ I agreed. But they didn’t get it.”

Spike got it. She just stared out the window.

They took the next exit, found the last remaining feminist bookstore in the country, and were astounded to discover that the place was so busy, they could barely get inside the door, let alone browse the shelves. They’d thought feminism was dead. Morphed into something recognizable only as Deluded Princessism.

“Hey, you’re here for the SlutWalk?” a cheerful young woman greeted them.

Oh. That explained it.

“No,” Jane replied. “We didn’t know there was a SlutWalk. Today. Here. We’re just on our way through.”

“Oh, you should hang around then. The speeches are about to begin, and then we’re walking through downtown, along Rue Sainte-Catherine.”

Before she’d even finished the sentence, Spike had located, and confiscated, a bullhorn. Jane grinned. And reached into her pocket. They made their way back outside and around to the small empty lot behind the store, where a platform had been set up.

“… and we can dress however we want!” The speeches had apparently already begun. “We have the power! To choose! We’re proud to be SLUTS!”

Cheers rose from the gathered crowd, most of whom were, indeed, dressed as sluts. That is to say, they wore their boobs and butts on the outside, accentuated with bustiers, fishnets, and stilettos.

Oh dear. Jane stumbled, horrified to have heard her grandmother’s voice in her head. Or at least her colloquialism.

“Seriously?” Spike addressed the speaker from their position on the fringe, then started moving through the crowd to the stage. “Proud to be sluts?”

Jane followed in her wake.

“Prude!” Someone called out.

“Another fat and ugly feminist who thinks we should all wear Birkenstocks!”

“Yeah, get with the program, sister! The new feminism is sex-positive!”

Spike reeled. Jane didn’t think she’d ever seen her reel. She was also speechless. Call 9-1-1.

Where to begin, Spike was thinking. Not with the obvious fact that she wasn’t fat. Or ugly. Or that she was wearing her Doc Martens.

“WE ARE NOT SLUTS!” Jane jumped into the silence, leaning toward Spike’s bullhorn and raising her fist to punctuate her shouts. “WE ARE NOT SLUTS!”

“But we are”—Spike had put her hand over the mouthpiece of her bullhorn—“At least, we were. Didn’t you have sex with people you weren’t married to?”

“Well yeah.” Jane hadn’t ever been married, hadn’t ever intended to be married. And certainly hadn’t intended to remain a virgin all her life. Ergo. “That doesn’t make me a slut.”

“People who weren’t even your boyfriend slash girlfriend?”

“Well yeah, but—”

“People you just met.”

She considered that.

“WE ARE SLUTS! WE ARE SLUTS!”

“Wait a minute.” She stopped suddenly and turned to Spike. “I wasn’t completely indiscriminate. The guy had to use a condom, he couldn’t have any STDs, and he had to be my type. I mean, I didn’t have sex with just anyone.”

It took just a moment.

“MEN ARE SLUTS! MEN ARE SLUTS!”

That caught on.

Until a young woman close by grabbed Spike’s bullhorn. “What are you doing? We’ve reclaimed the word ‘slut’!”

“Are you sure?” She nodded at a man standing at the perimeter. He was grinning at the young woman and making vigorous jerking off motions with his hand.

“Have we also reclaimed ‘skank’, ‘ho’, ‘beaver’, ‘cow’, and ‘cunt’?” Jane asked. Innocently.

“Bitch!”

“Apparently we haven’t reclaimed that one yet,” Spike noted dryly as the woman strutted off.

They’d reached the stage. Bereft of her bullhorn, Spike leapt up and stood at one of the two microphones. “Part of you smiles to think of yourself as a slut. You’re a bad girl, a wild girl, you’re dangerous, you’re taking risks. But that’s exactly what they want. Sexual access. No-strings-attached sex. We fell for that too. In the 60s. In the 70s. Free love, we’re not prudes, we’re okay with our bodies, we’re okay with sex. We’re ‘with it’.

“But they never took us seriously. They never considered us part of the movement. Behind our backs, they’d snicker and say the best position for a woman is prone.”

“Stokely Carmichael,” Jane shouted out the source. For anyone who wanted to know.

“It’s either/or for men,” Spike continued. “If you’re sexually attractive and/or available, you can’t possibly be anything else. Intelligent, competent—”

“Actually,” Jane interjected, “even if you’re not sexually attractive and/or available—maybe especially if you’re not sexually attractive and/or available—” she broke off. So sexuality did give women power? Attention, at least? But … No, they still didn’t take you seriously. As Spike had said.

“And okay,” Spike continued, “you’re accusing me of being anti-sex. But you know what? I am. I am anti-sex. As it typically occurs. As it is expected to occur. Which is primarily for men’s pleasure, often via women’s pain. Sex for women’s pleasure wouldn’t even involve the penis!”

“SlutWalk isn’t about dressing like sluts—” Another woman had taken the stage, and the other microphone.

“Then why call it SlutWalk?” Jane muttered, truly perplexed.

“It’s about victim-blaming,” the woman continued, to scattered applause. “Women shouldn’t be blamed for sexual assault. They’re the victims. We need to hold men responsible. For their actions.”

“But there are conventions, symbols, uniforms,” Spike responded. “You’d be an idiot to wear gang colours—your gang’s colours—into some other gang’s territory. And then whine when they beat you up.”

A sharp intake of breath hissed through the crowd.

“Dressing like a hooker indicates that you’re available for sexual service,” Jane tried to help. “ ‘Hooker’ by definition …”

“If you look like bait and act like bait …”

“But it’s not about dressing like a hooker,” someone called out.

Spike looked around. Pointedly.

“And anyway, what’s wrong with being a hooker?” This from a transvestite, wearing shiny black hotpants, shiny black boots, and several fuchsia feather boas.

“Yeah, the new feminism is inclusive!”

Jane and Spike exchanged looks. Confused looks. Inclusive of what, exactly?

“So are you saying that if we wear a short skirt, we should expect to be raped?” a woman shouted out to Spike from across the crowd.

“A couple years ago”—another woman had gotten up onto the stage and taken the second microphone—“when I was waiting for my boyfriend outside a record store, a guy came up to me, just a boy-next-door kind of guy, not a drunk perv or anything, and he asked how much I charged for a blow job. I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a jean jacket, and a knapsack.” She paused. “It didn’t quite sink in at the time. That, as a woman, I would always be considered available for sexual service.”

The crowd had the good sense to applaud that.

“And dressing like hookers reinforces that!” Spike added.

But then, “We have the right to dress however we want!” someone in the crowd insisted.

Yes! Jane thought. Even if you’re an office temp. Because god knows, she was sick of not getting assignments because she wore sensible shoes.

“But you also have the responsibility to consider the message you’re sending,” Spike replied. “If dressing like a hooker isn’t an invitation, what is?”

“The word ‘YES’.” The other woman on the stage still had the mic. “Clearly spoken, voluntarily. Anything else is just a ‘maybe’.”

“Oh, I like that,” Jane said.

“Except that it ignores the communicative value of non-verbal signals,” Spike muttered.

“And anyway what’s wrong with having sex with more than one person?” Jane asked as they walked back to their car, bookless. She’d obviously leap-frogged backwards a bit. Spike didn’t mind. She’d kind of collapsed in the middle of a cartwheel.

“Men are willing to support only their own biological offspring, so if a woman has sex with anyone other than him, he’ll never know which of her kids are his.”

“Oh, right. I forgot for a moment that men define everything.”

“No, wait a minute,” she said a moment later, “we have paternity tests.”

“Emasculating. To have to have one done.”

“Ah. Better to shame the woman for perfectly acceptable behaviour.”

They got into their car.

“Did you know that spouses are the leading cause of death for pregnant women in the U.S.?” Spike asked as she turned the ignition. “That is, men who make women pregnant then kill them for being pregnant.”

“Maybe they’re thinking they weren’t the one who made her pregnant.” While Jane thought about the grammar of what she’d just said, Spike considered the implication.

“So better to just kill the woman than get a paternity test,” she said.

Jane thought about that. Because it was way more interesting than grammar.

“They want us to be sluts,” she said. “And then they kill us for being sluts.”