Cross Dressing (17 page)

Alissa tentatively shook her head, never taking her eyes off the funny lady. Alissa liked the way she talked.

“I didn’t fink so,” Ruth said. “I’d say you’re the mourning dove type, a ravver pri’ee bird in my opinion. ‘At’s what I fink.” Ruth cooed a few times and tried to look like a mourning dove. Alissa thought that was very silly, though she didn’t show it. “Now,” Ruth said, “the fing I like most abou’ birds is ‘ow they can fly.” She picked up the slice of cheese from her sandwich. “Loik this!”

Sister Peg was quite startled when the slice of cheese landed on the funding proposal she was trying to decipher. She tensed. Then, after a moment, she found herself suppressing a laugh, something she hadn’t done since she
couldn’t remember when. She looked up in the direction whence the cheese had come. She saw Ruth making a funny face and pointing at Alissa. And for the first time since she had met her, Sister Peg saw Alissa smile as she shook her head and pointed back at Ruth.

Everyone at the table waited to see what would happen next. Sister Peg took the only option available to an authority figure in a situation like this. She loaded a spoonful of Jell-O and launched it toward Ruben, who hadn’t been paying attention. It landed in his lap, surprising him so that he flipped over backward in his chair, sprawling on the floor. He scrambled to his feet and retaliated with his own dessert, catching Sister Peg squarely on the nose. She crossed her eyes and burst out laughing, prompting an all-out food fight.

Everyone was screaming with delight. People who hadn’t laughed in years were red-faced with joy. Seventy-two-year-old Mrs. Ciocchetti began shooting cheesy little spitballs through her straw, with surprising accuracy. Alissa ducked under the table and launched individually wrapped slices of cheddar like little square Frisbees. Mr. Saltzman, the resident curmudgeon, was taking unexpected pleasure from being the primary target for so many of the other residents. Mr. Avery, still spry at sixty-seven, pushed Mrs. Zamora’s wheelchair, forming an aged yet effective mobile infantry. Captain Boone, a proud World War II veteran, wanted to join in, but he was too arthritic to do anything but watch and laugh.

It was a sight, blood-pulsing life where moments before there had been only torpid despair. They were laughing, throwing food, rubbing it into each other’s faces. Sister Peg was caked with cheese and Jell-O and a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time. She watched Alissa sneak up behind Ruth with a handful of the wiggling dessert. Ruth saw her too but didn’t let on. Alissa tugged on Ruth’s dress. Feigning innocence, Ruth turned around and took it like a Stooge, right in
the face. At that moment—one of the rare moments in her short life—Alissa looked like the happiest person on earth.

It crossed Sister Peg’s mind that good food was going to waste, but she decided the trade-off was worth it. The way she saw it, the soul needed the sort of nourishment that a good food fight provided. When she looked over at Alissa, giggling uncontrollably, Sister Peg glanced up and thanked God for laughter.

T
he temptation was simply too much for a man as weak as Dan. All his life, Dan’s head had been filled with those things the Church called “reiterated evil interior suggestions.” Over and over the voice reiterated,
Go ahead. Just do it!
When he thought about it, Dan realized this aspect of temptation was the equivalent to what those in the advertising business called
frequency.

One of the basic tenets of advertising is that
reach
(the number of households exposed to a message) plus
frequency
(the number of times a household is exposed to a message) equals
gross rating points
(a number important to media planners). The frequency with which a message is conveyed has a direct bearing on how well the message is integrated by the consumer. In a media-saturated world, frequency was crucial if you wanted to capture a share of the consumer’s distracted mind. The greater the frequency, the greater the probability that the message would lead to action, be it sin or consumerism—or in this instance, both. That’s why Satan can’t simply tempt everybody once and move on. Inducements must be repeated to be effective, elected officials being the possible exception to this rule.

In his brief foray at seminary, Dan learned that temptation was an invitation to sin caused by persuasion or by the offer of some good or pleasure. When he joined The Prescott
Agency, Dan learned that advertising was an invitation to buy, using persuasion and the offer of some good or pleasure. It’s true that the message in any given advertisement was “go and buy,” not “go and steal.” The problem came when you found yourself without money. Then you just might find those reiterated evil interior suggestions tempting you to violate the Seventh Commandment.

Dan knew all of this, but again, knowing it didn’t make him immune to the effect of temptation. Ever since Dan’s father had abandoned the family, Dan had wanted material things—the things that promised to make him happy, just like the people in the ads. Dan’s pursuit of these things had become habituated. He needed the happiness that consumption brought. He had come to believe that he deserved it.

Dan looked at it this way: He had tried to help someone in need and for his trouble he had been declared dead. Making matters worse, he was now being pursued by an insurance investigator who wanted to put him in prison. The only good to come out of this was that Dan finally understood what was meant by the adage “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Dan decided the issue of right versus wrong didn’t apply to the credit card situation any more than it seemed to apply to the forces that had put him where he was now. If he was going to have to suffer for doing his good deed, at least he was going to suffer in style. Besides, a few months ago a telephone marketing associate from his credit card company had badgered Dan into buying insurance for his account— insurance that would pay any outstanding balance if Dan were to die. In that regard, Dan rationalized he was getting back at his credit card company for the unethical sales techniques they employed. His argument wasn’t exactly unassailable from an ethical standpoint, but Dan was under quite a bit of stress at the time.

In addition to his musings on the nexus between temptation
and advertising, Dan had to consider the potential danger of using the credit cards. After mulling it over, Dan decided he was safe. All the charges would predate his funeral. Besides, the credit card company would have no reason to come after him, since the insurance would pay the outstanding balance.

From his liturgical studies, Dan knew that God didn’t initiate temptation. God simply allowed temptation to happen. So, in a sense, God was simply giving Dan an opportunity to practice virtue and self-mastery. Unfortunately, Dan was a weak man. Not only that, but now he was a weak man with credit cards. He bought a pile of CDs and some casual outfits and was on his way to purchase the electronic altar at which most Americans prayed—the almighty entertainment center.

The moment he walked into the store he was set upon by a saleswoman. Dan knew exactly what he wanted, so he pointed at the huge shrine of black electronic devices in the middle of the store. “I’ll take the full Fujioka package,” he said.

“All right!” the woman blurted. “More is more!” She immediately called back to the stockroom and told them to get the thing loaded into Father Michael’s VW bus while she rang it up. She swiped the credit card and waited for clearance. Dan gave his car keys to the kid from the stockroom and told him where he was parked.

On the far side of the store, about thirty yards to Dan’s left, were two large swinging doors leading to the employee lounge and locker area. Behind that door, the store manager, Mr. Ted Tibblett, laid his hands on Scott Emmons’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Are you ready?” he asked solemnly.

“Yeah,” Scott said, his voice lacking affect. Scott’s ill-fitting polyester outfit was bunching in the crotch, compounding his misery. “Whatever.”

Mr. Tibblett primped Scott’s bright blue bow tie. “Attaboy!” He gave Scott a pat on the back and shoved him through the swinging doors and onto the showroom floor, where he nearly knocked over a large Fujioka promotional display. The first thing Scott saw after he recovered his balance was the priest at the checkout stand. Since Scott didn’t know any priests, he thought it was strange that the priest looked so familiar. Scott began walking toward the man, staring.

Dan took the credit card receipt from the cashier and turned to leave, giving Scott a good look at his face. It sort of looked like Dan, Scott thought, but without the beard and glasses—and he was certainly dressed differently. Scott had to be sure. “Hey!” Scott yelled. “Dan!”

Instinctively Dan looked in Scott’s direction. He immediately realized the error in his ways. “Oh, shit!” Dan recognized Emmons and the disturbed look in his eyes. Dan turned and ran for the front door, removing all doubt in Scott’s mind. As Dan headed out the front, Scott turned and ran back to the employee locker area.

The stock boy was still loading the boxes when Dan hit the parking lot. “Go, go, go!” Dan yelled from fifty feet away. “Emergency sacrament! Big hurry!” The kid shoved the last boxes into the microbus and slammed the door. Dan dove in and keyed the ignition. The engine sputtered but didn’t start. “Oh, Christ!”

Scott, meanwhile, reached into his locker and pulled out a paper sack. A moment later he charged through the swinging doors and trampled over the Fujioka sign while tearing his Ruger Super Redhawk .44 magnum out of the bag. As he raced through the store, gun held high, customers and employees screamed and parted like the Red Sea.

Dan was praying hard that the VW bus would start this time. “C’mon, baby!” He rubbed the little statue on the dash
board. “For Christ’s sake!”
Bam! A
lead mushroom crashed through the side window before tearing a jagged hole in the metal dashboard. “Sweet Jesus!” Dan turned the key again and the engine finally cranked. He gassed the old microbus and ripped across the parking lot in a zigzag pattern, trying to be a difficult target.

Scott raced after him, firing his gun until he had emptied his cylinder. Click, click, click. “You’re a dead man!” he yelled. Emmons finally came to a stop, out of breath. He lowered his gun as he realized the truth of his statement. “That’s right. He is a dead man.” Scott looked down and saw a consumer cowering between two cars. “I can’t go to jail for killing a dead man, can I?”

The consumer shook his head vigorously. “No way,” he said.

Scott watched the VW bus disappear down Lankershim Boulevard. He tucked the gun into his waistband and returned to the store. Mr. Tibblett stuck his head up from behind the checkout counter. “Emmons, you’re fired.”

“No problem,” Scott replied, and he meant it. In fact, he was smiling. His reason for living had risen from the dead after three days and had come to offer him salvation. Thanks be to God.

J
osie stared at the needle in her arm and wondered about her past sins. She’d been a bad girl and, for all she knew, she’d committed sins that not even God would forgive. The syringe jutting from Josie’s vein didn’t bother her as much as seeing the blood. Was it diseased? She was certain of it. Off and on, over the past few months, she’d felt something was wrong with her.

After running away from home, Josie ended up in Hollywood, where more often than not a young girl runs into
the wrong people. She was luckier than most, though, and more attractive. She wasn’t so attractive that someone from the William Morris Agency saw her on the sidewalk, pulled over, and signed her, but she did get a film role after being in town for less than a month. It wasn’t a speaking part, though she did have to open her mouth.

Josie watched the nurse fill a tube with her dark red pestilence. Josie held the cotton ball tight to her wound as she wondered how many times she’d had unsafe sex. She’d used condoms most of the time, but she knew “most of the time” wasn’t good enough. It only took one.

During her first three years in El Lay, Josie had performed in several dozen adult movies while simultaneously working as a call girl for a madam who serviced the studios and other high rollers. But the hard life became a feature on Josie’s face and she was soon deemed too old and haggard. This at the ripe old age of twenty-six. So she ended up turning tricks on the streets, where she looked good relative to the other girls.

After all that sex, and sharing a needle now and then, Josie figured the odds were seriously against her. She’d probably been with thousands of men. She’d seen the religious people and the conservative politicians on TV saying how people like her deserved to get AIDS and die. “We’re better off without them,” they said. Every year Josie had less self-respect and her safe-sex policy would suffer for it. If only she’d listened to Sister Peg and gotten off the street that first night.

The nurse capped and labeled the test tube and told Josie she’d get a call in a few days. Josie wondered if this was the best way to atone for her sins. Or would knowing simply make it easier to continue selling herself? Either way the test came out, she had a reason to continue—if it came back negative, she would be encouraged that it was safe and she could
carry on. If it came out positive, she figured she didn’t have anything to lose.

“H
ow long have you been here?”

Father Michael hasn’t thought about that for a long time. He looks bemused, then shrugs. “I’m not even sure.” His laugh is nervous. He is like a man suffering from nitrogen narcosis—something dangerous is happening, but the event itself prevents him from caring. His mind is slipping. “A couple of years, I suppose.” Father Michael doesn’t want to think about it in terms of time. The awareness of having accomplished so little after so much effort is too jarring in his fragile state. “Were you in Bahr al-Ghazal? It was very difficult.”

The woman from the Red Cross puts her hand on Father Michael’s shoulder. “Maybe you should talk to someone about going home. I think you need some time.”