by Don Schecter
“Please write me. I’d like to know how you’re making out. I like to keep contact with my students.” Ken grinned broadly and affectionately.
Larry, dispirited, had no choice. He reluctantly capitulated to the voice of experience.
Before going to the airport, Larry stopped at Gerald and Rob’s to reveal his broken heart. He was astounded that the two men were less than sympathetic. Rob said Larry had been brought out by the best there was. “He not only knows what he’s doing, he also knows not to let his pupils hang around.”
“Doesn’t he want what everybody wants: a lover, a cottage, and a future?” Larry asked.
“Not everybody wants those things. You’re thinking with your old orientation. Ken is known in gay circles as “Princess Tinymeat,” and the way he compensates for his perceived handicap is to see only novices, those who have no point of comparison. Then he gets out before someone turns around and says, ‘Fuck off, bastard; I’ve found me a lover with a baseball bat between his legs.’”
“Those things don’t matter. I love him.”
“Today. And you’ll love many more tomorrow, until you’ve sown your oats and decided what you really want in a man. Ken’s a good sort. You two will always be friends. And you’ve got a good start on a new life.”
“I feel like I’m being ripped in two. I want to chuck everything and stay with Ken, if he would have me. The future looks more lonely than it did before.”
“You’ll be busy enough. Look, you’ve just passed over a threshold. In a very short time, I expect, each of your girls will approach a similar doorway. Knowing them as I do, I have a very strong premonition that you’ll have your hands full. Would you want them to marry the first boys they fall for?”
“This is different. I’m an adult.” Larry was adamant. “I know what I want.”
“Larry,” Gerald confided gently, “we’re your friends, and I have to tell you that in our experience with you, that isn’t true. You’re no better equipped to handle this situation than a teenager. Listen to poppa. Go back to Oahu and enjoy your new life.”
Rob added, “You always wanted us to advise you. Well, that’s our advice.”
Reluctantly, Larry got to his feet. “I have to catch my plane.” The resolve on his face was fading. A puzzled look replaced it. He trusted his two friends.
Rob and Gerald kissed him at the door. It felt very strange to kiss these men he’d always hugged or shaken hands with.
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Larry. It only gets better. And you need some experience so you can make the right choices,” Rob said.
“When you come back next time,” Gerald added, “we’ll talk again. You’ll be an old hand by then, and we’ll gladly say we told you so.”
They waved goodbye. “Think about it on the flight, and give the girls our love.”
Out of the Box
from a screenplay by Brian Hoff
For fifty years, world-famous archaeologist Otto Himbeeren had had his eagle-beaked face repeatedly featured—often superimposed on the head of the Great Sphinx at Giza—in the pages of every major archaeological journal and popular international magazine. Talk show hosts never tired of hearing Otto tell the story of how, as a young man, God sent him a dream that made him realize the Sphinx (which had faced due east for five thousand years) was not just looking at the rising sun, but was seeking out the eyes of a lost companion, twenty miles away, across the Nile. And when he followed the great beast’s gaze, and unearthed its counterpart on the river’s east bank, Otto’s name was made and his fame assured.
One night, in his seventy-ninth year, God sent Otto another dream. This time he saw that the right paw of the east-bank Sphinx was out of alignment. He went to the site to examine it, and found to his amazement that the lion’s paw was pointing six degrees to the North. Intuitively, Otto understood that God was directing him into the desert west of Cairo.
With a trusted crew, Otto followed the lead. In barren sands, about thirty miles beyond the Giza complex, Mohammed, Otto’s guide of thirty years, fell into a sinkhole that suddenly opened in the sand. Thus, by obeying God’s dream, Otto uncovered the fabled Temple of Godfre.
Three weeks of laborious digging exposed the entrance to the temple. As they prepared to enter the structure for the first time, Otto put an arm around Mohammed’s bony shoulder and confided, “Old friend, this is probably my last discovery. The work is too arduous at my age. I want to enter this space by myself. I want to feel the energy stored within—which has awaited me five thousand years—flow through my aching joints.”
Afraid for his longtime companion, Mohammed responded, “Please, Sire, this is very dangerous. Allow me to accompany you for safety.”
Otto, a man who had faced death many times in his life, replied, “I have no fear, Mohammed. After withstanding the desert sands for centuries, if the roof should collapse today, I shall be content that God selected this moment to take me. He directed me here, and I am in His hands. Come looking for your old friend if I don’t return in two hours.”
Flashlight in hand, Otto entered the tunnel leading to the entrance. The way was difficult until he passed beneath the lintel of the doorway into the temple. The structure had successfully resisted the intrusion of sand, and his path was now relatively clear.
After walking some hundred steps, Otto switched off his flashlight and stood in the blackness, breathing in the ancient air. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realized it was not black at all. In front of him was a distinct green glow. He suspected a phosphorescent material had been embedded in the walls, but, as he neared the source, it shone so brightly that he dismissed mineral luminescence as its cause.
He entered a chamber bathed in green light. He could see painted walls and hieroglyphics disappearing into the height of the room. In the center, an ornate box, three feet long and two feet wide and deep, rested on a pedestal. The lid of the box seemed to float an inch above it and, from inside, green light emanated in all directions. Otto tried to lift the lid but it was too heavy. He detected no hinges, so he attempted to slide it aside, but it wouldn't budge. He cast his beam around the room in search of some idea as to the nature of the box.
The walls were covered with fanciful artwork, not in any Egyptian style he knew.
The decorations seemed reminiscent of Knossos on the island of Crete, yet there were distinct Arabic influences on the shapes of the glyphs. It all looked familiar, but unknown. As he moved around the room, Otto noticed a panel whose writing was partly recognizable. Slowly he spoke aloud the glyphs he knew. As he vocalized, they became easier to read because the green light grew brighter behind him. Sensing movement, Otto turned and gaped in astonishment. His eyes traveled up and he toppled backwards as he followed a billowing cloud of green mist rising toward the ceiling. It coalesced into what Otto could swear was a genie from The Arabian Nights. And the genie put thoughts in his mind that he understood, even while he was aware that the language was unfamiliar.
“Greetings, Master,” it said, in the politest of tones. “You have three wishes coming to you.”
Otto was nonplussed but unafraid; he was used to encountering the unusual. “Who the devil are you, if I may ask?”
“As you can see, I am a genie. What can I do for you?”
Otto got up and brushed off his clothing. “To begin with, you can make yourself a reasonable size so we can converse more comfortably.”
“Your wish is my command.” The genie telescoped to five-feet high. “And your second wish?”
Otto was startled but not diverted. “Now what’s an Arabian genie doing in an Egyptian temple?”
“You ask questions I have never heard before, Master. Allow me to correct you. I am not Arabian, nor is this temple Egyptian. We are Atlantean.”
“Then why aren’t we sunk beneath miles of sea?” Otto’s scientific curiosity was aroused.
“A commonly held misconception, Sir. Atlantis was originally under the sea but the water receded over time, leav
ing the city sitting in a great depression in a desert. We moved onto the land, influencing surrounding cultures by elevating their standards. Your other wishes, please?”
Otto was too old to be hurried. “What are you named?”
“My friends call me Kanaq, Master… with a q.”
“How do we understand the same language?”
“We don’t, but I pride myself on appearing in a form that’s both familiar and appropriate to the time and situation.”
“Who closed you up in that box, and why?”
“Another common misconception, Master. That box, as you refer to it, has been my family retreat for millennia. It is very comfortable. In fact, in your dimension, I believe you say, ‘There’s no place like home.’ And if we can get on with it, Sir, I left a chess match when you called me, so please wish away. I’d like to get back to it; I was winning.”
“Sorry, I won’t keep you. Let me think a moment. There’s so much I’d like, or would’ve liked in my youth. I guess the most important thing is that I’m jaded; I’ve done it all. There’s so much more to discover, and I’m no longer thrilled by any of it. So, I suppose if I wished for something…”
“Yes?” Kanaq encouraged.
“…I’d wish to start afresh. From the beginning. To feel like a youngster again.”
Outside the temple, Mohammed was fretting about his old friend. He decided to follow Otto without waiting the full two hours, and entered the tunnel wearing a miner’s headlamp strapped to his forehead. His light was so bright he detected no green glow from within, but a shrill cry stopped him. He stood still, listening for it again. “Sire,” he called out. “Are you all right? Professor? Otto?” There was no answer.
Again, he heard a shriek…then, perhaps a squeal. As he moved toward the sounds there was an undertone, a gurgling. In the center of the room, Mohammed saw a box with a green light seeping out from beneath its lid. The sounds were coming from the base of the pedestal on which it stood. He looked down at the stone floor, and his headlamp illuminated a naked infant sitting amid a pile of Otto’s clothing, playing with a flashlight.
There was no one else in the chamber.
Mystified, Mohammed approached the child. “Sire? Otto, is it you? Adored one?”
The boy, a little more than a year old, looked up, his two baby teeth glinting in the light from Mohammed’s lamp, and said his first word. It sounded like “gee-nee.” Then he giggled with delight and drooled, waving his chubby little fingers in the air.
* * *
The four members of the Himber family gathered around the dinner table at their home in University Heights, an upscale suburb of Salt Lake City. Perched as they were on the Wasatch Bench, the scenery provided panoramic views of changing autumn colors, a daily reminder to those who lived there that God painted masterpieces. The occasion was a farewell luncheon for Brett and his wife, Emily, who were leaving that afternoon for San Francisco, where Brett had accepted a position as a specialist in ancient languages at the Museum of Ancient Cultures.
“Why is the table set for Thanksgiving, Mom?” Brett asked his mother. “This is only September.”
Ellen Himber, from whom her son got most of his good looks, set a pitcher of lemonade on the table. “Well, dear, after all the strife we’ve been having over your taking this job in San Francisco, I thought it was time to give thanks for our blessings instead of arguing our differences. So, with that in mind, Kurt,” she turned to her husband, “will you please say a prayer for us on this occasion?”
Brett’s father frowned with concern as he observed his son and very pregnant daughter-in-law. He bowed his gray head and spoke with grave emotion. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for the blessings of our children and our table, for the wonderful life you have given us. We ask that you give Emily a healthy son, and we fervently pray that you will make Brett see the error of his ways so that he and Emily will return to us soon, unharmed by contact with the sinful people of San Francisco. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Brett rolled his eyes, exchanging glances with his wife. Emily was an attractive girl with the same shoulder-length flaxen hair all the girls in Salt Lake seemed to have.
“Oh, Kurt, dear,” Ellen chided, “couldn’t you have resisted just this one time?”
“The situation is so serious, my dear, that I can’t afford to pass up any opportunity to ask God for his intervention.”
Above the clatter of spoons against serving dishes, Brett repeated for what must have been the thousandth time, “But Dad, God has intervened; why won’t you see this as part of His plan? I can’t believe He made great-uncle Otto a famous archaeologist, and me a scholar of ancient languages unless He had a plan for me.”
“Son, please. Repeating that again won’t change the way I feel about…”
Brett continued over his father’s objection. “And if we couldn’t divine what that plan was in the beginning, He topped it off by having Otto disappear, and the artifacts from the Godfre Temple lent to the Museum in San Francisco for study. Then, when Bergen Cobb read my paper on the crosscurrents of early Mesopotamian languages, and was so impressed he offered me a job deciphering the inscriptions, God’s plan was clear as a roadmap to me: I was meant to accomplish something in San Francisco!”
Kurt was well aware that he, too, was repeating, but he felt so strongly that he couldn’t stop himself. “Why the devil weren’t those artifacts sent here to Brigham Young? We have a fine archaeology department and the Museum of Peoples and Cultures. You could have translated the material without having to leave home. BYU should have gotten those artifacts out of respect for Otto’s long association with the Cairo Museum.”
Weary as she was of the argument, Emily came to Brett’s aid. “That’s precisely proof of God’s plan, Dad. Just as Brett did his field work for the Church in the Middle East, he’s surely destined to convert sinners in San Francisco.”
“That’s a big job for one man, Em. And I don’t like my grandson being brought up around gays. It might be contagious.”
Brett rolled his eyes skyward again. “Statistically, the gay population of San Francisco is a stable fifteen percent. Doesn’t sound like an epidemic to me, Dad. And BYU is dedicated to Mesoamerica, whereas Ancient Cultures has an Egyptian department. Working for Bergen Cobb is the career boost I’ve been looking for.
Ellen refereed as usual. “Gentlemen, please go to your corners. This is a dining table. Let’s forget our differences for a while and enjoy our last meal together.” The two men grumbled a bit but began to eat when Brett’s best friend, Casey, burst into the dining room with his usual force. “Hi to all the Himbers. I came to say goodbye to the misguided couple.”
“Casey, how are you, dear? Ellen asked. He chivalrously kissed both women on the cheek. “Have you eaten? Sit down, I’ll set another place.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Himber. I can always eat more; you remember me.” Casey patted his six-pack belly, then flexed his large biceps for about the seventeenth time that day.
“I certainly do, Casey. I’ve fed a few football players in my time.”
“Well, guys,” he said to Brett and Emily, “are you ready to move to gay Gomorrah?”
They both looked daggers at him. “What’d I say?”
“Nothing that hasn’t been said before,” Ellen sighed. She set a plate in front of Casey and added a knife and fork. “Help yourself, dear. But no more talk of gays until we’re finished eating.”
“There’s still time to change your minds,” Casey slipped in quickly.
“Right you are.” Kurt jumped in. “That’s what I keep saying.” Ellen glared at him.
He harrumphed, and went back to eating.
Casey and Brett had played football together through high school. They were inseparable teammates then, but Brett, with the compact build of a quarterback, went to BYU; and Casey, who was a fullback, quit school to become a fireman. Brett was the scholar, the diligent one of the pair; Casey was Mr. Popularity, always at the center of a
ctivity, a magnet for cheerleaders. He liked the life of a fireman very much. He liked the excitement and helping people; but even more, he enjoyed the continuation of high school camaraderie. That same locker room, name-calling, butt-slapping, biceps-punching atmosphere pervaded the firehouse. Most of the younger firefighters were ex-high school jocks, and they continued playing football in the Fire Department’s league.
After dinner, Casey helped Brett load the last few items into his pickup. Brett and Emily started a round of hugs. “Goodbye, Mom; don’t worry about us,” Emily said.
“We’ll call as soon as we get to the hotel, and we’ll contact the Mormon Church in Oakland when we find an apartment.”
Kurt hugged them both, suppressing a tear. “Take good care of my grandson. Have you picked a name yet?”
“Not yet, Dad. We still have a whole month to decide.”
They all waved; but Casey, reluctant to let Brett go, hung onto the open window as the truck began to roll. “Don’t forget your old friends back home. I’ll be down to visit as soon as you get settled.” As the pickup pulled away, Casey called after them, “And Brett, remember, buddy, don’t bend over in the shower!”
“Whew! That was a trial.” Emily started keying the hotel address into the GPS. They planned to stay the night in Winnemucca.
“Yep, but we made it.” Brett smiled and took her hand. “I love you very much, and from now on our life is going to be perfect.”
“Starting with a new baby in San Francisco.” She lovingly tousled his blond hair.
“Gosh, Casey can be very tiresome at times. Why does he always have to hammer on the gay jokes? It can be so inappropriate.”
“Don’t mind him,” Brett said. “He’s always been obsessed with macho. It’s standard banter for young men in Salt Lake City.”
“But why? We don’t even know any gays. He’s probably never come in contact with one.”
“Frankly, I always supposed it was the one safe topic to pick on. Since the Church opposes gays, it makes them fair game; and since we don’t have any gays here, no one gets hurt.” Brett turned onto the interstate.