The Right Kind of Stupid

by John Oakes

  He moved about the dining hall shaking hands, delivering small bows and chatting with those who spoke English. When he got past the language barrier with the visitors, they seemed a lot like Texans to Cody. They felt a bit culturally superior and struggled with a latent racism, mostly of other Asians. There were a couple unfortunate instances with the attendants though too. Once a guest had hurled a slur in passing at a Filipino groundskeeper who'd swept a leaf on his foot. And once a few guests had asked to take pictures with Antonio, a black Hispanic guy who worked mainly at the General Store. The taking pictures part was routine, but they had about given Glen a heart attack when they asked for his permission to take pictures with "his nigger."

  But on the positive side, they loved fried meat, beer and baseball, along with random other bits of Americana. And to be fair, the cultural missteps went both ways. Cody had blown his nose in front of the first group who came to stay. From the appalled reaction he received, he might as well have reached down his pants and pulled out a nectarine. It was funnier when it happened to others, like when Diego had to tear up a bed of flowering cacti at the entrance to the main house because it indicated that lust and sensual gratification awaited the guests inside.

  They were through the steepest part of the learning curve now, and Cody was beginning to understand, if not the full inner-workings of the Japanese worldview, at least how to make them laugh, smile, and have an all-around wonderful time without incident.

  This morning, Cody ate breakfast with the guests. He generally ate with the staff, in the dorm kitchen, but Mr. Kazuko had made a personal request in his best English for Cody to join him at his table. For a highly respected CEO-type to make such an overture was especially touching to Cody. Besides, it would have been a grave insult to refuse, especially when they were all leaving that afternoon for Japan.

  Cody yielded to curiosity at the buffet line and put a big spoonful of corn on his rice and eggs. He sat next to Kazuko, who asked him questions about his life. No he wasn't married. No kids. He studied at Brown State. No, this was not a prestigious school, but it was well regarded for sports. This got them discussing, via Bad Haircut, the strange association of sports and universities in the United States. Cody had always taken it as a fact of life, but Kazuko explained that no other country on earth had such a large collegiate tradition of athletics. But Kazuko thought it was a good thing, because athletics made the spirit strong and taught teamwork.

  Cody admitted that he was no great athlete, and asked Kazuko if he was.

  "Martial arts," the translator replied. "Fighting with swords."

  Cody was only slightly disappointed to learn that they didn't fight with real swords but wooden versions.

  "But they break bones, can rip skin," Bad Haircut said for Kazuko.

  Cody wanted to ask for a demonstration, but he didn't know if that was rude, so he decided to Google it later. Kazuko stood up holding his orange juice and began to address the crowd in Japanese. Cody didn't know what they were saying, but he caught an Issun-bōshi Shima. Issun-bōshi was a Japanese word Cody heard a lot but didn't know what it meant. But Kazuko said it again a second and third time in his speech. People applauded at one point.

  "Issun-bōshi Shima!" Kazuko declared with his glass held aloft.

  "Issun-bōshi Shima!" the seated men and women declared back to him, some with their own glasses held up.

  Kazuko put a hand on Cody's shoulder and said one more time, but in enthusiastic English, "To Midget-o Island-uh!"

  "Midget-o Island-uh!" came the heavily accented response from the tables.

  ************

  The next day in the administrative suite, Cody held the mocked-up brochure for Jason, Ricky and Winton to see. Jason peered at the cover, where Tanya and Ramon stood in full western regalia and dramatic poses. Ramon was holding a Winchester .44 carbine he had fetched from his uncle's house. In the background, stood the iconic image of the Alamo. At the top of the brochure, there was a smattering of Japanese and the English translation below.

  "Midget Island 3000?" Jason looked up from the brochure with an odd expression on his face. "The hell kinda name is that?"

  Cody nodded, not breathing. He fixed his eyes on Winton who was putting a pill in his mouth. Winton swallowed the pill dry, stowed the bottle and slowly took the brochure from Jason's hand. There was a long silence as Winton considered the cover.

  Cody couldn't take it anymore so he began explaining himself.

  "Remember when you got smashed that one day at Darla's, and then you said you were a 'goddam midget island' or something like that?"

  But maybe he didn't remember, owing to how he had passed out the moment he said it.

  Winton turned the brochures pages in silence.

  "We never had a name for the resort, and well, I guess that's what some of the Japanese people have been calling it too."

  "But it ain't an island," Jason said.

  Cody nodded nervously.

  "It's figurative," Ricky said.

  "I know. It just stuck and...this place...it is sort of an island. It's safe here. We set our own rules. It's ok to be a midget here, or a dwarf or a little person, or a tall loser, whatever. It's safe to just be who you are."

  Cody's mouth was dry and his heart was pounding.

  "Oh God you hate it," he moaned. "Just forget it. I'm sorry."

  Cody went to take it back, but Winton pulled it away.

  "It's awesome." He said flatly, gazing intently at the image. "It's fucking perfect."

  "Why 3000?" Jason asked.

  "Well, I dunno." Cody scratched his head. "I just thought 'Midget Island' was missing something."

  "It's flair," Ricky said with a wink.

  "Yeah," Cody agreed, "3000 is the flair. But it also kinda makes it feel futuristic, not a throwback to the way things were—

  "But the way things could be..." Winton interjected. "It's perfect."

  He slapped the brochure onto Cody's stomach. "It's totally perfect. Midget Island 3000." Winton bayed a laugh. "Ha-Ha! Never has there been, nor will there ever be, a name like that. That will turn heads my friend." Winton clapped him on the arm.

  Cody swelled with relief.

  "Besides," Winton said. "It beats the hell out of Tiny Tombstone."

  "But, I thought you were afraid of being conspicuous," Jason said, bursting Cody's bubble. "I mean it's a real catchy name, I guess," he said chuckling despite himself. "But that's exactly the point. It'll get attention. Are you sure you want that? You could get another muckraking reporter up your ass."

  Cody sighed long and slow, pondering Jason's question.

  "I say call a spade a spade." Cody nodded to himself. "If the only way for us to live in the so-called 'real world' is to make an island for ourselves, then we'd better be willing to fight to keep it."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Grey Zones

  For months, the staff of Midget Island 3000 had communicated with guests through a series of grunts, whistles and pointing. From early on, however, Glen, the former children's hospital clown and now concierge, began learning a smattering of Japanese. By now, months later, Glen was nearly fluent. So when a Japanese man came up to Cody spitting mad, showing him a red mark on his arm that looked vaguely the shape of a human bite, Cody called to the front desk and had Glen sent up to the admin suite on the second floor of the main house, right above the kitchen.

  "He says one of the workers bit him," Glen said.

  "Who was it?" Cody asked.

  Glen translated the question.

  "He says she is small."

  "Thanks for that Glen, can you get anything else?"

  "He said brown hair, white skin, was working in the dining hall. Must be Sophia."

  Sophia was a sweet, happy-go-lucky sort.

  "Why the hell did she bite him?"

  "He says she just did it out of the big wide blue." Then with difficulty, he said, "He says she is a sick dog that should be put down." Glen's face was stricken.
/>   Cody looked daggers at the Japanese man, whose own eyes looked somewhat unsure behind the anger. "Tell Mr...."

  "Mr. Gomi."

  "Tell Mr. Gomi that I will look into the matter and get back to him."

  Glen led him out of the room and returned some time later with Sophia, whose shoulder he was touching comfortingly as he led her through the door. She hopped up into the chair and stared at the floor, with her hands in her lap, clutching a wad of tissue.

  "Sophia, I need you to tell me what happened."

  "I was clearing the plates away that they were finished using. As I reached for that man's plate, he reached down and pinched me in the butt."

  Cody looked at Glen, horrified.

  "I told Delia, the supervisor on duty, and she said not to make a fuss out of it. They do it all the time she said. Japanese custom she said. But then when I went back to clear dessert plates, he picked me up and sat me on his lap. That's when I bit him. I just wanted to get down and he wouldn't let me."

  Sophia began crying again, letting out short little sobs.

  "Sophia, I want to make one thing clear, in no uncertain terms is that behavior acceptable, on these premises or anywhere else."

  "Oh God, am I going to get fired?" she asked through her hands.

  "Fired? No...Oh shit, no. Sophia, his behavior was out of line. As long as you work here, you can bite the shit out of any bastard who lays a hand on you."

  That calmed her down a bit. The fear of losing her job seemed to be more traumatic than the event itself.

  "I'm so sorry that happened, but it won't happen again. I'll take care of it. Now why don't you take the rest of the day off with pay. Do you live in Houston?"

  "I'm from Sugar Land."

  "Well, good. Go home and kiss your mama. You'll feel better."

  "I will, thanks mister Cody."

  "Don't thank me. And go brush your teeth. You don't know where that arm has been."

  Sophia laughed and slid down off the chair.

  Cody instructed Glen to find Delia. Then he called for Winton, by yelling for him and pounding on the wall behind him.

  "What's so damn important?" Winton asked from the doorway a minute later. He was still holding the New York Times. "I heard you from the can."

  "We got a sexual harassment suit in the making here. That's the problem."

  Cody related Sophia's tale, the most disturbing part of which was that Delia had said that sort of thing was normal and apparently going unreported.

  Delia was next to enter the room. She actually seemed surprised that she was being reprimanded.

  "This happens all the time," Delia said, hands held out. "They like the grab-ass a little more than American guys, but still, in the food service game, it happens."

  Delia shrugged.

  "Delia, it sure as hell does not happen here." Cody shook his head to one side. "I understand if you were just trying to not make a fuss. But this place," Cody looked around the room, "can't be just another road house. It can't be just another business. This island is about getting to do things your way for once. That means no one working here is going to be expected to have their ass grabbed and just take it. Next time you see this you deal with it promptly. You got me? Or I will find someone that will. You protect your people, ok?"

  "Alright, alright. I won't let you down, I promise."

  Cody let things go with a warning, when he could have justified firing her. He had never fired anyone, though, and hated the thought.

  He sighed heavily before he fished a bottle and two glasses out of his desk drawer. He poured one for Winton and one for himself. He leaned back and kicked his feet up on his desk. This was his happy place, where he could calm himself and think straight. Having a business was hard, but it was a great excuse to have a desk. Having a desk made him someone with a job to do, a role to play. Plus he liked to imagine his office in black and white and himself as the private eye waiting for his next case. That's what business was, he had found, just one case to solve after another.

  He and Winton enjoyed their tumblers of whiskey in pensive silence until Cody sat up and asked, "How much of this sort of boloney is going on you think?"

  "Hard to tell," Winton said, broken from a reverie by Cody's question. "We'd have to ask Glen. But he might be keeping an eye on the wrong butts."

  Cody laughed instinctively but then asked what the hell Winton was talking about.

  Winton told him, but Cody still was puzzled.

  "Gay? Glen isn't gay."

  Come to think of it Cody had no idea.

  "Oh yeah," Winton said, "gayer than a bag of rainbows."

  "He doesn't talk gay or walk around all sassy."

  "What? 1995 called and they want their ignorance back. You gotta update your gaydar, Cody. There are lots of kinds of gay guys. You've got your flamers, your bears, your twinks, your tops, bottoms, power bottoms, husbands, wives, the whole gamut."

  "What is Glen?"

  "Glen?" pondered Winton. "Glen is a mother."

  "A mother?"

  "Yeah. Maybe even a grandmother." Winton smiled wide.

  Cody tried to imagine Glen being his grandmother. Esmeralda, his mom's mom, wouldn't even let him call her grandmother or abuela or abuelita or nana, nothing, all because it made her feel old. That woman was like a stack of jagged rocks. How his mother had grown up to be so sweet and good-natured was still a mystery. But Glen and Grandma Irene? Yeah, Cody could see the similarities there.

  "A grandmother gay..." Cody intoned. "Learn something new every day I guess. Is anyone else gay I don't know about?"

  "Probably thousands of them. Maybe you are gay and you are just so clueless you haven't even figured that out yet."

  "I'm all about the ladies, Winton." He extended an arm toward Winton. "Straight as an arrow."

  "How come I've never seen you with a girl then? Even if you are ugly as sin, being rich as hell should more than make up for it."

  "I've been told I have a perfectly nice face, thank you very much."

  "Seriously though. You're 6-foot-4, funny, sensitive and honest. I know you don't want to hear it, but let's not forget rich."

  "I'm not really rich though. I don't have money really. I just have two credit cards that never stop working."

  "Try explaining that difference to poor people. Listen, if you're so damn hetero, why aren't you dating a Cowboys' cheerleader? You lose your wiener in a woodworking accident or something?"

  "I've got a couple ladies who are, you know...in the mix."

  That was true in the sense that he was exchanging abstinence devotionals over email with his devious step-grandmother and was periodically allowed to swoon in the presence of his dream girl, who wouldn't even go on a date with him.

  "Well, if you leave them in the mixer much longer," Winton said, "the beater's liable to fall off. Whatever happened with the lawyer you liked? Did you break through that guard?"

  "I think...a little."

  "Did you go Kool-aid Man or Trickle?"

  "Not sure which. I took her out in the woods and accidentally got her drunk."

  Winton squinted up one whole side of his face. "My God," he said in an astonished tone. "He found a third way!"

  "Well, who knows? She tried to kiss me, but I didn't let her."

  Winton made a dumbfounded face. "Cody. Rule number one of dating is let women kiss you."

  "She wasn't thinking straight. It wasn't to be noble. I just was so scared she'd regret it and end up hating me. Haven't seen or heard much from her since then. Been pretty businesslike."

  "Sometimes guards have to be smashed more than once," Winton said. "But, I have hope for you yet, young padawan. After all, you're the man who found a third way!"

  ************

  A few days had passed since Sophia's encounter. They had questioned Glen who said he wasn't aware of any harassment, but said he would keep an eye out. But now it seemed like someone had turned on a faucet of bizarre and questionable happenings. For instance, Han
k, one of the landscaping crew, was spotted riding a Japanese man like a horse, while onlookers took pictures. When asked, he said he was trying to be nice for the guests.

  "Besides, Cody, they tipped me fair for it."

  Playing horsey was not the end of the world. But just in case people thought it was their duty to do things like that, Cody issued a memo to the entire staff that explained that they were not to engage in any acts that they felt were demeaning. As a general rule, Winton added to the memo, if they were touching the guests, then they probably should rethink what they were doing.

  Before a week had gone by, Chester and Sara K. were found being used as footstools. Two Japanese men had offered them $100 each for fifteen minutes. When put to the question, they'd said something along the lines that they didn't like doing it, but for $100 they'd probably do it again. And besides, they asked, what was the harm if they were ok with it?

  Cody needed help.

  Tagg made semi-regular trips to Midget Island 3000, once a month at least. His responsibilities were minimal, but it was plain that if Tagg could help pack the place out each week, it would speed up Cody's profits and the purchase date. Tagg had done well to put the word out that if you had Japanese clients you needed to house in or around Houston, then Midget Island 3000 was the place. And if you were trying to sell a missile defense system, all the better.

  Since construction was completed, Tagg's visits had become slightly more frequent. Cody would have guessed it would have been the other way around, as daily operations were not Tagg's responsibility. Then again, Cody had never imagined a world where Tagg would be helping him sort out a problem. Cody was beginning to understand what Tagg had said at their first meeting in Houston. You really didn't have to like the people you did business with.

  Cody greeted him at Tagg's Mercedes and was walking him into the main house as gunfire erupted from the Old West. Tagg looked up, alarmed.

  "Oh that's normal," Cody said dismissively. "They discovered shotguns."

  He sat Tagg down at a table in the dining hall and began telling him about the problems he had been noticing.