Franks and Beans: An Adventure in the YMCA Locker Room

“What’s the soup du-jour?” Lloyd
“It’s the soup of the day.” Flo
“Sounds delicious! I’ll take it.” Lloyd
Dumb and Dumber

Caviar. Zerex Vinaigrette. Bruschetta. All of the top restaurants serve fancy foods such as these and others whose names a nice restaurant connoisseur (i.e. not me) would be able to think of. Even food that is not necessarily fancy, weird looking, and over priced is sometimes given fancy French names like “du jour” if it is the special of the day, or “a la mode” if you are serving ice cream with it.[1] I even like some fancy food. I am always up for all-you-can-eat sushi places.[2] Sometimes (actually, usually), I would rather just have nice simple basic staple food.[3] Some days, I am satisfied with a nice peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or bowl of cereal, or, if I want to actually turn on the stove top and cook, pork and beans.

Foi gras! I just thought of another fancy food. Damn, I’m the man. I feel like George W. Bush must feel when he manages to think of one those foreign leader names. “Mock—Mah—Ood Zar—Kowwww—eeeeh. How’s that for all you freedom haters!? Saddam was hiding Ginormous Nukular weapons.”

Pork and beans is always great. In fact, I was looking forward to cooking myself some tonight until I decided to go the gym for some exercise after work. Now, the gym is an interesting place to do some amateur observational sociology. There are so many That Guys (and That Girls) at the gym.[4] There is That Guy with the perfectly gelled hair who walks slowly by the mirrors, turning his head ever so slightly to see his flexed muscles. That Guy is usually wearing a wife beater or a tight t-shirt, with mesh shorts an inch below his boxers, and brand new white sneakers. There is also his metrosexual cousin That Guy with the perfectly gelled hair who never really lifts any weights, but hogs a workout machine while talking with his friends. There is That Guy with the chest hair coming out the top of his t-shirt, That Guy who is overweight and sweats a little bit too much, and That Guy who wears spandex. I really hate That Guy! Could you please smuggle grapes somewhere else? There are also plenty of That Girls. There is That Girl who wears spandex when she probably shouldn’t be. There is That Girl with muscles a little too big. There is That Hot Girl who is just there to look pretty and make the other women feel bad knowing they will never have that good a body. Wait! I like That Girl. She can stay.

The strangest sociological observation at the YMCA can be made not in the workout area, with all of those That Guys and That Girls. It is to be found in locker room. I can’t even call it a That Guy thing, because to be That Guy, it has to one guy, or a handful who fill an archetype. But this “situation” involves a large number of men, plus a majority of men over 60. Yes, it’s the naked thing. There is something about YMCA locker rooms that causes older men to think they are in the Garden of Eden or something. It’s one thing to get naked in front of your locker and change clothes. These guys just wander everywhere. To the bathroom, to the mirror, to the shower sans towel. They even stand on the scale and weigh themselves with the saggy jewels hanging out. Is a pair of boxers really going to add that much weight? With all those old saggy franks and beans hanging around, I knew I would not be eating franks and beans for dinner tonight. I had quite enough at the gym.

The only thing I can imagine to be worse than seeing a bunch of old naked men would be the women’s locker room, if the old women do the same. And, no, I am not gay. I just don’t want to see old saggy boobs. I am glad I never saw About Schmidt. I will never have to worry about Kathy Bates’ nude scene giving me an awful visual of what a women’s locker room would look like. Although, if That Hot Girl who is just there to look pretty walks around in her birthday suit, I would not mind that visual.[5]

[1] “A la mode” does not even mean “with ice cream on the side.” I think it means “I will go have a cigarette. I am le tired.”
[2] Which I imagine can be a let down for the senior citizens and the 300 hundred pound white trash folks who think that all buffets resemble Old Country, and find that instead of the desired slabs of crappy meat and funny looking gravy, are faced with tiny pieces of wrapped fish that they did not know even exists. I’m sure it is equally disconcerting for the rich Japanese businessmen and hip young Seattle urbanites who expect a certain ambience at their sushi places and run into the geriatrics and the trailer trash.
[3] Yes, I know I am going overboard with the footnotes. It’s not like I’m trying to win a Pulitzer here. If I was, I would write one of those smug New York Times columns about how the inner city is exploiting the urban poor who have no way out, stretch the story for a week, and find some sob story about some guy in jail for selling drugs because he has no father figure in his life, to show that I care while simultaneously not really doing anything substantial to change his shitty life.
[4] Yes, another footnote. I talked about the phenomena of That Guy-ness in an earlier column: http://spidgetales.blogspot.com/2005/10/dont-be-that-guy.html . The idea comes from Bill Simmons, who writes the Sports Guy column for ESPN Page 2, so credit him.
[5] Okay, I know these shorts stories are supposed to be fiction, and 99% of them will be. But even though this one is true, it is funny enough to warrant inclusion.

An Epic Poem

The princess fell into a sleep so deep.
The King, her father, proclaimed on this day
“I must put a stop to my heart that doth weep”
And in proclamation, “here forth I say…”

“In marriage, I shall give my daughter’s hand
To the one who seeking the potion and finds
The potion without flavor and bland
Yet in blandness this potion shall be kind

For this potion you shall be sure
As you test it on the dark forest elf
Will be the one for the princess’s cure
That you must bring back to the Kingdom shelf.”

I set forth on my journey that day
For the potion to my princess’s heart.
For her cure, that is, I mean to say.
The dark forest edge is where I start.

I follow a pathway to the place
Where the magic potions hide.
The pathway vanished without a trace.
Two monsters shall fight, I must choose a side.

A goobledie gook and a kalamazoo
In a struggle, before they commence
Ask me what I shall do
A decision that must come hence

Kalamazoo and gobbledie gook
Each promise to help me
Then give me that look.
A choice to make, I now see.

If I choose in the wise,
The princess’s potion I get.
If my choice meets demise,
Then my fate also is set.

I choose to back the Kalamazoo
Whose fight results in victory.
A sigh of relief, sounding “whew”
The potion I can practically see.

The potion tastes like beer and ale
I know this cannot be right.
I find a boat and set to sail
In hopes the “real” potion is in sight.

I crossed some pirates in search of treasure
They say it is buried underground
They have yet to find their pleasure
For it is not gold, but a potion they found

Before I could have the potion I sought
I knew I must find gold to trade
It is a treasure that must be caught
Before getting the potion for my fair maid

To McDonald’s I sail
To buy a happy meal
Quite a twist in this tale
But don’t ask now, “what’s the deal?”

In my happy meal was a prize
It was a magical, special key
Upon it once I laid my eyes
To a sight for all to see

The key I showed to Pirate Jack
“This key, to treasure shall it lead”
I said, “Now put the potion in a sack.”
On my part, a dangerous deed

I set sail for the forest of the elf
In hope the pirates did not yet learn
Of the key received from myself
The wrong key for the treasure they yearned.

I found Forest Elf in the Keebler Tree
I showed the potion I hoped would heal
But, first I had to take a pee
For, now I must have broken the seal

“This potion is blah and bland”
yelped Keebler elf, who was a mess
“Take this back to the land
Where sleeping still is the princess.”

Before the princess I could reach
The road signs set me for a fall
First I got lost on the beach
And then was stuck in Montreal

Lo, this was not so bad
I found a friend named Youppie
He survived the Expos fad
And even had a groupie

No groupies for me
My heart is for the beauty in sleep
As is easy for one to see
The fun for now is left to Youppie

Youppie fought the fire-breathing dragon
They battled with honor and pride.
It was a draw; we were given a wagon.
Dragon, in respect, had loaned us a ride

This wagon to the Kingdom we took.
Of course, with a not so unexpected detour.
We were caught by the pirate with a hook.
The fight we had done left us sore.

This was not the pirate I had fooled.
Those pirates I never did again meet.
This different pirate was a tool.
He wanted the potion for princess, how neat.

“We have reached the Kingdom!” said I
to Youppi as we entered the walls.
“Finally,” I spoke with a sigh
“I can check my cell phone calls”

To the king I brought the potion.
He seemed busy, and said “next time first ring”
But was certainly intrigued by the notion.
“The cure is here!” said the king,
“Now it is time for me to sing!”

The princess was given the potion for sure.
At first her eyes stayed shut.
We wondered if ‘twas really the cure.
This must not be the end, but…

…just as I thought ‘twas all for naught
the princess’s eyes twinkled
And so a wedding ring I bought.
“Yay, I’ll be married before I am wrinkled.”

“Dear princess, our love will never end.
May your hand in marriage have I?”
“I like you just as a friend”
Said princess with sadness in her eye.

“You are way too obsessed in your quest
To try and win my heart.
To you,” said princess, “I wish all the best.
And watch the baked beans, they make you fart.”

You may find this story sad
But all is not lost.
Her hand could not be had
But all along that was the cost

My adventure did not turn out all poopy,
I got nice pictures on my digital cam.
I made a great friend named Youppi
And the King rewarded me with a dinner ham.

Michael and the Devil

Every story has a good guy. Every good story has a bad guy. Our bad guy in this story is Michael, a lowlife ticket-scalping bum. Michael did not begin his professional life as a ticket scalper. He used to be a corporate executive. He graduated first in his business class at Yale—even finding time to add a second major in modern philosophy—and landed a prestigious internship at Wall Street company Stanley, Marvin, & Gould. By age twenty-four, he advanced to executive assistant and landed a six-figure salary.

Michael had the world at his hands. His status granted him entrance to the best clubs and private parties in New York. He could have any woman—as many women as— he wanted. Instead, he stayed grounded to his roots. He was raised in a God-fearing Midwest family. His momma told him every day to stay humble. The Lord graciously gives, but the Lord can just as easily take everything away. Michael eschewed fancy sports cars for a humble used vehicle. He avoided gambling, drink, and loose women. He saved his best suits for Sundays, making sure to look his best for the Lord at Church.

On a Tuesday in his third year at Stanley, Marvin, & Gould, Michael received a promotion and became the youngest corporate executive in company history. That same day, a young Hispanic woman named Isabel joined the firm as staff human resources assistant. By the end of the year, Michael and Isabel were married.

Michael and Isabel had a perfect surface level marriage. Isabel personified the loving doting wife. Michael embodied the dutiful husband. Home life appeared wonderful to Michael, but secretly Isabel worried about Michael’s long hours at the office. Wall Street always won any conflict between work and family. Isabel was not raised in this kind of lifestyle. She grew up in a big family. Aunts, uncles, and cousins were always around on holidays and birthdays. Michael’s family lived in the Midwest and he, himself, chose to work many holidays, leaving her home alone to celebrate many Christmases. Her family lived close by, but she would not embarrass herself and show up for a celebration without her husband.

One year, Michael came home on a Fourth of July, imploring the elevator in the apartment building to speed up to their 90th floor penthouse. “Isabel, I’m sorry I’m late. I know we were planning a Caribbean vacation for this week. But I am swamped at work. We really need to meet our quarterly. You understand.”

“Michael, you are never home,” said Isabel. “It’s always work, work, work. Su familia es no importante. I can no live like this no more.”

“Honey, I can make this up to you. Make love to me. Let’s make a baby.”

“No! Nada. Why? So your child, su hijo, can grow up without a father ever being there for him? No mas, Miguel. I’m sorry, but I leaving you. I want a divorce.”

“Wait! What did I do? Everything I do—all these long hours at work—I do it all for you. I want to give you the life I never had as a kid. I want to give you the life you could have never dreamed of. I want our kids to have better childhoods than us.”

“We are no having kids. My childhood was bien. I don’t care about the money. I want a husband who is there. Goodbye, Miguel.”

Michael went into a deep depression. He lost focus at Stanley, Marvin, & Gould, and become intolerable to work with. Profits were down. Michael was let go. Officially, the reason was corporate downsizing. Michael tried his hand at everything from fast food burger flipper to department store cashier. Nothing stuck. No job lasted more than a few months. His obsession with Isabel led to hiding outside the window of her mother’s home, where she had moved back in. He followed her to work, sometimes walking beside and begging for another chance. Isabel remarried and, around the same time, placed a restraining order on Michael. She could deal with the stalking. When the stalking became threats to kill her, she said enough is enough.

Unable to pay the mortgage, Michael gave up his penthouse for a small rental apartment. His savings whittled away until he was out on the street. He did beg, but did not need to as much as other bums. His shrewd business sense helped get him into the ticket scalping business. Corporate season ticket holders for the Yankees, Mets, Knicks, and Rangers used him as a go between to scalp their tickets to the average fan. Michael took a cut; usually twenty percent, and gave the rest to his dealers. If you ever wondered why scalpers sometimes charge as much as double face value, here is your reason.

Michael lost touch with friends and family and even began to curse God. He only had one friend. In fact, this friend was his only real acquaintance. Sometimes every few days, sometimes once a week, a dark haired Caucasian man, appearing in his middle fifties but with not a trace of gray or receding hair, came to visit Michael. Sometimes he would visit Michael outside the corner store where he begged. Sometimes he visited Michael outside Yankee Stadium or Shea Stadium or Madison Square Garden, always in a remote spot to keep their talks private. Sometimes he visited Michael down the alley where he slept on warm summer nights. The man was always impeccably dressed. He never strayed from three-piece suits, and never showed a hint of wrinkle or stain in his clothes.

The first few visits, the man stayed fairly quiet, allowing Michael to explain his situation. The fourth visit, Michael finally asked the man’s name. “My name is not important,” answered the man. “Just call me your advocate. I am here to help. We’ll figure out how to get you out of this mess.” Michael and his advocate began a series of conversations on modern and postmodern philosophy from Descartes to Nietzsche and beyond, before Michael finally shared the crux of his internal struggle.

“I had everything,” said Michael one day during his advocate’s visit. “I know the pitfalls of the corporate life. I watched other Wall Street big shots lose it because of drinking, drugs, and carousing. That was not me. I avoided that lifestyle. I loved God. I married a good woman. I loved my wife. She had no reason to leave me. What kind of God would allow that? If there is a God, He is a monster.”

Michael sat on the sidewalk, with his back against the wall of a corner convenience store that took up the first floor of a twenty-story apartment building. Michael’s legs lay flat on the ground, pointed straight ahead. He wore a hood over his face, with the eyeholes cut out for vision. He held in front of his waist a tin can missing its soup label, and jingled it every so often to hear the sound of change dropped in from pitying pedestrians. The apartment building that Michael sat against stood adjacent to a second apartment building, situated on Michael’s right. An alley lay between the buildings, housing dumpsters and showing fire escape ladders zigging and zagging every which way up the sides of each building. The second building’s first floor housed a popular vegetarian breakfast diner. Patrons of the diner acted as if they cared more about making the world a better place than the lower income patrons of the corner store. However, more corner store customers dropped coins in Michael’s tin cup. The few diner patrons who did tithe the homeless gave more than the average corner store shopper, but also made a show of it, hoping to be seen by others as the caring persons they are. Michael’s advocate, impeccably dressed as always, stood in the shadows of the alley, just out of eyesight of passersby. He sometimes wore a trench coat, but the temperature was reasonably warm for a late October morning. He wore only his linen free dark suit jacket over his perfectly ironed white shirt and black tie. His shoes were on a rotation. Last time, he wore dark brown Pradas to match his outfit. This day, he wore Armani.

“You have it all wrong,” said the advocate. He spoke gently, seeking to assuage Michael’s concerns. “God is not a monster. Think of the Almighty as a storyteller. Think of any good book or movie. Would you ever follow a story where everyone starts out happy, stays happy in the middle, and finishes happy?”

“No, I wouldn’t. But that is just in stories. In real life, no man should go through all that suffering unless he deserves it. God is a monster.”

“Is he? Or is he playing a game?”

“He certainly is not good.”

“Precisely. He is no monster, but he is not good, either. What is good and evil anyway? It’s all a matter of perspective. He throws a little happiness and suffering in every which direction for the sake of His own folly. He is like a five year old who tortures insects. Is that five year old evil for ripping the legs off one ant before pushing it into a fight against an ant with all its legs? I say he is not. He is playing a game, and seeing if the ant with all its powers or the ant with the adversity will win. The boy has the power, and he is asserting his control. Wouldn’t you do likewise? Well, that is the way of God.”

Michael showed a slight comfort, but still was not convinced. His advocate released a tender understanding sigh and continued in a most gentle voice. “My dear Michael—I knew another Michael once; he and I did not see eye to eye—you need to stop worrying about this God. That tale I told you about God: is it true? I don’t know. Who does know? You need live for yourself. Who else will help you, really, but you?”

“I always placed my trust in God. I trusted the corporate board at Stanley, Marvin, & Gould. I trusted my wife. Where are they now?” Michael sat against the store wall, looking up to his right and back, where his advocate stood, still in the shadows. Michael’s frustration contrasted with his advocate’s calm composure.

“They deserted you, Michael,” said his advocate. The advocate grinned, revealing a smile of self-contentment at his own wisdom. “You are on your own. I am here to help you see that.”
Michael sensed a hint of contradiction in his advocate. “If I’m on my own, why are you here helping me?”

“Like I said, I am your advocate. I never said I am altruistic. I am like a lawyer or an agent. When I help my client, I help myself, too. Wouldn’t you rather have someone helping you who is in it for himself? No one can really be altruistic. I say beware of the person who claims he is doing something out of the goodness of his heart. There are always ulterior motives.”

“What about the true believing Christian? Or, the faithful Muslim and faithful Jew? How about the helpful Buddhist? They help others for no reward. They do it because they love God and love humanity.”

“Don’t be fooled. All that altruism can be attributed to hope for Heaven, for the promised seventy-two virgins, for a future nirvana and enlightenment. They all act out of selfish desire. There is no love of humanity. A real lover of humanity would not bother with putting on a show of ‘good works.’ A real lover of humanity would call for each man and woman to live life how he or she pleases, to find his or her own happiness and not be satisfied with notions of happiness imposed by others.”

“What about love? What about real true love?” Michael thought back to his early days with Isabel. Surely, they had true love for a moment. Those first years, they loved one another unconditionally.

“You are naïve. There is not such a thing. All love is selfish. The true lover cares not for her lover’s well being. The true lover wishes to dominate her beloved, until he is consumed and made over into the way she pleases. Even God’s love is like this. A true ‘loving’ God, if love were how we idealistically pretend it to be, would let people be. He would let people be happy fulfilling their personal desires (That is what happiness is; getting what you want). In the Garden, God would have shouted, ‘bravo, you passed the test,’ when Adam and Eve ate the apple. No ‘good’ God—and again, good is relative, but you know what I mean—would condemn Adam and Eve for seeking out knowledge. He does not desire human happiness. He desires to dominate humans. He wants their forced submission. Any who seeks to stand out gets sent down. God wishes for mediocrity and conformity.”

“Who are you?” asked Michael. Something troubled him about the advocate. Was it his consistent smirk? Was it his always impeccable clothing? Someone with the advocate’s sense of style usually is not found working as a public defender. Why would someone of such stature—his advocate most certainly was of high status—waste time helping Michael when he surely could work for a higher-class clientele? His advocate seemed more the type to help the pre-homeless rising Wall Street superstar Michael than the current incarnation of Michael.

“Like I said, I am your advocate. I am here to help.”

“Who is paying you?”

“That is not your concern. Just be glad I am here to help.”

Michael showed serious concern. “I know who you are! Get away from me.”

‘Oh, please. I can no more go away from you than you can go away from yourself. If you did not want me here, I wouldn’t be here.”

“You are Satan! You are the devil!”

“Call me by whatever name you may. I prefer to simply be called your advocate. There is no devil. Devil is a negative term attached to the believed enemy of humanity. In a world in which good and evil are meaningless concepts, the term ‘devil’ has no value. I am no enemy to humanity; I am humanity’s greatest friend.”

“I used to be a church going man. My pastor told me that the greatest trick the devil ever pulled is convincing the world he doesn’t exist.”

“Nonsense. The greatest trick the religious preacher ever pulled is convincing his flock to demonize those who claim their own pursuit of happiness; to demonize those who show humanity the true way to fulfillment.”

“You are wrong, sir. And, are you worthy even of the title ‘sir?’ I know many religious people who are happy. Their faith in God gives them comfort.”

“My dear Michael, you have reversed the truth. Faith does not give comfort. God does not give comfort. People only offer God their faith if they already have comfort in the first place. Only those who are happy give their faith to God. And that in itself is a lie. They are happy because they were selfish in the first place and sought out their own delights. They then give their assent to God, pretending as if they really thank Him for internal peace. Only the already happy and content praise God. The unhappy resent Him. They have no faith. Even the unhappy who go to Church, who claim to praise Him, are living a lie. They secretly resent Him, and offer praise out of stubbornness, the same way the man whose wife betrays him stays by her side. It is not out of love, but out of spite. He puts on the façade of dutiful, suffering husband, to show his superiority to his philandering wife, when, in his secret heart, he abhors and loathes her. The unhappy who praise God secretly abhor Him. The happy who praise God truly only delight in themselves.”

“Get away from me, you monster,” shouted Michael. “Help me, help me,” he cried out to a policeman walking by the corner store, on his way to the vegetarian diner. “Get this man away from me!”

“There is no one else here, you crazy bum,” said the cop.

Michael turned, but could no longer see his advocate. “Where did you go?”

“I’m over here, Michael.” His advocate had walked to the corner of the diner and stood further back in the small alley between the store and the diner. “I am your advocate, Michael. Don’t make me angry by bringing others into this.”

Michael sensed something ominous. He felt a sudden fear. “What do you want?” Michael trembled.

“I am here to help, Michael. Like I said, I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want me here. I am an advocate. I am your advocate now. I am an advocate for humankind. I am man’s true advocate. Do you know the story of Job?”

“Yes. As I said, I used to be a church going man. I know all the major Bible stories.”

“I was Job’s advocate. I saw right through God. The people who praised Him and worshipped Him only did so because they happened to be the lucky few blessed with good fortune. And, again, good is relative. What I mean by ‘good’ here is the type of fortune that grants a man subjective happiness (happiness is and must be subjective. What else can happiness be but that which brings an individual pleasure; always different for each person). God disagreed with me and pointed to a fellow named Job. Job was faithful, all right; but he was faithful for the same reasons as others. He was blessed by fortune. He had a good wife and children. He had all the beasts and livestock he could desire. I asked God to take everything away from Job. God surprisingly took me up on my offer. And I need not tell you the rest of the story. As an old churchgoer, you know all about Job’s dung heap and his three false friends.”

“Yes I do. But, you are wrong. Job proved his true faith to God. He may have questioned God and grown angry, but in the end he regained his faith.”

“He never had true faith. No one ever has.”

“What about He?” asked Michael. Michael smiled underneath the hood he wore. He believed he had found a solution to his advocate’s riddle.

“Ah…He,” said his advocate. The advocate showed his biggest smile yet. He had the perfect foil to play off. “The Word made flesh. He doesn’t count. And even He, I almost broke Him. He begged out in Gethsemane before going through with it. Those words on the cross, Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachtani, I will always have those to hold onto. For all He did, He was a failure. He only wanted blind obedience. I offered Him the power to feed humanity, to mystify humanity, to grant humanity happiness, but he turned it all down and relegated mankind to suffering. Humans were the same after He came as before.”

“But Job was different. Even if no one else but He had true faith, Job had true faith along with Him.”

“No! Job’s ‘faith’ only came back when God granted him another wife, more children, and more oxen and asses than he had before. One other time—and this is not in your Scriptures—God took me up on a wager. Pope Leo XIII in the 1880’s heard our wager in a dream. Sometime after the wager over Job, I asked for a wager on a greater scale. I asked for power over man for an entire era. He granted me the twentieth century. He told me that I could do whatever I pleased to pull his flock away. Whoa boy, did I have fun making plans and arrangements. I laid my battle plan on the table so He could see what I had in store—you know; I’m a nice guy. I wanted Him to see what He was getting himself into. That way, he couldn’t renege on our deal later based on lack of information. The Almighty agreed to my plan. He agreed to everything. It is said that Pope Leo woke up in a night sweat after seeing me negotiate with God in a dream. He immediately gathered his Cardinal advisors and told of his disturbing vision. He commissioned a special prayer to your namesake St. Michael—I think I mentioned him earlier; he is God’s suck up—to prepare his Church for the coming calamities. His warnings were, alas, in vain. That century has just ended. Look at your world now.”

“So that is why the twentieth century witnessed two world wars, the Holocaust, the Gulag, and many other genocides.” Michael believed he had caught his advocate.

“No! That is what He would like you to believe. Yes, there was carnage on large scales. But, the world population has risen, too. The violence only seems worse than in past ages. And,” said the advocate as his voice softened into an easy calm, “sometimes lives must be sacrificed to usher in new awakenings. The twentieth century was the age of technological advancement, of the rise of a new humankind that looked to itself for success, not pious words mouthed to the sky. I am the one who opened a new awakening. It is this new awakening that caused Pope Leo dread. The Church would like you to believe that Pope Leo was disturbed by visions of the great wars and the Shoah. This is not true. The Church lies. She does not care if mankind is struck by death and destruction. All she cares for is her own personal power and control. Her nightmare has come true. Man has begun to think for himself, and live as if he is in control of his own destiny.”

“You are Satan! Get away from me!”

“Please.” His advocate did not break into anger, like when the policeman had walked by. He remained smooth and calm. “How many times must I tell you that I am here because you want me here? There is no Satan. And how should I know if there is a God?

“How can you claim ignorance on the question of God?” asked Michael, slightly flustered. You personally met him! You and He play wagers on human happiness.”

“That means nothing. I have ‘met’ Him many times. But to know of His existence? To know of anyone’s existence outside of myself? Dear friend, this knowledge is not possible. Since I think, experience, and see, I know that I exist. Beyond that, I cannot be sure. Think of crazy men in the asylum; they claim to see what is not there. How do I know what I see is really there?

“And even this ‘I’ that I speak of; it is an illusion. Think of a computer. A computer has no independent will. It types the letter ‘Z’ because you press ‘Z’ on the keyboard and command it so.” His advocate smiled, delighting in his rational sophistication. He continued. “Even when the computer thinks and acts on its own—in a game of video chess or in a random check for viruses—it is not really thinking on its own but only acting based on prior programming instructions it has been fitted with. We are no more, my advocate says, than advanced computers. Those ‘free’ choices we make; we have been pre-wired by nature to make them. Sure, I could be counseling another low-life bum. But it is no more a choice than when the computer moves a pawn instead of a bishop in response to the computer player’s previous move. Sure, the computer could have just as easily moved the bishop; maybe in the same situation in another game he would. But it is no choice. It is as much an illusion of choice as when you get a Big Mac at McDonald’s one day and a double cheeseburger the next.

“Those stories I told you? The Job story is in every Bible. That story about the Pope’s dream? You can find it on any conservative Catholic webpage proclaiming the threat of secularism. Do you remember the medication you used to take?”

“Yes,” said Michael. Memories began to flood his head. “My momma started giving it to me when I was eight. I still had my imaginary friends. They weren’t imaginary to me, but momma was concerned. The other boys gave up their pretend friends before kindergarten or soon after. I stayed with my medication through high school, college, and even into my job on Wall Street. After Isabel left me and I kept losing jobs, I got depressed. Plus, I had no income to keep buying my meds. I tried to buy them with money I made scalping, but my meds are prescription. I would pull out twenties, even hundreds, but they still wouldn’t give them to me. And, no doctor will prescribe them to a bum without a mailing address.”

His advocate rolled his eyes and huffed. “You would find a way to get those meds if you wanted them. I am only here because you want me here.”

“I suggest you just leave,” Michael said sternly.

His advocate threw up his arms in a show of incredulousness. “I am your advocate. I am the only one you have. You need to stop taking shit from people. It’s not your fault Isabel left you. You did everything you could for her. It’s not your fault she was too stubborn to see that you were making money for her. Well, it’s time to live for yourself. Stop expecting your life to have meaning and purpose. You need to create your own meaning. You need to show the world this truth. The next person who walks by appearing as if he has the world in his hands; you need to tear him down, and show him the emptiness in his life. The next passerby who refuses to acknowledge your existence, who refuses to pity you a penny, needs to see that one moment can change everything. The next person to walk by and not give you a dime, show him who is boss. And, get up off your ass and take that filthy hood off your face!”

Michael turned toward the street and shouted to the passersby, everyone and anyone in particular, “would you spare me some change? Please help an old man.” He turned again, hoping for a nod of confirmation from his advocate. The advocate had gone. Michael was on his own to live up to his new calling.

A young man in his mid twenties approached. He reached into his pocket, looking to help out a bum in need. He pulled his hand out empty. The young man spoke. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any change.”