Cross Dressing (28 page)

Dan used to come home from a day at The Prescott Agency and automatically turn something on—the TV, the stereo, usually both. As long as there was noise—noise that passed as entertainment, noise that passed as news, noise that tried to sell you stuff. The noise was distracting. It demanded one’s attention. It kept one’s mind off anything substantial. Far easier to spend sixty seconds wondering if that wacky lizard was going to get the frog’s job selling beer than to spend it pondering life. Dan imagined Socrates pitching beer:
The unexamined life
is
worth living, but only if you drink enough Budweiser …

But now Dan was free of all that. He was no longer subjected to the constant babble of electronic sales pitches; better still, he no longer had to spend his days creating the damn things. It was a relief he could never have imagined. Now, at the end of his long days, Dan returned to his little apartment and reveled in the simplicity of it all. He had come to recognize the pleasure of quiet. He enjoyed the peace of mind that came from not having to schedule his night’s television programming—watching one thing while taping another, surfing seventy channels in search of the perfect arresting image, making sure he didn’t miss any must-see TV.

Dan had to laugh because it occurred to him that over the past several weeks he had made a radical lifestyle-segmentation transformation. He had converted from being a retailer’s dream come true (“Gold Card Swinger”) to a retailer’s worst nightmare (“Downshifter”). Dan had known about the “voluntary simplicity” movement for years. It had made a small blip on the advertising industry’s radar but had been dismissed as a threat to consumerism because it was inherently un-American—or at least could be made to seem that way. Contrary to what many were saying, however, “voluntary simplicity” wasn’t about living in poverty; it was about living in balance. Instead of seeking fulfillment in the things you bought, downshifting was about seeking fulfillment in the things you did. It was about frugal consumption, ecological awareness, and personal growth. It was about spending less and enjoying more. It was a reaction to life that offered more conveniences but less time. It was a healing response to the fact that we had multiplied our possessions but reduced our values. Dan had definitely downshifted, though he’d be the first to admit that his consumptive simplicity hadn’t come about voluntarily. Dan had been so busy pursuing a lifestyle that he had failed to grasp life.

Sitting in his ratty chair, Dan took the opportunity to
gather his thoughts. He knew he was doing important work. He also knew if he didn’t find a way to save the Care Center, he’d have no place to continue doing it. He knew that Alissa, the sweet little angel, faced a bleak future if she got sucked into the foster care system. He knew Captain Boone would die slowly among strangers at a grim state-run nursing facility, and he knew his mother deserved better than wandering the streets with her son the fraudulent priest.

Dan had always performed well under pressure. It was a point of pride for him and it had served him well over the years. But now he was afraid he had lost his touch. He had tried a thousand times to come up with ways to raise money for the Care Center, but the best he could come up with was bake sales and car washes, and neither of those would cut the financial mustard. Maybe if he closed his eyes he could conjure a brainstorm. Snapsnapsnapsnapsnap.

The problem is that revenues for the Catholic Church are slipping and thus the funds to the Care Center are being cut, right? So if I can find a way to increase Church revenues…
A dark cloud began forming on his mind’s horizon.
How to increase Church revenues?
Then, suddenly, lightning!

Dan bolted from his chair and grabbed the phone. He called the archdiocese and asked for the biggest muckety-muck available. The receptionist told him the Bishop was out to dinner at Wolfgang Puck’s newest restaurant. Dan got in his old VW van and drove straight over.

The Bishop was halfway through his duck terrine with hazelnuts and green peppercorn appetizer when this priest arrived at his table, pulled up a chair, and announced that he was going to save the Catholic Church. This priest was so enthusiastic and sure of himself that the Bishop couldn’t ignore him. “We’ve got an image problem,” Dan said. “Too much blood and guilt, the whole medieval thing’s gotta go.”

The Bishop saw Dan’s point. He’d seen the fear in the
faces of children as they peered up at the tortured body of Christ nailed to the cross. He’d seen them shrink away as they listened to terrifying descriptions of hell and eternal damnation. He’d seen their confused expressions as they tried to fathom the difference between cannibalism and eating the body of Christ. Maybe there was something to this idea of softening the image. “Okay, so, what’s your approach?”

Dan smiled. “Two things to focus on,” he said. “Market segmentation and branding.”

“Branding?” The Bishop wasn’t up on current marketing theory.

Dan waved his hands vaguely. “A brand is simply the promise of an experience,” he said. “One thing we have to do is understand and communicate what experience the Catholic brand is promising. You have to ask yourself, ‘What are the emotional drivers inherent in the church-going process’ and, most importantly, I think, we have to start offering a wider range of experiences in order to reach the different kinds of Catholics in the marketplace. In other words, we need different brands of Catholicism.”

The waiter set two plates in front of the Bishop. One was a filet of beef in puff pastry with béarnaise, the other was a lobster with tarragon butter. “What do you mean, different kinds of Catholics?” The Bishop cracked one of the lobster claws, baptizing Dan with a spritz of salty water.

Dan started counting on his fingers. “You got pro-life Catholics and you got pro-choice Catholics. There are Catholics who refuse to accept Vatican Two and others who want women free to become priests. There are gay Catholics and antigay Catholics and—”

“Okay, okay, I know, they’re all over the damn road,” the Bishop said. “How are we supposed to appeal to them all?”

“These days you’ll never get ’em all under one roof, so the answer is niche marketing, just like magazines and cable,”
Dan said. “You have to design the product to meet the specific desire. It’s like cola. There used to be just one kind, right? Now you’ve got regular cola, diet cola, caffeine-free cola, sodium-and-caffeine-free diet cola, and so on. It’s all about choice. And people want a choice in their Catholicism just as sure as they want a choice in their soft drinks. Hey, you want it in Latin, we’ll give it to you in Latin!”

The Bishop couldn’t argue. He had to admit, he liked a good Latin mass every now and then himself. He picked up a roll and gestured. “Pass the butter, please.”

“Salted or unsalted?” Dan winked.

A drop of the béarnaise dribbled down the Bishop’s chin. “Go on.”

Dan passed the butter. “So we do some focus groups, then we design the products based on the research. Finally, we do a national TV ad campaign to spread the word.” Dan scooted his chair over next to the Bishop. He made a frame of his fingers. He held the frame out so the Bishop could look through it. “Picture this,” Dan said. The Bishop leaned over and looked through the frame. “The spot opens with a simple Gregorian chant over a long shot of Calvary … a terrific image that gives you some brand familiarity right from the start.”

The Bishop nodded thoughtfully as he chewed his roll.

“The three crosses are backlit by a redemptive sunset,” Dan said. “The camera pushes in on Christ’s head, which is lolled to one side, bleeding. He looks bad. The camera holds on his tortured face for a moment. Then, suddenly, Christ lifts his head and looks straight into the camera. He winks, then smiles.

“‘Hi!’ Christ says. ‘I just wanted to tell you about an exciting new product from your friends in Rome …’ ” Dan put one arm around the Bishop and gestured with his free hand as he continued. “Christ pops his hands and feet free from the cross and hops down. He begins walking down Calvary, speaking to
the camera. ‘Over the past ten years or so, a lot of you have left the Catholic Church because, well, because we zigged when you wanted to zag.’

“Cut to Christ walking on a busy street in Galilee, okay? He stops to lay his hands on a cripple, but he keeps talking. ‘So the guys in Rome put their heads together and, well …’ Christ looks at one of his hands and pulls out a big nail, holding it up for inspection. ‘I think they hit the proverbial nail on the head.’

“In the background, the cripple stands and dances a jig as Christ walks out of frame,” Dan said. “Cut to a scene on a lakeshore. Christ walks through a throng of peasants, pulling unlimited loaves and fishes from his robe, handing them to the rabble as he walks. A small boy tugs on Christ’s robe. Christ slaps a large, wiggling mackerel in the kid’s grateful arms. The kid smiles deliriously. It’s a lightly funny but touching image,” Dan assured the Bishop, who was beginning to look doubtful.

“So,” Dan said, “Christ keeps talking as he approaches a big lake. ‘Hey times change. Believe me, I know. That’s why we came up with new Cath-o-Lite.’ When Christ reaches the lakeshore he just keeps on going. As he walks on the water, he continues his pitch. ‘We’ve cut ninety percent of the damnation to bring you the religion you want.’”

Dan paused and made eye contact with the Bishop. “That’s the key, you have to give them what they want.” Dan nearly knocked over the Bishop’s water glass as he gestured toward the far side of the restaurant. “Christ reaches the far shore of the lake and walks onto the beach, still pitching.

“‘We’re still doing things better than all the other major religions. And when it comes to what counts the most … we deliver.’ Christ walks past a line of four Hindus. He stops and looks at the camera. ‘So many religions are gimmicky or, worse, they’re just plain cults. But with us—at the end of the
day—we offer you what they don’t … eternal happiness … not just constant recycling.’

“Christ watches the four Hindus. The first one morphs into a cat. The second one turns into a warthog. The third becomes a monkey. The fourth becomes Newt Gingrich. Christ turns back to the camera with an amused smile. ‘Need I say more?’

“Cut to Christ arriving at the Last Supper. He bumps fists with several of the Apostles before taking his place at the center of the table. ‘New Cath-o-Lite, give it a try’ Christ gives a big toothy smile. ‘You’ll be glad you did.’”

Dan stood slowly, raising his hands toward the ceiling. “Christ ascends offscreen giving the ‘okay’ sign as the Apostles watch in awe. We fade to black, then bring up a stylized logo for the new brand. We hear Christ’s voice with a slight echo. ‘New Cath-o-Lite, less guilt, more forgiveness.’”

The waiter brought two frozen Grand Marnier soufflés as Dan waited for the tag line to sink into the Bishop’s mind. It seemed to sink in quickly, for in one swift move the Bishop stood, pulled a large heavy crucifix from his robe, and smacked Dan across the head, waking him from his dream and spilling him from his chair onto the floor of his ascetic apartment. Dan lay there for a moment, gathering his wits. He hated to see a good idea go to waste, but at the same time, he damn sure didn’t want to be the one to pitch this in Rome.

R
uth reached for the drawer. She imagined the relief that would come when her brittle skin yielded to the razor’s rusty edge. She was sorry in advance for the trouble this would cause. Someone would have to clean it up. She hoped it wouldn’t be Dan. He didn’t deserve that. But what did “deserve” have to do with anything? she wondered. She didn’t
deserve her life the way it was. There didn’t seem to be any logic to it. Her pointless existence was a random event. She was just a drain on a system she didn’t understand. She was a waste of space.

Ruth’s hand crept across the bedside table, closing in on her way out. She began to cry as a part of her prayed for intercession.
Give me a reason to stop.
But none came to her and a moment later she opened the drawer and touched the blade. The cold shock of death crept into Ruth’s heart and then a strong voice came from within her.
We should pray to the angels who are given to us as guardians.

The terror that accompanied Ruth’s struggle toward self-sacrifice was as nothing compared to the moment she heard that voice. It was the voice of a stranger, yet it had come from within. It was the same thing that had happened to Zacharias when revelations were bestowed upon him. Ruth was conscious of an interior voice that was not her own. She knew the voice was not that of God but that of His messenger. This gave Ruth pause, and in that moment came the hope she had lacked.

She lifted her hand from the table and turned toward the door of her room as though she knew something was coming. There was a noise in the hall; then the door slowly opened. An amber light shone in Ruth’s eyes, but she never blinked.
This must be my guardian angel.
The angel’s golden hair shone despite the gloom. Ruth wanted to speak but didn’t know where to begin. Maybe she would ask why the angel had no wings.

The angel was young but could sense Ruth’s sadness from across the room. The depth of the matter escaped the sweet cherub, but there was something elemental about it and the angel was drawn to Ruth’s bedside. Her head tilted to one side and she looked at Ruth’s doomed eyes for a moment. “Are you an angel?” Ruth asked.

Alissa smiled. “I don’t think so.” Alissa climbed up into the bed and curled up next to Ruth and the gloom began to lift.

B
utch Harnett was sitting at his computer terminal trying to gain access to some financial information that was supposed to be private, yet he was unburdened by ethical matters. His thinking was that a man in search of the truth should not be hindered by petty considerations, that plus it was Mutual of California policy.

After obtaining Dan’s medical records and discovering the truth about tetanus, Butch knew he was on the right track. He massaged his hairless scalp as he moused his way around a credit card database. After a few swift keystrokes he found what he was looking for. He compared the numbers on the screen with those on a piece of paper from the file at his side. He made a disapproving clucking sound by sucking some air through his teeth, then he clicked the print command.