AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 3

This is outrageous, Courtney thought.  I’m following a guy who just tried to feel me up!

The path narrowed, and they went up single–file around the first switchback curve; Courtney last.  Blue was easily charmed into a 3–minute trial period.

It was all the fault of Reed’s dare, and then his shrug, which pretty much said: I guess you haven’t got what it takes.  It was just the sort of absurd dare that made climbing with them mandatory.

Well, anything is better than just sitting there all day waiting for Vlad.

“How about this?” Courtney asked, with sudden inspiration.  “I’ll give you a . . . perplexer?  Is that what you called it?  If you can’t solve it, I get to climb with you two until the top, and then I go my way, and you go yours.  If you can solve it, I’ll instantly leave.  OK?”

“Go,” Blue said, coldly.

After about a five second pause of silent climbing, Reed translated.  “She means give her the perplexer.”

“Oh.  All right.  There once was a beautiful young maiden, who was very much in love with a young handsome lad.”

“Is this a sexist fairy tale?” Blue asked, suspiciously.

Courtney laughed.  The kid was wonderful.

“How old are you?” Courtney asked her.

Reed chuckled.  “Fifth grade, going on 21.”

“Sixth grade!” Blue corrected.

“Going on sixth grade,” Reed allowed.

“Boys are people,” Blue said, in a quoting tone of voice, “girls are things to fuck, and do the dishes.  Right, Dad?”

“Girls are things that have to walk,” Reed said, as he pried her arms off his neck and dumped her.  “Watch your language or I’ll wash your mouth out with spinach.”

He let’s her get away with saying the f–word?  “Anyway,” Courtney continued, “she was very much in love with this handsome boy, and she wanted to marry him.  He asked her to marry him.  But the problem was his rich, grumpy father.  For some reason . . . I can’t remember exactly why, he didn’t want his boy to marry her . . . I think he wanted his boy to marry someone else.  If the boy and the girl went ahead and married, the old man would disinherit the boy, and the two of them would live unhappily in poverty.  But when the old man saw how lovely the young girl was, he decided that he wanted to marry her himself.  I forgot to mention that the old man’s wife had died years before.  I’m not telling this very well, am I?”  The compelling physical proximity to this guy was dissolving her eloquence.”  Courtney laughed to herself a bit.  “Gee, this is a sexist fairy tale!  I hadn’t noticed it before.  Do you understand, so far?” she asked Blue.

There was a curious pause of silence as they continued to climb up the winding path.  Something was wrong.  Courtney could feel it.  Perhaps this wasn’t a proper perplexer, and wasn’t the type of story or problem that was allowable.  She noticed the father and daughter exchange a silent look; Blue didn’t answer her question.

Reed said, “She understands.”  He rolled up his long–sleeve shirt some more, exposing a long ugly burn scar on his right arm just below his elbow.  Courtney felt empathetic pain for his hurt long ago, but politely did not comment on his scar, or even reveal that she noticed.

The girl pushed a button on her watch, and it beeped.

Courtney was surprised at her own level of energy and her ability to continue the climb, although she was slightly out of breath, and it was an effort to speak clearly while breathing deeply.  Their pace was leisurely.  Coming up fast behind them, were some other climbers.

Courtney said, “Anyway, the three of them went for a walk, to talk about it.  They were walking on the old man’s estate in his Japanese rock garden.  Underneath their feet were thousands of pebbles, black and white pebbles, all mixed up, but nevertheless arranged beautifully.”

Blue stopped walking and turned around to look at Courtney.  Courtney stopped speaking because it seemed as if the little girl was about to ask a question, but she didn’t, she turned around, so Courtney continued speaking, and they continued walking upward.

“The old man decided to strike a bargain with them.  He reached down and picked up two pebbles, held them behind his back, mixed them up, put one in each hand, and held his hands out, closed, for his son and the girl to see.  ‘See here,’ he told the girl.  ‘In one hand is a white stone, and in the other hand is a black stone.  Choose.  If you pick the white stone, you may marry my son, with my blessings.  But if you pick the black stone, you must marry me.  Do you agree?’  But the young girl’s sharp eyes noticed that the old man had cheated.  He had picked up two black stones, so each of his hands held a black stone.  What did the girl do, to marry the boy she loved, and avoid having to marry the grumpy, old man?"

The other climbers passed them, with friendly greetings.  Regularly, other groups passed them going down.

It was a strange silence that descended upon them.  And again Courtney felt that something was slightly wrong.  Once more, Blue looked at Reed, and seemed about to say something, but then remained silent.  Reed’s face was mostly just amused.  Blue tramped ahead of them, as if she was angry at Courtney for taking her space, or angry at herself for her inability to solve the problem.

“Are you single, or part of a matched set?” Reed asked Courtney.

She put ice on her face; every other part of her was vibrating.  “Despite what you think, I am a feeling, thinking human being.  A little small–talk would be appreciated.”

“Sorry,” Reed said, obviously not sorry at all.  “But I’m the direct type.  Like, I’ll walk up to a woman, and say, ‘You wanna get it on?’  Or I’ll see a guy and say, ‘Hey, you got a booger hanging out of your nose.’”

Really!  The bozo was outrageous.  “Do you find that approach . . . workable?  Successful?”

“Oh yeah, they pull the booger right out.”

Grimace.  “And with women?”

“Christ, I’m putting you on!”  He paused, after the flash of temper.  “So, you like California weather?  Or is that too big for you?”

Reed and Blue had slowed down their pace to match Courtney’s, or at least it seemed that way to her.  She was exhausted.  Her legs felt like lead.  She was sweating, breathing hard; but her victory this morning was worth it.

When Courtney didn’t reply, Reed did.  “Ever do any modeling?” Reed asked.

“I’ve tried it.”

“Tried it.  Past tense.  Why not now?”

“Because it stinks.”

“Oh?  What stinks about it?”

“Everything!”

Reed was silent for a moment.  “Maybe you just had a bad experience.  I’ve got a good friend who’s a top fashion photographer.  Take off your glasses.  Let me have a few pics of you.  You never know . . . he’s always looking for new faces.”  Reed raised the camera expectantly, and started to adjust it.

“Forget that!”

“Why?”

“Modeling is a demeaning way to earn a living.”

Reed was silent again.  He pondered.  “You’re going to have to explain that one to me, lady.”  He stepped ahead and took a couple of shots of her anyway.  “My ex–wife used to be a model.  Long time ago.  She used to get something like a hundred and twenty bucks an hour.  And that was when she was just a kid.  Nineteen years old.  What’s demeaning about that, for Christ sake?”

Clearly he thought that the fact that it paid a lot of money made it OK.  Courtney was hot with irritation; hot enough to take the extreme feminist position, throw the weight of her rhetoric behind it, and shove it down his throat.  First, she thought she’d probe for weakness . . .

“Some women,” Courtney said, answering him within two seconds, “earn even more money for being prostitutes.”

“What the hell kind of a comparison is that!” Reed exploded.

Point.  “An unfair one, perhaps.  But modeling is an empty career.  It’s meaningless.  It’s superficial, and it perpetuates the already inherent——”

“Je–sus,” Reed interrupted.  “Sorry.  Go ahead.”

“The female model accepts money for reinforcing the emotionally loaded images displayed in magazines and other forms of media, which reinforce obsolete roles for women.  Virtually all forms of visual media which pay for models are sexist, Anti–Equal–Rights . . . practically the whole profession of modeling portrays women as sexual objects.  As if that’s our proper end.  Our proper goal and function in life.”

Reed didn’t immediately reply.  He was silent for a moment.  “So what is a worthwhile profession for a meaningful career woman like yourself?  Airline Pilot?  No, no, I’ve got it: Construction Worker.”

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh.  Well, I’m impressed,” he said quietly.  His flippant tone was gone.

“It’s not so easy: anyone can shut me up just by closing the book.”

“Are you famous?  What do you write?”

She liked the sound of new respect in his voice, but she thought she’d better set him straight.  How had he gotten her off the subject anyway?  “I’m a minor poet.  And no, I do not earn my living by writing.”  There was a short pause.  “Yet,” she added with determination.

He seemed to like that.  Then for an instant he was excited.  “Hey, do you do lyrics?  Song lyrics?”

“Song lyrics?” she scoffed.  “They’re not poetry.”

He seemed to find that amusing.  “I suppose if I claimed to know a famous musician in need of some lyrics for his music, you’d tell me to go to hell, right?”

“Right and a half.  Do not pass GO, do not collect $200 dollars.”

He smiled.  “You’re a problem, Lady.”

It was strange.  She was talking with this stranger.  Really talking: Dialogue.  There were real, strong and genuine probes happening here; probes to find out what the other person was all about.  It was something she and Vlad could barely do at all.  The arguing here had life and energy, and it was fun and exciting.  Also, her body was buzzing with a raw physical attraction she had never felt so strongly before.  “So I’m your new perplexer, then?”

“What?  Oh.”  He chuckled.  “Yeah, I suppose so.  In a way.”  Thoughtfully and slowly he added: “Not the way you think, though.”

“And how do I think?”

Reed smiled.  “What is this, group therapy?”

“One on one, with a ref.”  She pointed at Blue, just ahead of them.  “Truth or dare.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Answer the question, or accept my dare.  Warning: my dares can be dangerous.”

Reed smiled again.  “You have levels and levels.  I mean, there’s you, and then there’s more of you, and then there’s even more of you.  Probably there’s more still.  I like that.  I like you.  I think I will accept one of your dares some day.  I’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.  But I’d better not open that Pandora’s Box just yet.  So refresh my memory on the question, and I’ll give it my best shot.”

“And now you’re presuming that we have a future together.”

“Hey, words are not weapons!”  It was a flash of anger.  “Or are they?  I mean, it’s like we dance around the subject, and stab words at each other.  Define my presumption as a hope, and let it go at that.”

He noticed it too!

Courtney felt ripped; exhausted physically, and totally confused emotionally at her own attraction for this guy.  She was mentally stimulated, but low on energy: her mind was almost fully occupied just keeping the legs in motion.

My body gets one look at this guy and cries Yes, Yes, Yes.  My mind shouts Wait A Minute.  There’s two of me.  That’s why I’m so tired——my legs have to carry two.  “You admitted that I’m your new perplexer——”

“OK,” Reed said.  “Listen, I like what I see, and I like what I hear.  I want to see more, and I want to hear more.  It’s exactly that simple.  I asked you if you modeled, because you’d knock people off the face of the planet if you’d just take off those funny glasses and put on some make–up.”

She abruptly sat down where she was, which happened to be on some artificially built, crude stairs cut into the edge of the incline out of the rock.  “Go on without me.”

Reed sat down beside her.  Blue was several steps ahead; she stopped, and sat down silently above them.  Three groups of climbers passed them going down and one going up.

“Go on without me!”

“Why do you get pissed off, when I compliment you?” Reed asked.

After a moment of further irritation, she realized that there was some truth in what he said.  Tremendously irritated, she realized that the accusation was central.  She did not like to be complimented; it made her uncomfortable.

She said, “So I’m unattractive without make–up?”  But even as she said it, she realized the mistake: that was just fishing for more compliments.  And that brought a new thought: I fish for them, and then I hate them when I get them?

“You’re beautiful,” Reed said, as he shook his head.  The meaning was obviously along the lines of incredible or outlandish or you’re a trip.  “Paint.  Art.  Ladies paint their faces.  It’s one of the games women play.  The media establish aesthetic standards . . . among other standards.  The standards exist.  You can deny them, you can fight them, but they exist in the minds of other people, and that’s a factor you have to reckon with.  If you’re in society with other people, if you choose to play the game, you must take what is in other people’s minds as your starting point in developing a winning strategy.  Even if you drop out, you have to be aware of what is in other people’s minds, to survive in advantaged modes.  Specifically, make–up is an art.  If you’re a woman and you wish to manifest your inner beauty so that others will see it, really god damn SEE it, you have to paint your face.  There’s no alternative.  If you don’t play that game, 95% of the people won’t see the beautiful you.  4% will get a hint, and only about 1% will see through to the REAL YOU or whatever bullshit terms you want to use to talk about it.  But make–up is an art.  You can break it down into technical skill, and creative inspiration.  It’s an art.  The face as work of art.”

She tried to interrupt him, but he wouldn’t allow it.

The point is,” he continued, “that you shouldn’t look as make–up as a set of false values or irrelevant values.  It’s not just a superficial appearance.  The media have so brainwashed people that the aesthetic values presented in television and the movies are hard, concrete realities.  They have Life and Real, Substantial Existence.  To say that they are Wrong is insane——maybe not insane, but it misses the point.  Feminism . . . Male Chauvinism . . . It misses the point.  It’s like saying this rock is wrong, or this mountain is wrong.  The rock is there!  You have to step around it or throw it.  The mountain is right here.  We’re all climbing it.”

Once again, Courtney tried to step on his pomposity, but he was heated, and would have none of it.  She shook her head so hard her neck hurt.  “That’s not true!  You’re thinking is so perverted that——”

“Let me finish, damn it!  One of the main female games is make–up.  If you don’t play that game just be damn sure of your motives for not doing so.  Analogy: If I have to go into the Army, I want to go in as an Officer.  If you renounce the make–up game, it’s like going into the Army as an enlisted man.  It’s like putting a ceiling on yourself.  Media Have Literally Redefined The Female Face.  The face is a starting point.  It’s a canvas.  It’s an empty canvas.  It’s a face lacking any definition or subject——excuse me——it’s a canvas lacking any definition or subject.  It’s a canvas lacking a face.  You’ve got such a fantastic canvas . . . such a pure, unbelievably clean starting point . . .”  Reed shook his head in wonderment.  “. . . that if you refuse to play the make–up game, you really ought to be very clear on your motives for doing so.  Make damn sure you’re behaving out of self–interest, and not self–destructive neurotic impulses.  I mean, you’re starting out ahead of 99.9% of all the other women playing the game, and then you refuse to play the game, and they all pass you up; and you finish last . . . or I guess, not even finish.  Your turn to talk.”

After all that, he didn’t give her a chance.  Reed looked back over his shoulder at Blue, and saw her.  Her hands were pantomiming.  Two mouths.  Yapping meaningless at each other.  Her mouth was also bitterly mimicking yack, yack, yack, yackety yack.

Reed saw it and cracked up.

Courtney almost shouted at him: “You chauvinistic Sophist, just who do you think you are?”  Courtney started to yell some more, but Reed had already moved off the step upwards toward Blue, so she stopped.  Damn the man!  He was impossible and a half.

“Hey.  Pax,” Reed said.  “I’m sorry, Blue.  I’ll make it up to you, and spring a special surprise for you later.  I’ll owe you one.  And you know you can collect anytime with interest.  And I swear to you now, when we get to the top, she’s history: we split up.  She probably wants to split now anyway.  Pax?”

The little girl smiled an almost happy smile, and nodded.  “Pax.  And you’ll pay for it, Buster.”

The two shook hands.

Reed sat back down with Courtney, and gave her his undivided attention.

Courtney was exhausted, ripped, and appalled.  “We’re so far apart, I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.”

Reed just listened expectantly.

“You obviously believe all that guff.  That’s sick!”

Reed silently smiled ruefully.

“I’m tired.  I admit it.  I’m literally wrung out.  I’m used up, just crawling up this godforsaken mountain.  And in the midst of this, I’m expected to compete in a debating tournament.  Let’s walk.  If I don’t get up now, I never will.”

They began to move upward again.

Everyone was silent for so long that Reed eventually said, “I’ll give you a rain check, Courtney.”

Her eyes shot exhausted horror at him.  His social values were impossible.  His blatant prejudices were so idiotic they were almost silly.

“I’ll give you my address.  And you can give me a written rebuttal.  Provided, of course, that you give me your return address.”  Reed smiled brightly.

“You never give up, do you?”

“No percentage in giving up.”

“Look, Reed.  My soul is sacred to me.  It’s my identity.  It’s all I’ve got that’s me.  I would never debase it.  I couldn’t.  You’re talking about a method of relating to the world that is completely alien to me.”  She stopped talking, as she fought up the particularly steep incline that they were on.  Even Blue was stumbling with it.

When it leveled off a little, Blue said, “Taxi?”  Reed took her on his back again.

Damn show off!

“Life is not a game.  It’s serious!” Courtney said.  Drat.  That sounds stilted.  But it’s the way I feel.

Reed said, “How about: Life is the most serious game?”

“Harumpth!”  I know I’m too tired, when I can’t even think of a proper put down for this snide . . . “You talk about painting faces.  You talk about the female face as an empty canvas.”  Several long deep breaths.  “You’re talking about sexist, pervasive, destructive, inhuman social standards . . . imposed upon women . . . by men . . . it’s detrimental to any kind of equality, any type of give–and–take dialogue between the sexes . . . any . . .”  She was so tired, she spaced, and lost the track of her thought.  “Damn.”

She expected him to laugh, but he didn’t.  There was just silence, as they trudged ever upward.

Finally, Reed said, “Are oranges equal to apples?  Men and women have physical and emotional differences.  Political realities, I think, reflect or perhaps compensate for these.  The concept of political or social equality . . . which you seem to be concerned with . . . is, I think, a completely separate issue from the game of make–up. I’m just saying——”

“It’s central, not separate; my identity is all I have.  If I play your degrading social game I’ve automatically signed away certain basic rights.”

“But you’re automatically granted other rights!  Besides, identity is social!  It’s socially maintained, and socially sustained.  You can only be something if other people recognize it as such.  Identity is competitive.  There’s only so much of it to go around!”

“And I suppose, if I’m alone on a desert island, I have no identity!”  Now he’s got me shouting at him!

“Precisely.”

But then Vlad came charging down the slope, like a locomotive, barreling along so fast that he didn’t see Courtney at first.  He yelled, “Hey–hey!”  And as he passed them on the path, and tried to slow down, he lost his balance and fell on his bottom, sliding down the rocks and loose dirt.  Quickly he scrambled back up, and brushed himself off, leaving a faint smudge on his white trendy sporting slacks.
 

 COURTNEY, Chapter 4

Copyright 2005 Area 47