Clothing Optional Page 13

  —Well, they see it differently. They’re pissed about a bunch of stuff.

  —Like what, for instance?

  —Daylight saving time.

  —Daylight saving time?

  —Yep.

  —Yep? You say yep as if daylight saving time is a normal thing for anyone to be pissed about. What are you saying?

  —Look, I got a call from a parent who was incredibly irate because you scheduled your son’s first game in daylight saving time against his son’s team, who you eventually beat with a rally in the sixth inning but would’ve lost to if it’d gotten dark an hour earlier when his son’s team was ahead.

  —And that’s why the parents hate me?

  —That’s why this parent does.

  —And who is this parent?

  —Barry Spass.

  —Dr. Barry Spass?

  —Yes.

  —My dentist? So now you’re telling me that my dentist hates me?

  —Look, maybe your dentist is overreacting, but if you ask me, I think everyone on that team is still upset about your taking such a hard line last month against their shortstop.

  —Mario Ventura?

  —He was their best player, but now they won’t have him for the play-offs against your son’s team because you kicked him out of the league.

  —Normie, Mario Ventura lived out of our district.

  —Boy, was he good.

  —Of course, he was good—he was from the Dominican Republic! Everyone in that country is good! But anyway, what choice did I have? They were threatening to revoke our league charter!

  —And what about the Lawrence twins?

  —The parents are mad about that, too?

  —The twins’ parents are.

  —Normie, I drew up the schedule in February. I don’t have a crystal ball. How was I supposed to know back then that both Lawrence twins would make the all-star team in June? Or that the first game of the tournament would conflict with their older brother’s Bar Mitzvah? I don’t even know the Lawrences, let alone when their older brother turns thirteen!

  —So, they were replaced by two players from your son’s team.

  —Look, I’m trying my best to be fair.

  —I’m sure you are.

  —Hey, wasn’t I the one who offered to drive those twins to the game after the reception? So back off, Normie!

  —Okay, okay.

  —Anything else? Any other news that’s going to brighten my day?

  —No, just the banquet.

  —What banquet?

  —The end-of-the-season banquet. The one that all the kids and their parents and the coaches attend.

  —What about it?

  —Well, it’s the commissioner’s job to be master of ceremonies…Hello? Hello? You still there?

  EPILOGUE

  The season is now over. Last night was the banquet. Speeches were made. Trophies were awarded. And, wearing regular clothes instead of their uniforms, the children looked like children. Children who table-hopped from team to team, while we parents pretty much stuck to our own.

  Why we behave this way, I don’t know. Do we love our kids so much that we’re afraid to let them fail? Or are we selfishly using them to make us feel better about ourselves? Maybe that’s it. And maybe it’s natural. I know that I sit a little taller in those bleachers when my son gets a hit, just as I suspect my parents may be slightly embarrassed when something I’ve written is publicly panned.

  Right now, our son wants to be a ballplayer when he grows up, and despite the long odds, I’m rooting for him. About a week ago, I drove past the Little League field and saw Henry Dwyer practicing with his dad. And even though they both gave me the finger, I hope Henry makes it, too.

  As for me, I’m glad I was commissioner. Sure, it made my life miserable and taught me some very unattractive things about our species. But it also allowed me to keep a protective eye on my boy’s dream, as well as reunite me with some old feelings and my missing words.

  I Saw Your Mother’s Ass

  A husband gets into bed at night. His wife speaks first.

  —You okay?

  —Not really.

  —Want to talk about it?

  —Not really.

  —Honey, what’s wrong?

  —Can’t say.

  —Why?

  —It’s too weird.

  —What’s too weird?

  —I’d rather not say.

  —Now you’re scaring me.

  —Why?

  —Because we’ve been married a long time and I’ve never seen you this color before.

  —Can’t help it.

  —Why?

  —Can’t say.

  —Please tell me.

  —Fine.

  —…Well?

  —I saw your mother’s ass.

  —What are you saying?

  —That I saw your seventy-seven-year-old mother’s seventy-seven-year-old ass.

  —How?

  —I was on my way to the bathroom, a door was open, and there it was in all its horrifying glory.

  —God, she must’ve been embarrassed.

  —No.

  —No?

  —No.

  —Why not?

  —Because she didn’t see me.

  —How’s it possible that you walk in on someone in the bathroom and they don’t see you?

  —Because she wasn’t in the bathroom.

  —But you just said…

  —I said that I was on my way to the bathroom.

  —Oh…

  —And I passed the gym, innocently looked in, and saw your mother on my stationary bike.

  —Naked?

  —Like a seventy-seven-year-old jaybird.

  —From behind?

  —Yes. That’s where her ass is. In the back.

  —Wow.

  —Yeah. Wow.

  —I think you’ll get over it.

  —I’m not so sure about that. In fact, I’m wondering how I can ever look at her again. In fact, I’m wondering if you and I should separate and get back together after she dies.

  —You wouldn’t be overreacting, would you?

  —Trust me, any normal man would be mortified.

  —Come on, you’ve seen her in a bathing suit. I’m sure there were no surprises.

  —Not so.

  —What do you mean, “not so”?

  —I can’t talk about it.

  —What can’t you talk about?

  —I can’t tell you. Now let me go to sleep, okay?

  —Fine.

  —Good night.

  —Good night.

  He turns off the light for about six seconds, then turns on the light and speaks.

  —Did you know your mother has a tattoo?

  —She does?

  —Yep.

  —Where?

  —On her ass.

  —She does not.

  —I’m telling you…

  —Oh, please…

  —If you don’t believe me, go downstairs and see for yourself.

  —No, thanks.

  —You’re right—I should be the only one in this bed who’s scarred for life.

  —She really does?

  —Why would I make this up? Why would I possibly want this conversation to go any longer than it already has?

  —May I ask what it’s a tattoo of?

  —You sure you want to know?

  —No. But tell me anyway.

  —Ready?

  —Yeah.

  —Hitler.

  —Hitler?

  —Yep.

  —My seventy-seven-year-old mother has a tattoo of Adolf Hitler on her ass?

  —That’s right. And I must say that the führer looks less than thrilled to be there.

  —Hard to blame him…

  —Yeah, I feel bad for Hitler, too.

  —And you’re sure that you’re not making this up?

  —I’m not…

  —Or mistook, let’s say, a mole, for Hitler?

&nb
sp; —A mole for Hitler? No. And I didn’t mistake cellulite for Goebbels, either. This is a tattoo and it’s Hitler, and if you don’t believe me, go down and take a look for yourself.

  —I think I will.

  —Fine.

  She gets out of bed, leaves the bedroom, and returns about a minute later.

  —You’re right. It’s Hitler.

  —Told you.

  —Yes, but what you didn’t tell me was that every time my mother pedals, Hitler’s arm comes up in one of those Third Reich salutes.

  —I thought I’d spare you.

  —Thanks.

  —So, what do we do now?

  —What do you mean?

  —Well, we’ve solved the mystery of who the tattoo is. Aren’t you at all curious as to why it’s there? As to why your seventy-seven-year-old Jewish mother, who’s been a registered Democrat since Truman was president, has a picture of the man who thought of the Final Solution on her butt?

  —Yeah…

  —Did she ever date Hitler?

  —What?

  —You know, they were young, impulsive, had too much to drink one night, took a cab downtown and got tattoos of each other before she realized he wasn’t such a great guy.

  —That’s the scariest thing I’ve ever heard.

  —How so?

  —Because according to that scenario, Hitler, who was arguably the worst human being who ever lived, had a tattoo of my mother on his butt.

  —Well…

  —You’re saying that in all those newsreels when he was giving those speeches and goose-stepping in those parades and invading Poland he may have had a picture of my mother on his ass.

  —Anything’s possible.

  —Jesus, could we please end this conversation?

  —I’d love to.

  —Fine. Good night.

  —Good night, honey.

  They turn off their lights. About a minute later, he speaks.

  —I can’t sleep.

  —Neither can I.

  —I keep thinking about your mother’s ass.

  —I keep thinking about Hitler’s ass.

  —And I keep thinking I’ll need a new seat for my stationary bike.

  The Kirschenblatt Affair

  Before the student of moral philosophy can fully appreciate the case of Jerome and Phoebe Kirschenblatt, it is important for him to understand what is meant by a dilemma. By definition, it is merely a state in which an individual has to make a choice between two practical options. But within the context of a moral situation, the conflict is far more complex and the consequences of the ultimate decision far more profound.

  FOR EXAMPLE: Joey, age nine, is seated at the dinner table with his parents and his sister, Melody. As the appetizer is being served, Joey’s mom politely asks him if he’d please pass the salt. Little Joey, for some reason uncharacteristically rude, replies, “Your time’s up, bitch” and throws a cleaver at her thorax. Although Mom somehow escapes injury, Joey knows that Dad is sore at him and means it when he says, “No son of mine will throw a cleaver at the dinner table. Go upstairs to your room!”

  SITUATION: Hearing his father’s angry words, Joey knows he has a problem. He can’t go upstairs to his room because he and his family live on the roof.

  ISSUE: Joey has a moral dilemma. Does he choose not to honor his father and chance violating the fifth commandment? Or does he try to go upstairs—thus breaking the law of gravity? A tough choice indeed—especially for a nine-year-old whose sister’s name is Melody. What would you do?

  Is there a correct choice in this situation? Rabbi Jeff Abramson of the Jewish Theological Seminary answers, “In most moral situations, I don’t think there is a right or a wrong.” This sagacious profundity is further upheld by the Reverend Fulton Sheen, who recently told a symposium of moral philosophers, “I think I agree with Jeff.” A moral dilemma can present itself in many forms and can be catastrophic to one of the parties who’s dependent on the decision. It is then that the student of moral dilemmas must pay closer attention to certain factors that must be considered before making such a decision.

  FOR EXAMPLE: Mrs. Lynch returns from the grocery to find her home on fire—with both of her children trapped in two adjacent rooms. Entering the house, she realizes that she can save only one of the kids. What should Mrs. Lynch do? On what basis should she make her decision?

  1. Should whether or not either of the children finished their homework influence her decision?

  2. Suppose one of the children had a winning lottery ticket in his pocket?

  3. Do you think that Mrs. Lynch could have saved both children had she put down her groceries?

  4. Suppose Mrs. Lynch was seventy-five years old and her children were forty-six-year-old identical twins, both firemen?

  It should be noted that while not all moral dilemmas present themselves as life/death situations, most jurists and Talmudic scholars agree that those that do are the funniest. However, there are instances where ethical decisions have to be rendered by legal authorities—the results of which are still subject for debate between the religious and secular communities. Justice Holmes, after months of deliberation, was roundly ridiculed in a clash between the church and the state for his decision that an unruly Amish student could refuse to “button his lip” and not fear reprisal. And most recently, the Olive decision (Green v. Black) offered that if you have a friend who’s president of the botanical gardens, it’s okay to kill him if he’s going away for the weekend and asks you to water his plants.

  The Kirschenblatt affair, while not considered unique in the study of ethical analyses, is often cited because of its myriad ramifications and illustrates the dynamics of problem confrontation and sound decision making.

  FOR EXAMPLE: David H. needs money but has no job. In a moment of sheer desperation, he grabs a toy pistol, enters Kirschenblatt’s Bakery, takes a number, and, when it is his turn, brandishes the “weapon” and demands cash. Not knowing that it is a toy pistol, Mr. Kirschenblatt faints, hits his head on the counter, goes into shock, and suffers a concussion, a heart attack, kidney failure, a collapsed lung, a broken spine, diabetes, a ruptured spleen, and gross-motor-skill impairment before finally lapsing into critical condition. Since the weapon was not a real gun, is David H. guilty of murder? If you were a judge, how would you vote?

  A difficult decision for any man on the bench, but perhaps not as agonizing as the one that now confronts Mrs. Kirschenblatt. Realizing that business at the bakery could not possibly cover the mounting medical bills (unless every day miraculously turns into Sunday morning), Mrs. Kirschenblatt decides to convert the study into a bedroom and rent it to a boarder. This seems like a wise idea, as it will both provide income for the household and, should Mr. Kirschenblatt recover, allow him not to feel compelled to spend countless hours alone trying to figure out what a baker should do in a study.

  The Kirschenblatts reside in a white, middle-class neighborhood that abides by a gentlemen’s agreement not to allow blacks into the community. However, the ad for a boarder that runs in the local paper is answered by a black man. He seems respectable, well spoken, and courteous. Plus, he offers to pay a full year’s rent up front, in cash. This proposition would certainly be a boon to the Kirschenblatts, given the financial crisis they are undergoing. So now Mrs. Kirschenblatt has a moral dilemma. She knows that if she were to refuse to rent the room to this black man, it would infuriate the NAACP. But on the other hand, she knows that it would bother her husband and perhaps aggravate his condition if she rented the room to a black man—still at large—who had held up his bakery with a toy pistol. What would you do?

  “Practicality,” says the Reverend Dr. William Prath, “should dictate the decision made in even the most morally extenuating circumstances.” Mrs. Kirschenblatt needs money to help her husband, whom she loves. And to her, this love outweighs her desire for vengeance against the man who was the cause of her troubles. Compassion is indeed a virtue of Mrs. Kirschenblatt. “And besides,” s
he reasons, “if this black man has enough money to live in a well-to-do neighborhood like this, he must be of a better breed than the rest of those people.”

  So David H. moves in, but while the rent money does ease the financial situation somewhat, it becomes evident that it is not enough. Mr. Kirschenblatt’s condition stabilizes enough for him to be taken home. However, intense pain renders him delirious, and he hardly speaks anymore except for an occasional outburst, when he’ll moan, “Hi, I’m Gene Rayburn, welcome to Match Game 79,” and then go back to sleep. But there is one drug that the doctors think might save him. It is a form of radium that Jack Davis, a local druggist, carries. Though it costs him five hundred dollars to buy it from the pharmaceutical lab, Davis sells it for two thousand dollars. Mrs. Kirschenblatt borrows as much money as she can from friends and relatives but is only able to raise a thousand dollars. She tries desperately to convince Jack Davis that the medicine will relieve Mr. Kirschenblatt’s torment and that at a thousand dollars Davis would still make a nice profit. But Davis is adamant. “My dear Mrs. Kirschenblatt, I’m a businessman. If I give you a break, then before you know it, every woman with a pain-racked husband will want a similar bargain. I’m sorry. I hope your husband feels better. Really I do. But I have to be strong. I can’t give in. It was weakness on my part that made things go sour for Beverly and me. Our marriage might have been saved had I provided her with the strength that she needed from a man. But I was a fool and I hurt her. God, I do regret it. I’m so lonely. Please sleep with me, Mrs. Kirschenblatt, and you can have the medicine for half price.”

  An affair for money? Adultery? Infidelity? Mrs. Kirschenblatt has a moral dilemma. Of course an extramarital relationship is something that goes totally against her principles—but Mr. Kirschenblatt will need that medicine even more as the pain increases and he can no longer exhale without taking a running start. For the sake of her dear husband, should Mrs. Kirschenblatt break the eighth commandment, a tenet that she holds dear? What would you do?