“Apart from the unusual delivery,” Sharon says as she backs Seth off with a look, “. . . thoughts?”
The unusual delivery doesn’t bother me a bit. I come from roots where almost any delivery doesn’t get delivered. “Is he right?”
“About what?” Sharon says.
“That we make things up to fit what we want them to be because we’re . . . stupid?”
Mark sits forward, seemingly disturbed. “That’s not exactly what he said. My takeaway is that we believe what we’re told until there’s reason not to, and the reasoning comes later. So, like, we buy into heroes someone else is selling.”
Oscar shrugs, “Which makes my case. No heroes, just heroic acts. That must be disturbing to you, Mark.”
Mark is pulling on the back of his hair. “C’mon man. Even if I let you put Jesus in the Yoda box, there’s Gandhi? Einstein? Eisenhower? Abraham Lincoln?”
Leah says, “Serena Williams? Amelia Earhart? Jerrie Mock? Marilyn vos Savant?” She nods toward Mark. “Just balancing out the testosterone there, Camo Boy.”
“Pray tell,” says Oscar. “Who are Jerrie Mock and Marilyn vos Savant?
“Jerrie Mock,” Leah says, “is the first woman to fly solo around the world, and Marilyn vos Savant has the highest-recorded IQ, like, ever.”
Oscar says. “We’re slipping from hero to famous, and still, my theory holds. Gandhi was a racist, and Eisenhower cheated on his wife. Don’t even know where to start on Lincoln. My lord, do I know more about your own folklore than you? Look, if you have to have heroes, simply choose anyone who’s done more good than harm.”
Seth’s hand shoots up again. “Allow me to complicate things further. Imagine if you will, it’s the summer of eighteen ninety-four in Leonding, Austria. You’re twenty-five years old—therefore your frontal lobe is completely developed—and you’re walking past a house fully engaged in flames. You hear the cries of a five-year-old boy coming from inside; you pull your shirt up over your face, rush in, and drag him out at great risk to life and limb. Are you a hero?”
“Hell yeah,” Mark says. “They should have a parade for me.”
I’m thinking: 1894, Leonding, Austria? That’s pretty specific.
“And well they might,” Seth says. “You just saved a very young Adolf Hitler from the agony of going up in flames.”
Mark deflates. “Very funny. Besides, that question was hypothetical.”
“Smart people answer hypothetical questions with great frequency,” Seth says. “It’s an indicator of imagination, which Albert Einstein, whom you just cited as a hero, deemed quite essential to intelligence. Now add this to the mix, since you’ve proven yourself intelligent in the eyes of Albert Einstein. Imagine witnesses to this inferno begging you to save the boy, but you’re magically blessed with foresight and therefore know how Baby Adolf will turn out. Would you let the future dictator roast and save the lives of six million Jews along with countless other various and sundry world citizens, at the risk of those witnesses forever damning you as a coward, or would you dash in and pull him out so you could have your parade?”
The trace of a smile crosses Mark’s face. “Man, who are you?”
“I’ll assume that question is rhetorical,” Seth says. “Mine, on the other hand, is not. Have you an answer?”
Mark doesn’t have an answer, neither does anyone else. You’re either letting a child roast or killing six million Jews.
But Seth is on a roll. “Allow me to bring it closer to your sphere of influence,” he says, and Mark breathes in. You don’t want to judge Mark from appearance. All that camo stuff reminds me of Duck Dynasty dildos and elephant killers and other people who think if God didn’t want us to shoot things he wouldn’t have given us a trigger finger. But Mark must just like green and brown, because he always listens. “Bring it, Seth.”
“My pleasure,” Seth says. “Take the Nikos Kazantzakis book, The Last Temptation of Christ.”
“I haven’t read it,” Mark says.
“I’m not surprised.”
Sharon glances at her watch. “Short version, Seth.”
Seth nods. “I won’t go into the temptation itself, just the dilemma. Jesus needs to be betrayed to push the crucifixion/resurrection thing into action. Only one guy in His entourage is up to it. Judas. Toughest of the bunch and loves Him most fiercely. If he agrees, Judas will be the scourge of all Christianity for all time. If he doesn’t, the whole savior thing grinds to a halt. Judas says ‘You’re asking too much.’ Jesus says, ‘I know it’s a lot.’ Judas says, ‘Master, could you do it?’ Jesus says, ‘No, you’re the stronger one, Judas.’ So basically, you have the hero to billions over two thousand plus years, saying to the villain to billions over that very same span, that he’s the bigger hero. Hence Judas does what looks like a really bad thing but is actually a really good thing, if you happen to be a Christian and require a dead savior, that is.” With a satisfied nod, Seth folds his arms. “Good and bad being relative, of course.”
Oscar says, “So see? According to our resident alien, not only are there no heroes, but even heroic acts are suspect.”
I’m heading back to the Howard’s and almost get hit twice because my body’s on my bike, but my head’s floating somewhere in the stratosphere with Judas and Adolph Hitler. Traffic hazards aside, what I love about the book club is that you always walk away with something in your brain that’s never been there before, and it’s the only place in my life where I trust that people mean what they say, except for my therapist, of course. And, I mean, this Seth guy is a trip.
ChapterSeven
“Wanna go shopping?”
Nancy made a whole meet. All by herself. No Walter sweet-talking me, no showing up after the last race, no “That was really great but I gotta go.”
“Shopping would be cool.” I notice her loose neck-to-ground clothing in this heat, devoid of ventilation.
