Inconvenient Truth

Climate change is not a new revelation, but for those dependent on iron age revelations for their morality and as explanation of how the world works, the climate has been changing for some time. With the progress of secular morality and science, religion has scoured its unbreakable texts in an attempt to make them bend where and as much as they can. From Galileo’s geocentric model of the Solar System to Darwin’s The Origin of Species to Fred Hoyle coining the term Big Bang (as a derisive term, I may add), mankind has found that the scriptural explanations for the questioners existence at this place and time to be unnecessary. Advances in medicine, psychology, neuroscience, and philosophy have challenged the efficacy of prayer and faith healing and divine inspiration. I rejoice in this while recognizing a truth that ought to be embraced. As the villain of Stephen King’s, The Gunslinger, says, “This wealth of information produce[s] little or no insight.”

Here, the scriptures may have something to say of value. Indeed, Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens are quick to quote the Bible and praise it as an extraordinary work with literary value. There exists a monumental difference between holding to the Bible as scripture versus respecting it as literature. With the former, a reader is expected, under threat of divine punishment, to hold to every word as that of God himself! The epitome of morality and philosophy. With the latter, the burden rests upon the reader to take from it what they will and allows the freedom to disregard the horrors of it. No one need defend slavery as a practice that is morally good at best and morally justifiable at worst. No one need defend human sacrifice including filicide as moral acts. No one must rejoice in the mauling to death of children by bears as the act of a loving god. On the same hand, we can enjoy the euphony and insight of Proverbs and Psalms when they do offer valuable lessons.

I’ve always rather enjoyed versus such as: “The sluggard will not plow by reason of the cold therefore shall he beg in harvest and have nothing.” This echoes with the lessons of my father toward industry in the face of discomfort. I reject the Bible’s inerrancy and divine origin while carrying this life lesson with me. I can do that without seeing some importance in turning a woman into a pillar of salt for the heinous crime of looking back while her husband is not punished in any way for offering his daughters as sexual objects to slake the desires of a lustful mob.

I was long a strident defender of the Bible and the Mormon fan-fiction that followed it. Feverishly clinging to every word and story of dead and living prophets, drinking the Kool-Aid of the faithful Mormon party line, I contorted and distorted the horrors of the ancient books and modern obscenities to fit the misshapen holes my childhood conditioning had created in my mind and heart. I was an apologist in the making.

In materials science exist words who’s definitions apply well to the faithful mind. To be thixotropic is to become more fluid/flowable under static conditions. That is to say, if you are working with plaster, the more you shake or vibrate the material, the more flowable it will become. The kicker is that such a material will often harden faster after having been thus agitated. A related term is rheopectic. A rheopectic material will become hardened or less fluid when shaken or agitated. Many lubricants behave with this property.

I was admirably rheopectic as a believing member. When I encountered written or spoken challenges to my faith, I responded as I had been conditioned to do. Repeat to myself that these men are and were prophets of God. Console myself the knowledge that everything I heard was a lie meant to discredit a good and decent man like Joseph Smith who would never have practiced polygamy. “Here’s a little story about how he didn’t practice it.” Take refuge in Wilfred Owen’s “old lie” that it is good and honorable to die for my sense of patriotism as applied to my church. Like a good lubricant that kept the church moving forward, I clung harder to the gears and pistons and axles of God’s Kingdom.

Speaking of old lies, as has become a popular and appropriate motto of the Exmormon community, “Yesterday’s anti-mormon lies become today’s gospel topics essays.” When the essay on Racism in the church, euphemistically titled Race and the Priesthood, was released, the doubts I’d long harbored seemed, suddenly validated. It wasn’t just Satan trying to deceive me. I had been right all along to doubt the idea that the prophets can’t lead us astray. In fact, they could be wrong on an issue as paramount as denying the full blessings the church so smugly peddles to an entire race of people. And, despite previous prophets claims to the practice being so divinely inspired as to be doctrine, they claim with affected remorse, that the practice of denying black’s the priesthood and temple experience were the result of anointed prophets acting by their own prejudices. Brigham Young didn’t think he was the prejudice asshole the current prophets have just thrown under the bus. (He simply and arrogantly thought he was an inspired asshole.)

The second essay that I read, after I already felt the church couldn’t be what it claimed to be, was the Translation and Historicity of the Book of Abraham. I knew what the title page of the scripture said: “Written by his own hand, upon papyrus.” The strange theories proposed about catalysts and lost pages and whatever else the apologists had come up with flew in the face of what was actually written in the canonized text! You can’t have it both ways. My rheotropism became thixotropism. I was shaken by lies and bent by mental gymnastics to the point of breaking. Integrity will only allow one to remain faithful for so long under such conditions. Yes. I believe that a person who knows all the facts about the founding of Mormonism and remains faithful in the face of that knowledge lacks integrity.

Thankfully, rather than dig in my heels and/or resort to fundamentalism in an effort to remain faithful, for the first time in my life I submitted to something worthy of submission. Under the discomfiting vibration of new facts, I flowed into a new space and changed my mind. Or, rather, I allowed my once happily rigid mind to flow into a more honest if uncomfortable space where doubt had a home.

To change one’s mind under scrutiny is not a weakness. It is an admirable and wonderful thing.

I took a chance, this fall, to be involved in a community theatre production of Steven Dietz’s brilliant, insightful, witty play, This Random World. My mother in the production is a vivacious older woman trying to eke every savory moment out of her final years. Upon receiving an unfavorable diagnosis, she delivers a sweet and, to me, profound monologue on one thing she regrets from her life.

If I could do it all over again, Rhonda, I would have doubted more. What was I so busy being certain about? I chased away most of the wonder from my life by telling myself I already knew good from bad, right from wrong, left from right, and all the rest of it. God, what a tedious woman I must have been. But uncertainty…doubt…oh, lord, doubt is so appealing to me now. Doubt is the unmarked door.

When a person who lives off your donations, not to them, but to the God they claim to represent, tells you to “doubt your doubts” or to simply trust them because God won’t steer you wrong, doubt their doubts about your doubts. Recall that they repeatedly affirm that God is steering His church through a bunch of old men who, as they teach that God won’t allow them to lead the church astray, teach that their predecessors indeed led many people wrong.

To encounter new information and to entertain legitimate doubts is appealing to me now. Partly because I crave to actually stand for what is factual and good. A theory that not only allows itself to be censured but provides the standard to disprove itself and then, repeatedly stands against challenges to its veracity is a theory worth espousing. Sorry Jeff Holland, your claims that The Book of Mormon has managed to do this are wrong. You know it has and continues to fail under legitimate scrutiny. Still, you preach it’s moral and historical supremacy.

To change one’s mind under scrutiny is not a weakness. It is an admirable and wonderful thing.

This isn’t the real problem I have with the faithful. My real problem is that they claim their scriptures are THE standard for morality. However, when challenged with the simplest of standards: slavery, filicide, subjugation of women including as sexual slaves of their conquerors, codified racism that promotes a “white and delightsome” savior complex–the believer must defend the Bible or any other scripture as correct. I’m accused of presentism for even bringing it up when I don’t claim that God exists let alone that he is unchanging, all-powerful, and the author of such heinous outrages to dignity and morality! Look at yourself, believer.

Would you be a slave under the terms condoned by God in the Old Testament?

Would you gut your child to prove your love of God?

Would you tell your wife or daughter that her opinion doesn’t matter and that she should keep her mouth shut in church?

Do you consider yourself superior to another because of the hue of your epidermal layer?

Presentism would be holding another civilization accountable for their actions within the moral framework of our modern day. I don’t. I hold the God that they worship accountable for it which really means that I hold their epileptic, narcissistic spokesman of deity responsible. I don’t have to defend the text or the history. If God can command you to not eat pork, surely He can command you not to hold another person as property. If He can command you to have no more than one ear piercing per ear, He can command you not to declare that “faggots go to Hell.”

Luckily, now that I am an embracer of doubt, I realize that morality doesn’t work that way. If compassion and love must be commands, they are not compassion or love. It is, as Christopher Hitchens often pointed out, degrading to morality and destructive of ethics to claim that we can’t know or perform a right action without a divine mandate. If so, we would hear people claiming that slavery is still okay. The Bible never condemned it and the Bible is the moral standard. How often must we turn on the news and hear of a woman killing her child because God told her to? And God’s word, in whatever form and by whatever interpretation it is taken by the believer, becomes the capricious, relativizable standard for morality.

Grotesquely, there are those who would say, indeed have said in my presence, “Maybe God did command her to kill her infant. She’ll be rewarded in Heaven for doing as God commanded her, even if she has to pay a price to our modern society.” The lesson taken by these individuals who admire the man, Abraham, who would gut his kid to show his devotion to Goda, have found their way to excuse the behavior. Ought we not to fear God more than man? Shouldn’t we be willing to do as God asks of us no matter the consequence imposed by man? Old Testament Jehovah will create a law that punishes people with death for wearing mixed fabrics or gathering fuel for a fire on the Sabbath. The New Testament incarnation of Jehovah, even Jesus Christ, introduced the concept of eternal punishment or damnation. Modern society, though it has failed from time to time, has still succeeded in adopting insanity as a viable criminal defense. The growing tradition of secular thinkers dedicated to religious and social pluralism offer a higher value to the individual’s life than God who would use a child to test the adult’s devotion. Isn’t God omniscient? Shouldn’t he know their level of commitment without such a barbaric demand?

Oh, you are a Bible believing Christian? And others are misinterpreting the text but, somehow, you have it right?

Tell that to Jephtheth.

I believe it is a safe assumption that, of all the women stoned to death for adultery, many had a father and mother and sibling who threw stones. Better to follow God’s mandate than risk His wrath. Better to show your devotion to Him through murdering your own child to fulfill His commands. (As an aside: How many fetuses were aborted by this barbaric practice? Abortions performed in the name of God.) This type of horrid practice still takes place in Islam with honor killings and capital punishment for women and young teens who are the victims of rape.

Is God omniscient? If he knows the woman will kill her child and still demands it of her, this seems horribly meddling, capricious, and cruel. As if he actually delights in the torments of the parent and child. That he would make victory over his enemies dependent upon a grotesque bargain with Jephthah, knowing before hand that the man’s daughter would be the sacrifice.

I grow tired of Bible-dependent believers telling me that I misunderstand a book I’ve read more than they have. One read through will usually be enough, and I’ve surpassed that lowly number. I even had an acquaintance send me a link to the Jehovah’s Witness website and a video that proceeded to tell me that everyone misunderstands the Bible. This is the major problem of our world. God has spoken we simply fail to understand His word. I’m too stupid to comprehend it, but they are not. Come to us and understand the Bible. Sorry, JWs, I was raised a Mormon. They feel the same way about you. The fact is that the Bible is quite easy to understand if you take it at face value, realizing it was written by bronze and iron age agrarians, and written by men for males of the human species. If I assume that God is the same yesterday, today, and forever, that his word never changes, and that whatever He says is good, then I don’t need to interpret much. I can see how horrible it is, just like you can and do see it. And I reject it rather than make excuse for it.

The believers who transcend the horrors of the Bible demonstrate that they are good and decent to the extent that they do NOT follow the Bible as their sole source of morality. But the belief in it’s divine nature is a precursor to being convinced that the atrocities within it are not atrocities at all. Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it. Those who believe the Bible is God’s word are doomed to follow it. It has been and will be our children that pay the price for our devotion to ancient screeds and prehistoric myths.

I’m sorry your truth is inconvenient for you. But, please, Believers, at least own it and be honest about it.

a–Taken from a monologue by Christopher Hitchens in answer to a question during a debate with a monotheist.

The Pinnacle of Piety


When I invite my son to go on a hike, maybe his reluctance and even refusal are because he’s been listening in church. He knows that when Abraham’s invited his son Isaac to climb Mount Moriah, it was more than a leisure hike that was intended by the father. He also knows that I’ve never demonstrated enough devotion to any person or thing to sacrifice a non-combatant to it. I’ve often told my children that, so long as they are not harming themselves or others, they can count on my support for their decisions. Cases of self-defense and war aside, I can’t imagine what it would take to bleed the life from someone. And even if I could, taking the leap to filicide is a non-sequitur. When one hears voices in their head, all bets may be off.

I actually teared-up when I found this image.

But Abraham is held in high esteem by all three monotheisms. He is the father of a divine covenant between God and all of Abraham’s seed, literal or adopted. None who consider the Old Testament or Torah as divinely inspired scripture consider the great patriarch to be anything less than completely lucid, utterly moral in his decisions, and a demonstrator of the ultimate expression of piety. And even if you want to say, “Well, he didn’t have to go through with the sacrifice! God only wanted to see if he would do it.”

My response: “Your God is a sadist. Would you give a pass to the tyrant or mob boss who demanded you kill your child only to say, ‘You passed the test. Now, remember, I can command anything I want. And you’d better do it without question and without delay. Capisce?'”

“But God didn’t require it in the end. That’s the point. God is merciful. You need to read your Bible before you criticize it.”

“Tell that to Jephthah.”

Gulp. “…Who?”

As wicked as their parents’ obedience to unseen voices in their heads is, the obedience of the children in the face of their death is equally horrifying. They submit so readily you have to wonder: if the stories are true then the utter, mindless indoctrination of the children by their parents and communities is a testament to the toxicity of belief in the divine.

For those unfamiliar with Jephthah, check out Judges 11:30-40. (It’s not a story they would tell you in Sunday School as it’s horrible and not faith promoting bu they can’t cut it out of the Bible because the book is perfect for most Christians and almost perfect for Mormons.) In this story, once again, the children become the theatre for parents to show their absolute devotion to their post-adolescent, imaginary friend. Jephthah promises God that if he prevails over the Ammonites, he will sacrifice to Him the first thing that exits the door of him home. When his daughter is the first, he is sorrowful but, dammit, he’s pious! Unlike Abraham, God doesn’t intervene to stop the murder though He has two months to do so. Jephthah’s daughter, after spending the two months bewailing and mourning her virginity, submits to her father’s promise. Instead of saying that he guts his daughter, murders his own child, or even sacrifices his own daughter, the text tells us that he, “did with her according to his vow which he had vowed.” The text makes a point of explaining that she died a virgin. Thus, another cult demonstrates the strange fascination humans have with female virginity as if that point made her either a more sorrowful sacrifice or a more appropriate one. Perhaps both.

The above story is a stark and nearly perfect refutation of the excuse that Abraham didn’t have to sacrifice his own son. That God provided a scapegoat in the form of–not a goat at all–but a ram. The ram, a symbol of Jesus, right? The sheep that pays the price in our place. If you have a “Y” chromosome. If you’re unlucky enough to be stuck with only two “X” chromosomes, your salvation is only really in your husband. God didn’t send a replacement for Jephthah’s daughter. The Mormon church has quietly changed the wording in their temple ceremonies to make it seems as if the women have some independence in the pursuit of Godhood. And, yes, that is the purpose of the temple. Not salvation. You get that through baptism and repentance. The temple is concerned with exhalation–becoming like God himself.

They covenant to give all of their time, talents, and everything with which the Lord has blessed them or with which he may bless them to build up the Kingdom of God on the Earth (the LDS church) and establishing Zion. Everything. Everything including your children are blessings from God and thus, belong to Him anyway. If he asks for them back as the price of your own, bloody, knife-wielding hand, do as Abraham was asked to do. And be ready to follow through as Jephthah had to do. Remember that God doesn’t like when you keep living things alive that he’s commanded you to slaughter. Just ask Saul. Mormons are covenanting in their temple to become “Kings and Queens, Priests and Priestesses” but Saul lost his kingship for keeping animals to offer as sacrifices. Of course, let’s not forget when Israel conquered the Midianites all the men and male children and non-virgin women were to be slaughtered but any and all virgins of every age were to kept alive. Let your imagination run with that, if you dare. Would you celebrate your daughter being among those kept alive because she would be grafted into the covenant people? Or, would you consider her better off dead?

In rabbinical tradition, as I understand it, Isaac was 37 years old when his father invited him on the long, gloomy hike to the top of Mount Moriah. Most traditions of which I am aware have him as over 20 years of age. Some that seem ironically hell-bent on making the Old Testament tradition rhyme with the New Testament–like Adam Clarke–have said Isaac, like Jesus, was 33 years old when his sacrifice was demanded. Either 33 or 37, I find the age personally interesting. This is the range in which I left the Mormon church and, by so-doing, obtained the ignominious status amongst those who love me (at least love their Mormon version of me) that they feel I would be better of having died than having recanted my faith. If only they knew how I speak against it, now. Danites among them might feel the call of God to deal with me appropriately.

I must admit feeling flattered that, by my late thirties, I have obtained a life of such consequence that some might be “better-off” if I were dead. My children would not think such a horrible thing, though some fathers have actually earned that distinction. But for those zealots who might think or even say such a thing, their holy writ contains enough divinely inspired instruction to hold such a position. Not only may they hold it, the may find consolation and conviction in it.

Unfortunately, for those striving for Godhood in Mormonism, this kind of devotion is still expected. God still expects people to tried, even as Abraham. Doctrine and Covenants 104:4-5: “Therefore, they must needs be chastened and tried, even as Abraham, who was commanded to offer up his only son. For all those who will not endure chastening, but deny me, cannot be sanctified.”

“Yeah, but he said that to a specific group of saints!”

What I say unto one, I say unto all.”

Mormon God

According to Joseph Smith God, the requirement to gut your child is to chasten you. To become like God you must be willing to act like God. You might say, “It’s not about what a person does or doesn’t do because everyone won’t be asked to sacrifice their kid to God. It’s really about the character you develop. Have you become the kind of person who would do anything and everything God asks of you?” Even if that includes gutting your child to prove your love of God–an unseen, unheard, not demonstrable, merciful, all-loving father.

When will you say enough is enough? I don’t care if you’re all-powerful. I won’t submit to a tyrant. My morality and decency demand that I say no. If you claim you would hide a jew in your attic and lie to the Nazi’s when asked about it but you would still kill your kid if God asks, I wonder what level of authority you wouldn’t submit to. And, if you tell me that you couldn’t make yourself go through with the murder of your child at the command of deity, then the extent to which you are a good person is to the extent that you are not a Christian or a Mormon.

Few Mormons or Christian’s would admit that they would do it. But the same majority that won’t admit to it, would also not say that they wouldn’t or couldn’t do it. To say they would means they will kill their kids because a voice in their head instructs them to do so. Thus, they typically avoid the hypothetical altogether claiming that they can’t imagine the command coming to them and God surely wouldn’t ask it of them.

“But what if He did?”

“He won’t.”

“It doesn’t matter if he will, it matters how you would respond.”

Nearly everyone in this day and age knows that to be willing to sacrifice one’s own child is abjectly wicked and evil. When they hear of a mother killing her children because God told her to–it’s in the news often and even once is too often–the saint can pass off the impulse and horrific act as inspiration from the devil. But they can’t say that God hasn’t commanded it in the past and even allowed and relished in the obedience.

If you say no you wouldn’t follow the command to gut your kid, it means that you are admitting you wouldn’t do anything God asked of you. And that’s the whole point of submitting to God. Would you do any thing He commanded? If not, you’re not worthy of him.

I’ve had this conversation multiple times with active, believing Mormons. They will not answer. They pretend they cannot or will not entertain a hypothetical. They won’t say yes and they won’t say no or they’ll dismiss by saying that they can’t imagine it happening or that they don’t know what they’d do. The latter is as good as an admission that they would. If you can’t say no without so much as a breath; if you can’t say no with conviction; if you feel sorrowful or shameful that you would decline God’s command, you may be a horrible person.

Can you see why I don’t want my kids in your care for even an hour on Sunday during their primary indoctrination time? If you’re not teaching them to kill their own kids, you’re teaching them as kids themselves, to be willing to submit if their parent says, “Let’s go for a hike…oh, this? I always carry a knife like this.”


For the Children

*Author’s Note: This is a short story I wrote several years ago. I didn’t try incredibly hard to publish it conventionally. With the recent pandemic it seems, at least as far as fiction is concerned, apropos.

Ironic that a man of Adam W. Walsh’s virility should live in such a sterile apartment. But that was the requirement of an Achromatin-contributing Fertility Assurance Specialist. Known to the public as a second man, one of the few things Adam still liked about his job was the acronym of his official title, AFAS. He’d been half-assing it for months. No, not a job. It had become his life, the purpose of his entire existence that not only informed every decision, but made them for him. Sterility of environment was mandated by legislation passed without a single dissenting vote in either house. A law now ensured by daily compliance reports and monthly inspections. Such was life for a second man employed by a government-accredited fertility assurance agency operating in The United States. Promoting their commitment to employing only disease free second men was critical not just to avoid bureaucratic inquiry, but to maintain the reputation the corporation had struggled to build in the first years after it was discovered that universal infertility had a work-around.

Just as well that he was scheduled for his bi-weekly drug screening and CBC. 

“We are the protectors of progeny.”

He smirked. The company motto used to inspire him. Now it sounded in his ears like a death knell. A vestigial phrase that meant something to those seeking the company’s services though it had become a sappy reminder of a gift stolen by necessity to become a burden of responsibility for him.

Through the long, window-lined hallway from his bedroom to the immaculate kitchen, he shuffled his bare feet along the polished marble tiles. He paused at the center of the hall and leaned his forehead against the clear pane, gazing at the waking city twenty floors below. Cars and trucks shuffled from one street to another, pausing at intersections or train tracks as electric rail-cars zipped by with their morning commuters. 

The soft hiss of the coffee maker spewing hot water to percolate through the filter drew his attention. He made his way to the kitchen and then, with a steaming mug, to the balcony. The crisp morning air refreshed him as he sipped his morning pick-me-up. He rested his elbows on the thick, concrete rail and peered at the park across the street. The slim brunette that looked so good in those athletic pants wasn’t out today as usual, jogging around the park. He scanned the perimeter of the green-space, ignoring the handful of sullen walkers and their restless dogs. Several men and women in business attire hurried along the sidewalk, a briefcase in one hand and to-go latte in the other. He raised his own mug in a silent cheers—to living—and took a slurping sip.

Oh, that was new. A man and woman, with a small child in pink pants and coat toddled between them as they crossed the grassy field toward a seldom-used swing set. They each held one of the child’s up-stretched hands and every few steps lifted her from her feet to swing the child playfully. Over the din of morning traffic, he thought he heard a squeal of delight from the girl. Despite his mood, he grinned, wondering if that child could be one for which he was responsible. It was possible but unlikely. Not since the Same City Proscription. That was, what, five years ago? This toddler was no more than three. Could have moved here from elsewhere.

Adam shrugged. Did it really matter? Life was his responsibility, not living. But was the former worth it without the latter?

He left the half-finished mug on the rail and grabbed his gym bag from the entry-way bench and slipped out he door. Rather than the elevator, he opted to take the twenty-one floor descent via the stairs. At the emergency exit on the ground floor, he hesitated, nearly giving in to the impulse to push his way out, set off the fire alarm, and make his mandated, morning cardio a jog along Denver’s streets. The impulse had become habitual just as had his response. Habit and duty always won out, and he made the turn down the final flight.

After changing into blue shorts, a Stanford t-shirt, and his running shoes, he stopped at a fountain and filled his water bottle. It took half-of-the bottle to wash down his morning regimen of vitamin supplements before he trudged to the treadmill. Several coworkers were already there, going through their regular workouts for the day. 

“Hey, Adam!” 

He turned in the direction of the voice and waved.

“Adam—THE FIRST MAN! ADAM!” His coworker, Paul, flexed obnoxiously but in that easy manner that pretended to nothing. “Here early as usual.” 

He grinned and shook his head dismissively as he scanned the other weight machines. “Where’s Ramon? He’s usually the first one here.”

Paul, short and slightly balding, always wore a friendly smile. Even if he felt lonely most of the time, Paul was one of the few coworkers Adam really did like. “He’s out today. They sent him hopping from here to K.C. to Nashville to Miami. He should be back by Saturday.”

Adam placed his water bottle in its holder on the treadmill. “Did one of the others fall through or something?”

Paul rubbed at his shoulder. “I guess. I think the scheduled second was out of D.C. or Dallas, but they came down with something. You know how some of the clients are. No matter what the science says, they still think they need the right ethnicity to make it work.”

“No kidding.” He stepped onto the treadmill and pressed the quick-start button. “I could use a vacation, to tell you the truth.”

Throwing his head back, Paul offered up a hearty laugh. “Man, we are way-too in-demand to get a vacation right now. Maybe after next year. At least that’s what Director Jeffs mentioned last week. He was just speculating, but—really? You want a break?”

Focussing on the treadmill settings, Adam feigned casual indifference. “I guess I’m feeling worn out.”

“You’re strong as a horse and look like a male super model. With your pedigree, you get twice as many requests as the next two of us combined.” 

Adam sneered as Paul shook his head. “If they could get a personality screening, the clients would choose you and Ramon a hell of a lot more often than me.”

“Nature and nurture, my friend. Some things can’t be nurtured, like your traps and IQ.” Paul patted his shoulder.  “Seriously, you won the genetic lottery at birth and after the sterilization.”

The belt of the treadmill sped up to a fast walk. “To each his own, I guess.”

The short balding man rapped his hands on the machine. “Alright, buddy. Count your blessings, that’s what I say. You could be crawling around through crawl-spaces fixing AC duct work. Believe me, that’s not pleasant in the Alabama heat.”

He smiled and plugged his earbuds in his ears as Paul trotted off to another weight station. Tuning the audio to television number two—CNNAdam settled into an easy jog. As a commercial break touted the protectors of progeny, he scanned the room, remembering the days he got to work-out in gym with men and women. He hoped those days would return. Soon.

“We’re back with the latest on President Warren’s bill proposed last week,” the nasal voice of the male co-host of the network morning show, Drew Lambert, spoke in his ears.

He trained his eyes on the screen as Megan Lynn, the network’s political analyst, chimed in. “Yes, Drew. The Freedom of Fertility Act may get its day on the house floor after all. Despite push-back from house republicans, a coalition of democrats and socially-conscientious republicans are banding together to at least give this bill a chance for debate. And they hope to get it through committee and onto the actual floor during the waning weeks of this session of congress.”

Co-host, Gennifer Carmike, gestured with an open hand. “Megan, if this bill passes congress, what would it mean?”

Megan nodded. “Genniefer, many experts on both sides already think that such a presumption is, just that, presumptuous. A spokesman for AFAShas been quoted as saying, ‘The measure won’t get through committee any easier than an embryo can implant in a womb without a viable second man.’ And that is what democrats seem to be scrambling for right now, a viable second manfor their legislation at the last hour. Some hope the President may come forward and openly support the measure. But for now, we are left with a fertility industry in this country that is almost completely in the hands of corporations—”

“That’s not true,” Glen Dawson, the ultra-conservative analyst butted-in. “There are no laws restricting the industry from entrepreneurs. There are hundreds of agencies around the country offering fertility services.”

Red-faced, Megan Lynn pointed at Glen’s chest. “Maybe there should be. Legitimate companies—those certified by the Department of Health and Human Services—are pricing their services out of reach of anyone who isn’t wealthy. Smaller companies are uncertified. We are even seeing the rise of black-market fertility and STD’s.”

“When the risk of pregnancy goes down, the incidence of STD’s are bound to rise as well. You free-lovers can’t have it both ways?” Glen threw his hands up with a smug grin. “And why should we fear competition from small business? Isn’t that another one of your special classes that need all-sorts-of government protection? A surge in entrepreneurism without bureaucratic regulation! Free-markets at their best.”

“Wait, wait,” Gennifer interjected, “this has nothing to do with free-markets or government control. This has to do with protecting the gene pool and the health of mothers and babies. This has to do with ensuring the perpetuation of the human race.”

Drew shot a scathing look at Glen. “It almost sounds as if you don’t know remember what happened not long ago. Our species survived the most destructive epidemic known in the history of man.”

Glen folded his arms. “Gennifer, why don’t you leave science to the scientists and medicine to physicians. People can decide what service they want to use.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” Megan cut in. “STD rates are higher in low-income populations then they’ve ever been.”

Glen scoffed. “And teen pregnancy rates and abortions are effectively at zero.” He held up his hand and peered down a tunnel made with his fingers and thumb. “But that has nothing to do with a decrease in sexual activity. If anything, that has skyrocketed to obscene levels.”

Megan gestured as if trying to calm Glen down. “We all agree that rampant sex is a public health problem. But when any Tom, Dieter, or Henry can advertise themselves as a second man, regardless of whether or not it’s true, couples desperate for a child and for money are getting swindled. And they are getting swindled in a very personal way.” 

“And the answer is to nationalize the fertility industry? Like India and Brazil have done? You want to show me how that has turned out for the better for their citizens?” Glen rolled his eyes. “And let’s not pretend that these certified companies have a perfect track record.”

“You’re not suggesting that they are fraudulent?” Drew’s mouth was agape.

“I’m suggesting that they are not perfect. They don’t have a one hundred percent success rate.” Glen smirked.

“If you are so concerned about perfect results,” Gennifer snarled, “perhaps you would like to explain your support for the appropriations bill that would have cut all funding to researchers trying to find an alternative to second men?”

“I never said I was interested in perfect results.” He scowled. “My primary interest is in protecting freedom.” 

“Is conceiving children a right?” Megan raised a firm, silencing hand as Glen tried to spew a reply. “Let me finish. We are heading toward a society where only the wealthy can propagate. Poor and low income people would not only take risks that result in early death, they might be bred out of existence because—if you can imagine it—they can’t afford to breed.”

Drew added quickly, “I agree. Fertility isn’t a scarce resource. It is limited, but why should it only be available to the rich?”

“So this bill, if passed, would effectively make the fertility industry a government-run service.” Gennifer read from notes in her hand. “Would taxes pay for the service for anyone who would qualify? Would there be qualification criteria or standards?”

Megan nodded. “Yes and no. Right now, credentialed providers are not required to service anyone with a venereal disease. President Warren’s bill would require health exams—offered for free at city, county, and state clinics—for anyone who applies as well as ensuring that they are in an emotional and financial position to provide for a child.”

Glen scoffed. “The government would get to say who can have a child and who can’t. Even fewer women would become pregnant, and only the upper class would qualify for the service anyway. After you take away all those with no STD’s, history of drug use, and with means to provide for a child, you eliminate the poor anyway. The market does that already but keeps the door open for them to pick themselves up by their own bootstraps.”

Gennifer nearly leapt over the half-moon shaped table. “That is blatant classism!”

“Blatant! You want to—”

Adam switched the channel. Anything but pundits arguing about whether or not he should become a compulsory employee of the state. It landed on coverage of the Kentucky Derby. A sports anchor was talking about last years Triple Crown winner, Speed of Sound. The heralded bay had gone on to command stud fee’s in excess of $350,000. 

He smiled despite himself. Amongst humans, he was a Triple Crown winner. Destined or doomed as a result of winning several genetic races that only one in one-hundred thousand had won.

Thirty minutes of cardio and another thirty minutes of weights were not enough to distract him. He logged his time with the attendant and trudged to the elevator, closing his eyes and taking slow deep breaths as he rode to the top floor.

He made an organic, nutritional breakfast shake as he cooled off, and took it to the round, glass table. He sipped, staring at the empty seat across from himself, straining to remember when it was last filled. Maybe Paul or Ramon? And then just for a drink and to watch a few games during March Madness? Never a girl. He hadn’t had a romantic relationship since college. Six years in this sterile prison. Discovery of his “gift” at the mercy of a compulsory government screening for viable second menthe selective service for the war of his generation. Maybe all generations. The only war that could truly end all wars.

He chuckled, remembering Ramon’s take, “The sex-lective service.”

Of course, the monetary compensation was incredible. If he invested well, his great-great-great-great grandchildren would never have to work a day of their lives, inflation notwithstanding. The irony was that as active as he was, he may still never have a kid. Each month’s mandatory recuperation week came and went. The lights of Paris, Tokyo, and Dubai. The ancient serenity of Machu Picchu, Rome, and Athens. The gardens of Babylon. The art of Vienna. The tranquility of the Himalayas, Patagonia, and Denali. In six years he’d seen the world on the company dime and done a great service to his species in the process. But he was alone.

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t get a woman. With the fear of unwanted pregnancy almost completely eliminated, some women were more aggressive than ever. And they loved him. He felt like James Bond in Monte Carlo. Money to throw around, a mandated physique that came naturally as did his sexiest-man-alive good looks. But as soon as they found out what he did, their smiles faded and their flirtations gave way to subtle excuses or sudden headaches. He was chewed gum to them. No one wanted chewed gum, did they? Especially gum chewed over and over and over by dozens each month.

He could have a relationship. Some of his coworkers were married, but most of them had started off that way. Their wives accepted their fate as the spouse of a second man. Who wouldn’t? After all, it was for the good of mankind, wasn’t it? And the income! Like a rock star who has to submit to weekly drug and disease testing. The perfect man.

But what really made a man perfect? Looks. Money. A good heart? He wasn’t perfect. He was alone. All he really wanted was someone to talk to. Someone to share his deepest thoughts. Someone where sex didn’t get in the way of the relationship but was a part of it all-the-same. Six years ago, he wouldn’t have cared. But now, he wondered if it was even possible. The way things were wasn’t just due to the conditioning by zealots, it was the reality of everyone’s life.

He focussed on the patter of warm water against the glass, shower door and the soft gurgle as it drained. The steam helped settle his mind and, after a scandalously long repose, he made his way to the fourth floor and signed in at the nurses’ station for his blood draw. He was called back immediately by Rachel, a young RN that always had a flirtatious way about her. Attractive, fun and intelligent, yet Rachel couldn’t date anyone who worked for the company. It was part of her employment contract, as it was his.

“Adam!” Her voice had a light southern drawl that drew him in. She grinned in her usual manner, touching his arm in an interested way. 

He was ashamed that she knew so well the details of what he did. She’d known it for over four years. Details he’d never tell his mother and only vaguely revealed to his company therapist. “Good morning, Rachel. Lovely as always.”

She tilted her head and offered a sideways smile, her ponytail swinging as she did so. “Oh, Adam. You know it’s just not meant to be.”

Adam nodded and plopped into the chair, setting his left elbow in the padded arm rest. “The new normal, I guess.”

Rachel tightened a latex band around his bicep, and he flexed a little. She chuckled and cleaned the soft bend in his elbow with an alcohol wipe. “You know, I know you all are supposed to work out but you have some of the best veins. They could be a wonder of the nursing world.”

“I’m glad you like them.” He clenched his fist as she prepared the needle.

“Tell me, then, where did they have you last week.” She inserted the needle and placed the first vial.

He didn’t even wince. “You know, you’re getting pretty good at this. I hardly noticed.”
“Hardley?” she responded with a hint of bruised pride. “I guess I should practice more.”
“That’s why I’m here.” 

Undoing the rubber band on his bicep, she repeated, “Now, where were you last week?”

She had the locations right there in his chart, but he knew she was trained to distract during blood draws. “I had a crazy hop into Fairbanks on Monday and on to Anchorage the next night. Two days off and a then a double in Seattle. Back on Saturday night.” 

“And this week?” She changed vials without glancing up.

“Rachel, you know all this. Why do you ask?”

She peered up at him, her flirtatious smile back. “I’m supposed to ask.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “I know I’m starting out in Salt Lake City tomorrow. From there I’m not really sure.”

She removed the last vial, the needle, and placed a bandaid. “Here you go, Adam.” She stoppered the vials, stuck the printed labels on them, and stood. “It’ll be fifteen minutes in the lab. Do you want to wait?”

He nodded, resting his chin on his palm.

“Okay. Doctor—” She glanced at the chart, “Brookings will be here once he’s finished, it’s been a light morning. Shouldn’t be long. By the way, what does the “W” stand for?”

“Weary,” he said, wiping his mouth with his hand and smiling. Seemed sinisterly ironic that his middle name was Wood. But whichever grandfather took it as a surname couldn’t have known anymore what the future held than the parents who gave it to him at birth.

She put her hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side, furrowing her brow.

“That’s all you get from me until we go on a date.” He grinned, sharing his perfect teeth.

She blushed and bit at her bottom lip. “Fine. Mister Walsh. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

As the door closed, he peered through it to watch her ponytail bounce while she walked down the hall. He followed her with his gaze until the sealing door cut-off his view with a metallic thud. The latest copy of The New York Times caught his eye from where it sat on the table beside him. 

One headline was for an opinion piece titled, A View of the Apocalypse. Though he’d never been particularly religious, he opened to the editorial. This guest editorial came as a contribution from one Reverend Malcom Bidwell of Rogers, Arkansas.

It is in these sobering times that I feel the most appropriate salutation one can offer to their fellow men and women is the euphemistic title of Brother or Sister. Indeed, our species—the divine offspring of the great and powerful creator—has stood at the precipice of extinction and viewed our lonely, inescapable annihilation. Not through a glass darkly, but face to face with the end itself. But our Great God has seen fit to show us the way. Our Master has calmed the tempest and taken our stone hearts as he once did his Rock—by the hand—to lift us from the cresting waves where our heads had gone below.

Some would say—indeed have said—that this is the just punishment of a just God upon a wicked and fallen generation that has chosen in the face of all His gracious blessings, to call good “evil” and evil “good”. An age of the world where those with itching ears and stiff necks incline their praise not to the good grace of God but to the power of the arm of flesh. Indeed, we have put darkness for light and light for darkness. The wicked prosper and the voices of the righteous are lost to the clamor of unbridled and unchecked relativism.

Others have said that our current situation is the result of God showing us that his foolishness is greater than the wisdom of men. We are being given a lesser law to prepare us for the goodness and greatness that is to come in His due time.

Cults are crying out in a loud voice with their forked tongues that their revelations and their revelators set the example of polyandry over two-hundred years ago. Those among us most dedicated to the good, and pure, and only Word of God have seen fit to declare the rapture is complete and we are suffering the burnings of our final days with the burden of choosing between an unchanging God’s commands and the adulterous act that we find necessary to perpetuate our species. But we are no menial animalia, we are the offspring of God! And if children, then heirs of God if so be that we suffer with Him.

If the apocalypse is upon us, we can see God’s hand in it, and His wisdom in declaring to us that the wicked will be destroyed by fire. Perhaps the gates of hell will open to receive the wicked in this time as fire falls from the sky and surges from the growing pressure beneath. But, as I see it, the true disciple will keep all of God’s commandments with faith, for his word is sure and his course everlasting. The follower of Jesus Christ will live as long as he or she may in obedience, holding out for the grace of God that is in Christ, Jesus, our Lord. 

The fires of hell do not burn about us, above us, or below us. They burn within us. They burn for the man or woman who gives up faith that the fire of lust and the flame of fearful iniquity lead us to do that which has been forbidden for the followers of God since the beginning. And, I know that the jealously of a good husband and the shame of an innocent wife burn all the hotter when we listen to man’s counsel. 

Those who, with good intentions, seek out these so-called second men have shown their indifference to God. I do not apologize for the innuendo in saying that such souls have indeed put their trust in the arm of flesh.

“Good morning, Adam,” Doctor Brookings ambled into the room, his white lab coat swaying as he walked. “How are you feeling?”

“Decent,” Adam placed the newspaper on the table beside him.

Doctor Brookings glanced over his wire-rimmed glasses and pointed toward the newspaper. “I read that, too. I remember a day when the New York Times would never have run an editorial like that.”

Adam nodded. “What did you think about it?”
“Not much.” He scanned the papers he held. “I’ll tell you what I do know. This fifth generation Zika virus was no act of God or men. Nature had its day. One-hundred percent infectivity of the world within three years. Death rate less than one percent. Complete infertility as we knew it.”

He’d heard it all before, but somehow it still felt like a dream. Hearing it from his physician somehow settled him into reality.

Brookings cleared his throat. “Your labs look great. The model of health.” 

Adam lifted his shirt as the doctor inserted the buds of a stethoscope into his ears. Brooking spoke between listening to his breathing with the cold instrument on his back and chest. “My wife and I finally got past it and hired a second man.” 

Quiet pause.

“Of course, the company provides one for us. No waiting list, no nothing.”


“She picked a guy, a lot like you, out of the Miami center.”

Pause. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and tossed it casually over his neck. “He was a really great fellow. Very professional. I think the board has done a great job securing the best seconds out there and getting them under one roof. Present company included.”

Adam found a tongue depressor in his mouth and penlight waving from his mouth to nose to eyes. “We still don’t know why it takes copulation to make it work. All those samples you boys provide on your off-weeks? Those go straight to Philly for that research.”

He stood, pushing the small, rolling stool back with his calves as he came to his feet. “I know some of you would hate to be out of a job. This is a pretty good gig for the one in a hundred-thousand that can do it.”

“Is the ratio that low?” Adam tugged his shirt down.

“It’s actually one in ten-thousand but only one in a hundred qualify under the government guidelines and fewer meet our own strict protocols.” He checked some boxes on the notes. “I don’t see you’re due for any vitamin injections. You eat pretty healthy anyway, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Always have.”


“Volleyball, in college. Almost made the olympic team before the outbreak.”

Brookings removed his glasses and peered at Adam. “No kidding? That’s a shame. Well, being a second man is no bad gig.”

Sure. Being a perpetual runner-up. Always coming in second. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll see you in a week.”

“Sure thing, Adam.” Brookings whistled as he disappeared down the hall.

*   *   *   *   *

“Adam, Adam, Adam, Adam, Adam——shame!”

Yup, it was Leonard. Why did it have to be Leonard.

A hand clapped him hard on the shoulder. “How are they hangin’ my second brother?”

He closed his eyes, subduing a full-body wince. “Just getting some grub before I board. Airport food does a body good.”

A leather bag plopped to the floor and a coworker that looked oddly like Napolean Dynamite in a button up Hawaiian shirt collapsed in the seat across from him. Well, a Napoleon Dynamite that had found a professional stylist to help his image. “Where you off to this week?”

“Salt Lake City tomorrow and the rest of my itinerary is still on its way. Who knows,” he grinned mischievously, “Maybe just one hop this week.”

“OoooooOOOO oo! Be careful in Utah, my friend. I had a husband watch there once.” He nodded, an incredulous look in his eye. “Sat there beside the bed for the whole thing. He insisted on it. Garret and Blake had the same thing happen. Guess where? Utah and Idaho—but close enough you could spit into Utah if you wanted to.”

Adam shrugged. “So what. You love a woman and committed your life to her? As hard as it may be to see that, I’d imagine even y—most decent husbands would consider doing the same.”

“Maybe.” He trailed off, scratching his head and pushing his glasses back up his nose. A grin flashed on his face and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You ever get to go on an international call?”

Chewing his salad as he nodded, took a long drink of water, and wiped his mouth. “Every couple of months. Canada. England. France. Germany. These days, they’ll only let us go to Canada, Australia, and Europe anyway.”

Leonard’s grin melted to a frown. “I thought South Africa was still open?”

“Nope, closed it a year ago. Malaria and a couple of other things.”
“There’s immunizations for that.”

“Too risky. Mutations in the virus, I think. Rachel was explaining it to me a few months ago.” He smiled to himself.

“Whoa. Whoa, buddy. Back up the cart! You and her?” Leonard wore a disgusted sneer.

“Me and her? Of course not. Like you, I happen to see her every week because of my job.”

“And you talk to her?” He wiped casually at his nose with the back of his arm and gave an anemic snort. “Man, she is way too intimidating.”

“You don’t talk with her?”

Leonard scoffed. “I don’t talk to anyone, let alone pretty girls. But,” he gestured up and down at Adam with an open hand, “look at you. Girls were never a problem for you.”

“Oh? Okay.” Forget about it. 

Leonard’s wide eyes bored into him. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t like this job?”

Adam set down his fork and shrugged. “It’s your feeling. You tell me?”

The lanky man sagged back in his chair, arms thrown wide in frustration. “Dude, it’s totally obvious. You won the friggin’ lottery and you act like you’re getting shipped off to Auschwitz!”

Adam set his eyes on Leonard in a scathing rebuke. “That’s not funny.”  

The peevish man held his hands up defensively. “Lighten up and enjoy yourself.” He leaned forward, wagging a slender finger at Adam. “One of these days, those guys in Philly are gonna figure it out and you and me are gonna be out of a job.”

Rolling a straw on the table with his fingers, he sucked at his bottom lip. “So what? We’re rich as rock stars.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Can’t come soon enough, if you ask me.”

Leonard stepped his glasses up the bridge of his nose with several short, rabbit-like wrinkling movements. “I agree it’s odd in this day and age, with all the medical and biotech in the world, that they haven’t figured out how to put us out of a job. The one’s I meet, I’m sure they’d prefer a doctor’s hand over our services any day.”

“When that day comes, I think I’ll be happy for a chance at a normal relationship.”

“You’re one of the good looking ones. You don’t know how hard it was for some of us?” He sat tall, a smug look on his face. “I know you wouldn’t believe it, but back in high school, I was a total nerd.”

Adam suppressed a smile and, instead forced a feigned expression of shock.

“Yeah, yeah. I know! Dungeons and Dragons and RPG’s, the whole nerd thing, man.” He jabbed a thumb into his own chest. “Now, I get paid. I’m helping myself, and I’m helping humanity. God! We’re like fireman! Saving the world!”

“Seems to me we’re like chemotherapy. A repulsive and degrading treatment. Keeps life going but at a huge cost.” 

Leonard scoffed. “Why do you do it then? Can’t you just quit. Go into hiding somewhere?”

Returning a scoff, Adam sighed. “I feel some sense of duty, too. I hope what I’m doing is good. We do offer hope to people. And there are so few of us—one in a hundred thousand are suitable candidates. That’s three-thousand men at most in this country.”

“Man.” He scanned him up and down as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m the nerd here but you! You must be like a stiff board for those women!”

“You’re an ass, Leonard.” He stood, gathering the remains of his dinner. “We have a job to do for desperate people. You think those women and couples that call us like the fact that they need us have a baby? They ever invite you out for dinner afterward? You get Christmas cards from anybody?”

“Simmer down, Adam. Let a man like his job!” He brushed at his hair and exhaled through his lips like a horse. “Gosh, I thought jocks were all balls and no brain.”

“That’s why you’ve got the worst reviews of anybody still employed, Leonard. You’re lucky they don’t publish those in the brochure or NO ONE would request you. That’s why your rate will never get above the minumum. You’re a selfish, inconsiderate prick.”

“God! Shut the hell up! I follow the script just like everyone else!” Leonard was halfway to a fetal position. “You think we’re seconds, but we aren’t. We’re not runners-up. They depend on us! We make it happen. We’re really the primary, even if we are not the first.”

“In twenty years, we won’t be needed anyway.” Adam shouldered his carry-on and trudged toward his gate, offering a one-finger salute over his shoulder to Leonard. 

He boarded the ERJ-175 with the first class passengers though this short flight really had no first-class cabin. The hop was barely an hour from gate to gate but, just like most outbound flights in the last couple of years, he removed a leather portfolio from his carry-on and opened it. 

A faded picture, its corners worn, hung inside the front cover. The pages were smooth, plastic sleeves. He thumbed through the handwritten messages the sleeves protected. 


Paper in blue, pink, and yellow. Some bore blotched ink and stained paper where tears had fallen. Some also had pictures. Photos of infants, of families. He grinned at the black and gold card with a photo of twins in matching blue onesies that each said Daddy’s Soccer Star.

Few clients sent letters. He understood. His father had been a dentist and a damn good one. He heard from someone nearly every week growing up about how much they appreciated and respected his father, but in forty years, the old man had only gotten a handful of written letters to say thank you. And he cherished every one of them. Professionals don’t work for compliments even if they try to earn them. 

Some of Adam’s clients had sent more than one. The subsequent cards usually provided updates on the child’s birthdays. They were consistently expressions of gratitude and they were always awkward. But in that awkwardness, he sensed the genuineness of the gesture. These clients sensed how difficult the process was not just for themselves, but for him. 

As usual, he thumbed to the end. The purple card with the cherubic face of a newborn, eyes closed tight against the harsh newness of light. He brushed his fingertips lightly over the plastic protection and took a deep breath.

God gave us Hope when he sent you to us.

And though we held her and loved her for but a few hours

God needed her home, a rose amongst His flowers.

We cannot measure, nor dare we guess

How her moment in our arms o’ercomes all the grief.

Thanks to you, we have Hope forever, be the memory brief.

*    *   *   *   *

Adam glanced at his vibrating phone and slid the red icon across the screen, “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, honey,” she said in her perpetually hoarse voice.

“Asthma still a problem?” He said, glancing upward at the tall glass building. The buildings of AFAS remained unmarked after several religious groups threatened violent reprisals against them and one bomb was unsuccessfully deployed near their Chicago office. 

“Oh, you know doctors. They can’t seem to figure anything out these days.”

He rolled his eyes, dismissing the quip about the medical professions failure to remedy the current infertility epidemic. “Yeah.”

“Where are you this week?” the question seemed to linger like air freshener in a recently and desperately used lavatory. He knew what ruminated beneath her words.

Kicking at the side of the building, he shrugged. “Nowhere, Mom.”

“They don’t have you out somewhere dishonoring your family, faith, and morality?”

He twisted the mic on his phone up, away from his mouth and nose, and took a deep breath. After a weary exhale, he dropped the mic back to his lips. “Is this why you called?”

“You didn’t have to answer.” He sensed she wanted to say more, and remained silent through her pause. “Maybe that’s why you answered. You don’t always.”

Forcing his voice to stay calm, he said, “If I’m near my phone I always answer when you call.” He felt himself half-frown thinking about Rachel. You are the only woman I have, Mom.

“Is that right?”

“Because of you and dad, Toby never calls. Samantha’s husband won’t let her have contact with me. You all disowned Cameron, and he won’t answer any of my calls or letters. Dad’s gone. Who am I supposed to talk to?”

A sniff, he was quite sure was not the result of her asthma, scratched though the earpiece. “We can love you without loving what you do.”

“Tell that to Toby. Convince Jarod so he’ll let my sister call me. Reach out to Cam and tell him you love him.”

“Well—” her voice trailed off.

“Then at least tell him I had nothing to do with it all. I have no one—”

She cut him off. “And don’t thin—”

He returned the favor, “and I’m under no delusion that these kids will fill in that space, Mom! I don’t expect them to! They aren’t mine!”

Feet scuffing on the concrete beside him drew his attention and an embarrassed blush. He mouthed, “sorry,” and turned back to face the glass paned building. 

“Honey, it’s just—”

“I’ll talk to you later, Mom.” His voice cracked. “I love you.”

He pressed the “end call” button a bit more forcefully than he would have liked. Fighting back stinging tears, he licked his teeth beneath his lip and rolled the phone over and over in his hand. Taking two deep breaths, he stood tall and stepped to the door. 

Rummaging in his pocket, he removed a photo key card and dangled it by the lanyard beside the black, key box. A green light flashed on the box. An audible click. And the door slowly slid open.

“Good evening, Adam,” the receptionist at their Salt Lake City bureau said with a smile. She was cute, with wire-rimmed glasses that refused to stay up on the bridge of her nose. Blonde hair fell in wide curls over her gray suit coat.

“Hi, Amina.” He raised his hand in a casual wave as the glass door clicked closed behind him.

She offered an empathetic pursing of her lips and pained squint, “Rough phone call?”

He hefted the phone, still in his hand, and shrugged. “Mom.”

Amina tried to stifle a disgusted expression. “Sorry.”

He shrugged again.

“And,” she started slowly, a hint of regret in her tone, “your clients’ flight was delayed. They won’t be here until midnight.”

Relief flowed over him like cool water on a scorching summer day. “Just as well, I suppose.”

“Good thing your schedule is open.”

He tapped his phone and glanced at the screen then back to Amina. “What time do you get off?”

“Without them showing up,” she said, glancing up and to the left with a contemplative brow raise, “five.”

He wagged his phone as if she could read it. “That’s fifteen minutes. Want to get some dinner with me?”

Amina adopted a conspiratorial smile and bit at her lower lip—just like Rachel. “Well,” she drew out the word.

“My treat.” She smiled again. “You show me the place, I’ll pay. Any price, as long as we can walk there.”

She leaned forward, her white blouse with the top two buttons undone billowed downward, revealing a bit more than he wanted to see. “Business related, of course.

Wow. This one went from zero to sixty fast. He forced his own voice to remain coy, not wanting to deceive her at all. “Just two friends from work.”

She nodded, her curls sliding over her shoulder to bounce around her flawless face as if framing her portrait in a glistening, blonde frame.

He hefted his bag. “Let me drop this in my suite, and I’ll meet you down here at five?”

She nodded again, and he made his way to the elevator in a corridor behind the reception desk. Was this a bad idea? He chuckled aloud and though he heard her chair creek. His whole life was a bad idea.

As the doors to the elevator slid shut, he thought he heard a whisper from Amina’s direction. “Yeah, the really handsome one! He asked me to dinner. I know its—”

The sealing doors cut her off. He almost smiled, but his sinking stomach took away the pleasure of flirtation. They were coworkers, after all. 

*   *   *   *   *

When he returned to the reception desk, Amina leaned back against the desk with her feet crossed. Her heels accentuated the curves of her slender legs that disappeared at the knee under a dark-blue, pencil skirt. Her white, silk blouse, no longer hidden beneath the gray blazer, hung gratifyingly over her young, full breasts which she seemed determined to show off with her back subtly arched and her hair pulled back in a messy but undeniably sexy bun. 

He refrained from rolling his eyes, glad to have feminine company for an evening, and offered a genuine smile. Sliding his hands into his jeans pockets, he gestured with his head to the exit. “Where did you decide to go?”

With sultry, cat-like grace, she pushed up from the desk and glided to him, taking his arm with her hand. “Oh, I don’t want to go anywhere fancy. There’s a Brazilian place just a couple of blocks from here.” She raised her heel from the ground and glanced over her shoulder. “And walking anywhere in these isn’t much fun.”

He pulled his gaze from her exposed leg, and smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

As they made their way down the busy sidewalk, bustling with workers headed home from work, Amina squeezed his arm. “So, you’re from Denver?”

Oh, I wish she was that receptionist from Albuquerque. Just a nice smile and good conversation and not trying for anything. “That’s where I’m based out of, sure. But I was born and raised in Oregon.”

“Oh, I love Denver! I’ve thought about moving there a few times. I have friends in Boulder.”

This time, he did roll his eyes. Everyone had friends in Boulder. “What about you?”

“From here. All my life.”

He nodded, and she pulled him around a corner. “This place won’t be busy on Monday night. We’ll get a seat right away.”

“That’s nice. My last meal was an airport salad in Denver.”

“Eww!” She cringed, but her voice sounded a bit too much like a character from The Californiansin a Saturday Night Live sketch from years ago. 

He wanted to take her attention off of himself. Holding the door to the restaurant open, he said, “So, you must see a lot of guys come through from all over the place.”

“At least forty a week. In the winter and spring, I’ve seen a week with over two hundred.” 

“Wow,” he said with mock amazement. He knew the larger bureaus in New York and Houston averaged over three-hundred each week.

“Well, we’re nothing like the big cities.” She admitted, holding up two fingers to the hostess. 

Kari, the hostess’ name tag read, grabbed two menus, napkins, and utensils before leading them to a booth near the rear of the dining area. “What would you like to drink?”

“Water,” Adam answered on reflex.

Amina gave him a surprised, disappointed expression. “Just water?”

He glanced down at his menu and tried to speak with an indifferent tone. “For now.”

“I’ll start with a mojito.” Her expression remained conspiratorial. “And a water.”

Kari nodded and held up two fingers. “Two waters and a mojito?”

Amina’s glance practically begged him to order something stronger. He smiled at the hostess and handed her his menu. “That’s right. And I’m just going to do the works.”

“Me, too,” Amina said.

Kari smiled at Adam, and he suddenly wished he were at dinner with her instead. Frankly, he was afraid of what Amina might be like after her second cocktail.

Smiling warmly, he said, “Well, I feel like I haven’t had a real meal in ages.”

She seemed to flush at the comment, biting her bottom lip again. “I know what you mean.”

He was talking about food but might as well have been talking about something else—something Amina was thinking of. Trying to remain friendly, he stood and tapped the table. “Shall we?”

After filling the plates at the extensive salad bar, they returned to their table together and sat looking at their food. When a long moment passed, he picked up his fork. “I don’t say ‘grace’ or anything like that, but if you want to, I don’t mind.”

Amina shrugged to one side. “My family always did. I guess I do sometimes, but usually not in public.”

“Why would you change what you do in public?” He asked, setting down his fork.

“Oh, I don’t want to make others uncomfortable,” she said, her tone lacking confidence.

“If someone’s offended by you saying a prayer, that’s their problem, not yours.”

With her head slightly bowed, she rolled her eyes upward, peering at him from under her eyebrows. She smiled though he could barely see it. “Thanks…Dad.”

He snorted and she giggled in response. He held out his hands as if offering the table to her. “Please, the table is yours.”

Tipping her head side-to-side, she bowed it and softly mumbled something he could barely hear before raising her eyes to meet his own again. 

“Do you feel better?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said. 

The first unaffected thing she’d said to him since saying “hi” at his arrival. It seemed they may have passed through a wall and could simply talk. At least, he hoped they might.

“Well,” he mused, picking up his fork, “I do.”

She laughed aloud and he joined her in chuckling through a bolus of salad in his cheek, drawing a few curious and even irritated glances from around the room.

“Why do you think this bureau has so few calls compared to others?” He asked, mulling some Persian-inspired chickpea salad. “Other branches in similar cities like Portland and Tulsa are far busier.”

Taking a deep breath, Amina sighed. “I don’t know. My Dad thinks it’s a good thing, shows that people’s morals haven’t ‘gone to hell’ in this place. But he doesn’t say hell.” She almost choked on a cucumber as she laughed. When she recovered, holding a hand in-front-of her mouth to keep from spitting her food, she added, “He says ‘heck’.”

After along silence of eating, she asked, “What do you think will happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“To us?”

He raised his brow in question.

“Humans. Our species. What will happen to us?”

Wiping his lips, he took a sip of water and sat back to finish chewing whatever meat the server had just cut onto his plate. He swallowed. “Who’s to say?”

“Well, won’t our jobs become obsolete in a few years, when all the new babies being born are able to start having kids of their own without our services?”

“Maybe. We still don’t know if the virus’ affects will reach the next generation or not. And the virus is still out there. It didn’t go anywhere. We haven’t figured out an immunization for it yet. But even if the babies being born today can reproduce like we used to, it will be twenty more years before we could hope to be past this awful reality.”

“Awful?” her voice rose in genuine curiosity. “I mean, it’s kind of silly and maybe unpleasant but—well—you think this is awful?”

He shook his head subtly, unprepared for such a question. “What do you mean? You don’t?”

Her gaze travelled up and down as though she could also see through the table. “This must be a dream come true for you guys.”

“Why would you say that?” She was being genuine, but he was tired of this line of questioning. Maybe because he had the conversation with himself nearly every day.

“You get to—you know—” She stammered with a subdued pumping gesture of her fist. “All the time.”

“That sounds appealing to you?”

“Well, the culture I was raised in thinks that every man will have many wives in heaven and get to populate worlds. Men spend their whole lives doing what God wants so they can get this eternal sex life. Having babies forever is all that matters to them. If they don’t get that, it means they weren’t good enough people.”

“Your culture sounds like a sex cult.” He tried to give an apologetic, empathetic look with his eyes. “My job sounds like a sex cult.”

Her disgusted expression faded to a weary smile. “They both certainly do.”

Adam took a bite of grilled pineapple. “Do you flirt like this with all the seconds that come through here?”

Her head bowed with a shameful, shoulder shrug to mask her blushing cheeks. “Just the cute ones.”

“That’s a relief, I guess.” He sipped his water. “Maybe I should get a drink.”

She looked up carefully.

With the waiter passing by, he asked for a dirty martini then met her gaze. “I haven’t had a drink in months.”

She tossed her head a bit and raised her second mojito. “Is that so.”

“Who else?” He asked, finding himself suddenly enjoying the playful banter even if that’s all that it could be.

“Well,” she mused, “there’s you. Everyone knows about you.”

He nodded and rapped his fingers on the table.

“There’s a funny guy named Ramon, but I think he’s married.”

“Know him,” Adam added quickly. “He is. And his wife is amazing. She makes the best guacamole you’ve ever had.”

Amina’s face contorted in a disgusted, tongue-thrusting wretch. “I hate avacados.” When he didn’t answer, she added, “And there’s a spaniard, Emilio. All the ladies talk about him. From some town on the Mediterranean.”

Nodding, Adam said, “I know Emilio. Great guy! Always smiling. He’s from Murcia, actually, but his parents have a place on the Med. Been there twice. Quite the artist—sculptor—if you ever see him again ask him about his sculpture of a full set of teeth. Pretty incredible. And, he’s engaged to a really sweet señorita from Barcelona.”

She bit her lip—in disappointment this time. They went back to eating in silence for a few minutes. A child across the dining room caught his eye and he thought me recognized the parents, but those false-positives happened to him a lot these days. The child couldn’t have been more than eighteen months. Happy, giggling, and with a mess of processed food covering his chin, cheeks, and rolling down his bib.

Amina set her fingertips lightly on the back of his hand. “What are you thinking about?”

Only then did he realize he was staring. “I need a second man to have a baby, too, you know.”

Of course she knew, but suddenly, the flirtatious little girl gave way to a mature, empathic woman. “Do you know why?”

“They think competition or the threat of it is what motivates the embryo to finally implant. In vitro is usually ineffective without a second man, too. So I can fertilize an egg, but I still need that competition to make the embryo implant.”

“Is that hard?” Her tone was sweet, gentle, and kind.

“Of course not. It’s the way for everyone else, why not for me?” But there was resignation in his tone, not acceptance. “Simulation of a second man isn’t totally useless. Three to five percent of women will have successful gestations. But they find more spontaneous terminations of the fetus from it than are worth the risk.”

Amina stirred her potatoes about the plate. “It’s standard questioning now to ask if they’ve tried any simulated, secondary copulations in the last two weeks. They have to sign an affidavit that they have not and that we can’t be held liable for any failures due to their providing misinformation.”

“I hadn’t seen that.” Adam said.

She grinned and sat tall. “You don’t ask those questions. I do.”

“I passed a scraggly old man on my way to the Centre. He was holding a sign on the street that said,” he held up his hands as if unfailing a marque, “‘The Government Sanctions Adultery and calls it Good.’” He dropped his hands to his lap. “His other sign quoted the Bible, ‘In the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be Without natural affection, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away. For of this sort are they which lead captive silly women with divers lusts, never able to come to the knowledge of the truth.’”

Amina reached out again and touched his hand. “Do you like what you do?”

He tipped his head side to side as he thought about what to say. “I used to. Thought I was the luckiest man alive.”

“What about now?”

He nodded toward the window where the infant sat in his high chair, trying to pick up a cooked carrot. “That’s what I like about it. But none of them are mine.”

“So, you’re not like some of them—a sailor, with a girl-in-every-port attitude about it?”

“You think these women like it? Their spouses and boyfriends don’t. Some women need a man they are attracted to, since they know it’s only physical. Some men can’t stand it to have a good-looking guy in my position.” He took another sip of his martini. “Besides, I can’t have a significant other.”

“Can’t you get married?” 

“Even if the company allowed new marriages, how could I date someone long enough to get that far? Women run away when they find out what I do. And I can’t lie about it.”

“I’m sorry, Adam.” Her concern was genuine. “I didn’t realize—”

“It’s not your fault, Amina.” They sat silently, trying to avoid eye contact. “Thanks for coming to dinner with me.”

“What would you change,” she started, “if you could.”

“I don’t know. I’m scared of some dick-congressmen in D.C. declaring me a slave of the state. My family all think that I’m the spawn of Satan. And I can’t have a girlfriend.”

“So, you want a girlfriend then?” She said with a teasing glint in her eye.

“I would.”

As if held back for hours, her breath rushed out in a giggling deluge. “That’s a relief.”

“What do you mean?” he let the derision ooze from his voice.

“Well, you’re cute and smart and fit. Some of the other ladies wondered if you are gay.”

Is that why you’re trying to seduce me? To win a bet or something?” He slid his chair back as if preparing to get up and leave.

Her hands flew out to stop him, “No! No, no, no, no, no. I am sosorry.”

“You know,” he said, chuckling in a sickly fashion, “Ten percent of seconds are homosexuals by nature. They’re great guys. Most of them a lot easier to be around than others.” He thought of Napoleon and sneered. 

Amina’s head hung shamefully and she twiddled her thumbs at the edge of the table.

“I always wanted to really understand my brother. He’s a gay man and a very good man. He is an addiction recovery counselor, works with homeless people not far from me. Does great things. I haven’t heard from him in years because of how my mother and brother treated him when he came out to them. He won’t return my calls, and I hardly blame him. He was told to live his life without acting on his natural affections. He was supposed to live alone, craving something he could never have so that his actions wouldn’t harm impressionable children. ‘You have to deny yourself for the sake of the children.’ Well, he found a great guy, I’ve actually spoken to him. But, until things change, I’ll never have what my brother has. And I am truly happy for Cam. But I’ll have to try to enjoy a counterfeit experience for real, emotional and physical companionship. All for the good of humanity. For the children.”

“I’m sorry.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled before speaking softly, “I can barely get it up these days.”

“We have meds for that.” He saw her cringe as she said it.

“Oh, I know. And I use them.”

“Adam, I don’t think this job sounds good for you. Why not get out?”

He shrugged pathetically. “I tried last year but they offered me a pretty big increase in salary. I had plenty of money, don’t know why I ever took it in the first place. Now, I have a contract through nextyear.”

“You can’t keep this up. Haven’t they caught this depression in a psych evaluation?”

“They’re not worried about me as long as I don’t hurt anyone else. They have enough to worry about with fundamentalist groups trying to sneak their people inside and video-taping the beheading of second men.”

Amina’s hand flew to her mouth. “My gosh!”


“You didn’t know? We had a huge training on it. Happened in the Paris center. Apparently this is a new, radicalized-sanctioned form of jihad. The culture that results in Islamic countries is so opposed to this necessity, they want to wage an all-out war with their more liberal, fellow-believers and any others that are embracing such a wicked practice as ensuring the survival of the species. If they knew the names of any second men, there would be specific fatwahs declared against individuals.”

“That must be frightening.” She hadn’t touched her drink in a while.

He shrugged. “We don’t travel overseas like we used to. But we have plenty of hate from fundamentalist Christians in our own borders anyway so, what’s the difference?”

“Can I do anything?”

As her fingers settled on the back of his hand again, he felt a surge below his waist—no pill involved. She was practically begging him to spend the night with her, but he had to work tomorrow. Even if it were allowed, it wasn’t right. Besides, it couldn’t mean anything? She knew some of the real him, not the alias to which he must pretend with a client. 

He let go of her fingers and sat tall. As kindly as he could, he smiled. “Thanks for listening, Amina.”

She nodded, her brow furrowed slightly.

He met her gaze, the pressure within him dissipating and the dull, numbness returning. It could never work between he and anyone. Not right now. It wasn’t fair to the clients tomorrow. It wasn’t fair to Amina. His whole life wasn’t fair. He let her hand go with a wan smile, the smiling face of Rachel popping into his mind.

“I’m going to go for a walk.” He pushed his chair out and, with that same smile, tried to tell her that he was sorry and that this wasn’t her fault. “You’re very sweet. Don’t waste yourself for whatever you think we could be.”

“What about you?” she asked with a breathy voice.

“For now, it’s too late for me.” With a nod, he gestured to the family in the corner where the infant clumsily reached for a vegetable. “But, for now, I’ll be okay.”