By G.E.M.
Month: March 2023
By John Hargraves.
Last August I was recovering from a blood illness. Feeling well enough one morning, I decided to attend the county fair. It was Senior Day.
I soon found myself wandering between the circus tent and the tiny fairground chapel. The sign said SERMON AT 11 AM. This is exactly what I need, I thought.
Sitting five rows back with only five others in the pews, I took inventory. There was an elderly couple, a woman with her young daughter, and a young man. The minister began speaking and droning scripture. He shouted abomination at least three times, coupling references with the word homosexuality. He concluded with a gesticulation toward the back of the church. There a stained-glass window sparkled with a beautiful rainbow. He declared, “They stole that from us!”
The woman and her daughter had left midway through the service. The elderly couple slinked out at the end. The young man fist-bumped the reverend. My feet felt stuck, and I could not leave the near-empty sanctuary.
I heard myself say, “Reverend, the Jesus I know has a bigger tent.”
He looked puzzled. “What does that mean?”
“When it comes to love is my meaning.”
His face betrayed a hard curiosity, and he challenged me to define love.
“I’ll let Jesus do that,” I said. “Love God and love your neighbor as yourself.”
“Demons know Jesus too,” he said accusatorially. “Mark 1:23-24. A man in the synagogue with an unclean spirit cried out. ‘What do you want with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are. The Holy One of God.’”
“If we both love God, how far apart can we be?” I offered.
“We’re miles apart!” he said. “You’ve got to stop having opinions and stick with scripture.” He balled his fists.
I inquired about his church and then wished him well. When I left, I felt strangely soiled. On the way home I was compelled to drive by his church. A belief arose within me that it would somehow look different. As I turned into the parking lot, roofers were patching near the steeple. Some workers approached my car and asked if I was the minister. Their power had gone out. This made me laugh. I stayed a few minutes and then took off.
As I pulled into my driveway, a tire went flat; upon examining the deflated rubber, a spike glistened at me.
By James Gonda.
The prophet Joel, a spokesperson for God, exuded optimism while facing a motley crowd. “Do not distress!” he said. “Be glad and rejoice for the LORD has done great things.” He glanced at the skeletal livestock. “Do not fret, animals of the fields, for the pastures will soon turn green. The trees will again bear fruit; fig trees and grapevines will bend from their bounty. Then Jesus of Nazareth, the Anointed One, chimed in. “This is why I’ve told you not to worry about your daily life. Whether you have enough food and drink, or ample clothes to wear. Is life not more than food and the body not more than clothing?” The assembled kept their eyes on him. “You’ve seen the lilies of the field,” he continued. “You know they do not labor nor make their clothing. Yet the most bejeweled kings in all their glory are not adorned like one of those. If God cares for the wildflowers which are here today and gone tomorrow, then he will care for you.” He paused so his words may sink in. Then: “Consider the birds. They do not plant, or harvest, or store food in barns, and your heavenly father feeds them. Oh, why are you of little faith?” Joel raised his arms as if grasping for heaven. “Celebrate in the LORD your God!” he said, and Jesus cut back in. “Brothers and sisters, aren’t you more valuable to Him than birds? Can worries add a single moment to your life?” He gave Joel a nod and Joel said, “Precipitation will be a sign of His faithfulness. Autumn rains will come, followed by spring showers. Piles of grain will again fill your threshing floors. Your presses will overflow with wine and oil.” Then without warning or preamble, a Voice boomed from the sky. “I will give back what you lost to the locusts, an army of insects which I sent against you. You will have all the food you want. You will praise the LORD your God who works miracles for you. Then you will understand that I am the LORD your God, and there is no other.” Jesus added, “So do not worry about these things, asking yourselves, ‘What will we eat? What will we drink? What will we wear?’ Such questions plague the thoughts of unbelievers. Your heavenly father knows your needs. Seek first the Kingdom of God and live righteously, and the necessities of life will be supplied. The Voice returned. “Never again will my people know shame, know shame, know shame,” it echoed.
By G.E.M.
By James Gonda.
Tara killed the machine.
On any given day she was calm and fun to be around. She was never violent or profane. So, her coworkers were aghast when she demolished the android with a sledgehammer. In a few heated minutes, Tara turned the machine into shards of plastic and clumps of wires. After she watched her behavior on the surveillance feed, she felt sick. Was that really me? she thought. That person is a psycho. But the eye in the sky does not lie.
The Authorities charged Tara with anarchy and the destruction of State property. At the detention center, she was detainee D051959 and confined to compartment 202. The walls of her cell were blue-green cinder blocks. Angst filled her insides. In the old days, before the Insurrection, one was presumed innocent until proven guilty. Now the reverse was policy: one was guilty on the spot until shown innocent. This meant the burden of proof rested at her door, which was chromium steel and locked from the outside. How could she prove her innocence?
In Tara’s defense, the android had pushed her too far for too long. More than once, it had talked down to her and made her feel inferior. It ridiculed what she liked. It ignored her. When Tara said good morning, it never returned the greeting. It even laughed at Tara; the machine’s snicker was infuriating. From Tara’s chair, enough was enough and something had to change. As it happened, her father-in-law had recently passed, and Tara inherited his tools. Among the cache was a five-pound sledgehammer that she kept in the bed of her truck.
Tara figured the chances of an acquittal were nil. The gulag on the frozen tundra in North or South Dakota loomed in her future. The Authorities were vague about its location. They only called it Dakota. She toyed with the idea of escaping with the help of her wife. But where would they go? Her arraignment was tomorrow.
***
During her fifteen minutes of shame, the judge was very stern. He repeated the charges of anarchy and the destruction of State property. He added that anarchy was the most egregious crime against the State. He was an old, small man. Then he demanded her plea, guilty or not guilty. Tara tried to explain that she was NOT an anarchist. She was, in fact, a model citizen who seldom griped about anything. The judge ignored her argument wholesale. “Guilty or not guilty!”
They say life comes down to a few moments and this was one of them. Tara took a deep breath. “Your honor, yes, it’s true, I am guilty of lashing out at the machine’s pattern of abuse. I am guilty of standing up to the so-called superiority of artificial intelligence. I did this for myself and for all citizens, including you. I have no regrets and no remorse.”
Murmurings filled the room. The judge banged his gavel. “Quiet down, quiet down,” he said. Then he fixed his eyes on the defendant. “I have noted your guilty plea. Sentencing is withheld until a later date.” Two men in gray uniforms appeared and transported Tara back to the detention center. For a short time, she wept in her cell.
***
Eleven days had passed since Tara’s guilty-but-I-can-explain plea. She languished in 202 and began to feel claustrophobic. She had no idea when she would appear for sentencing. No one from the State had visited. Her keepers knew nothing. During exercise time, another detainee approached her with a big grin. “All the way, sister, all the way!” he said. Tara tried to engage him: all the way, where? she wanted to know. A guard gripped Tara’s shoulder and pointed to a sign with his baton: NO TALKING.
***
After more than 30 days of waiting, the State notified Tara that her sentencing was at 12 pm that day. Tara, a movie buff, thought of High Noon. She recalled the showdown at the end. It was Will Kane, the good lawman, versus Frank Miller, a vicious outlaw. Was life imitating art?
The courtroom was packed. This surprised Tara. Who were these people? She was incredulous they came to see her. Unbeknownst to Tara, her case had attracted waves of public interest. She spotted her wife. She was sitting near the front in a blue dress. They smiled at one another. Tara knew her cheeriness was a front; her eyes betrayed complete desperation.
Then the judge – a different judge – appeared. Instead of the old man was a shiny brass android. It looked identical to the model she had hammered to death. Without fanfare, it sat down, banged the gavel, surveyed the courtroom, and then found Tara. “Detainee D051959, please stand,” it said.
A hush fell over the room. It continued, “The original arbitrator of this case has expired, and I have been assigned the task of sentencing. Detainee D051959, you have pleaded guilty to the charges of anarchy and destruction of State property, is that correct?” Tara answered yes. “Your guilty plea has precluded the need for a trial. On behalf of the State, thank you for your cooperation.” The android glanced at a few documents and then returned to Tara. “I have analyzed the facts of this case,” it said. “Detainee D051959, I am going to ask a very important question. Please answer with great care. For your crimes, what do you think is an appropriate sentence? You’ve had ample time to consider what your fate might be.”
Tara glanced at her wife. She forced another smile. Oh, how she loved her.
Then she addressed the machine. “Your honor, thank you for permitting me to speak. I do not want to live out my days in Dakota. I want to go home, return to work, and be a compliant citizen. I’m sure you know I have no history of acting the way I did. I am not an enemy of the State.” Tara paused, cleared her throat, and asked for a cup of water. The android instructed the bailiff to bring her water and he did. After a few sips, she resumed. “Without a doubt, your Honor, it is only right that I pay for the destroyed android. I want to make the State whole again. I will also surrender my sledgehammer to the State. The truth is, I have no legitimate use for a such a tool. And I will enroll in anger management. The person I saw on the security tape scared me. I never want to be that woman again.”
The android remained silent. It sat there, motionless, as if in sleep mode. This went on for some time and no one knew what to think. Tara looked at her wife and shrugged. She took another drink of water. Finally, the machine twitched a few times and sprang to life. It focused on the back of the room at no one in particular. It said, “The State accepts your terms of sentencing. Please see the bailiff for payment arrangements. You are free to go.”
By John Hargraves.
Getting permission to cross a patient’s threshold of privacy is a task that can be daunting for a young doctor.
That spring I was a rotating intern in my fourth year as a medical student. She was transferred to the medical center by her family doctor from a hospital near Lake George to shed light on the mystery. The GP had examined her for weeks and exhausted all avenues of inquiry. It was time to place her in the esteemed hands of our renowned Dr. G, Chief of Surgery, to unveil the diagnosis.
Dr. G was larger than life. At 5:30 every morning he joined us for rounds with amazing gusto. There was no inkling that he suffered from stage 3 colon cancer. After ineffectual treatments he would soon be a patient again himself.
My role at the bottom of the chain of command was to obtain the admission history and physical examination. She wore a high collared long sleeve flannel nightgown. Quiet and patient, she projected a reserved sense of propriety. Naive in my white coat, it was difficult to conduct a thorough palpation of her body. I also had to ask probing questions. What caused her early satiety, upper abdominal discomfort, chronic nausea, and weight loss? I was clueless.
In came the procession of learned doctors. The junior surgery resident, the gastroenterology fellow and the chief surgery resident. They reviewed my notes and added their own erudite observations. X-ray studies were inconclusive. What would be the final diagnostic step? Dr. G would perform an exploratory laparotomy with the chief resident. It was never going to be otherwise.
After scrubbing for ten minutes with the chief resident, we masked, gloved, gowned. Then we made our way to the bright operating room. Dr. G was already prepping her abdomen with swaths of iodine solution. In the stark light, her sedated body surface told the story. As we got closer, he barked, “I tripped over the mass in her left breast, so I’ve prepped that too. I’m willing to bet that’s the primary and will match what we find in the upper abdomen.”
The chief resident saw me turn crimson. I took a deep breath. There was nowhere to hide. He said, “Let’s not blame the medical student for missing the breast exam. She was already thoroughly examined by her own physician!”
By G.E.M.
