Bartleby the Religioner

The nature of my avocations has brought me into more than ordinary contact with a singular set of people – I speak of county clerks. One such registrar was a certain Bartleby.

It is, of course, an indispensable part of a clerk’s business to issue licenses to citizens who, for whatever reason, wish to marry. One day we had several such petitioners; this was following the notorious court case expanding marriage privileges to adult twosomes of every gender permutation, and business was brisk.  I called to Bartleby, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to do – namely, issue a marriage license to this couple, incidentally similarly-sexed. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when, without stirring from his privacy, Bartleby, in a mild, firm, yet aggravating voice, declared, “I would prefer not to.”

I lingered awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Nothing surprising had happened in the county clerk’s office in a hundred and thirty years, if records were to be trusted, and records are kind of what we do. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could muster. But in quite as clear a one came the reply, “I would prefer not to.”

I rose in high dudgeon and fairly leapt across the room (we are not a large county and it is not a capacious room). “Prefer not to,” said I. “What, um, what do you mean?”He looked at me and shrugged. “’S kind of a God thing,” he said.

I let it go on that occasion, as the day’s end approached and also I’m not big on confrontation. But imagine my dismay, nay, my discombobulation, a few days hence when a situation somewhat similar to the previous situation arose. Indeed it was a situation very like the previous situation. Okay, it was the exact same situation, repeated. This is a county clerk’s office and there are only so many things that we do; variety is not in our wheelhouse.  “Bartleby!” I shouted. “We are waiting."

“God would prefer me not to,” he said, and gently disappeared, sinking stubbornly behind the barrier of his cubicle wall.

“Bartleby!” I yelped. “Why do you refuse?”

His voice hissed forth from behind the upholstered shield secured one day many years ago from Bemco Office Solutions by a long-forgotten office manager who had no idea the irritating ends to which it would one day be put: “Uhhhh, read the Bible. 'S in there.”

“You are decided, then, not to comply with my request – a request made according to common usage and common sense and a common understanding of what it means to, y’know, do one’s job?”

“The Bible would prefer me not to,” came the reply from within the pebbly fabric of the modular enclosure.

I pressed on. “So I am to do your job instead?”

“Uhhh, sure, if you wanna go to hell and stuff.”

I consulted with my fellows in the office, who all agreed that Bartleby’s responses were inappropriate and hostile to the operations of a civil society and could we revisit the idea of casual Friday.

“Bartleby,” said I, turning towards the gray fabric screen, “come forth and do your duty.”

But he vouchsafed no reply. I suspected he had maybe fallen asleep. But a guileful glance over the top of his quadrangle revealed that he was merely playing Hoot Hoot Owl on his phone.

I felt strangely goaded to confront him. “Can you show me where in your Bible it instructs you not to do the job you have previously committed here to do?”

“I would prefer not to show you that.”

“You acknowledge, however, that your professional role here is not to sanctify or bless or even to express personal approval of the behavior of any of the citizens to whom you issue licenses, but merely to issue the licenses? You acknowledge this, yes?”

“I would prefer not to.”

“You’ll confirm that you know you’re not a priest, or a Pope?”

“I would prefer not to.”

“And you’re not actually participating in anyone’s wedding by issuing these licenses? You admit that nobody leaves this office thinking ‘That was so nice of Bartleby to be in our wedding like that; we should get him a small gift of some kind?’”

“I would prefer not to.”

“I’d like a small gift,” piped up one of my fellows.

“Shut up, fellow,” I said, maintaining my focus on Bartleby.  “Will you at last acknowledge that there are others in your business, also self-described Christians, who consider the task of doing their jobs to be not at all in conflict with their professed beliefs?”

“They should prefer not to,” Bartleby intoned.“So they are wrong?”

“Their preferences are wrong,” Bartleby said. “They should reset their preferences.”

“And how do I know that God would prefer you not to do your job?” I asked.

“Because I said so?”

“Could I ask God myself?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Bartleby said. “You can ask Him.  He likes that kind of thing, in fact.”“But can I expect an intelligible response of any kind?”

“Oh, no.”

“I thought not.”

“That’s not really His thing,” Bartleby said. “I mean, He could respond, of course; He can do anything. But –“

“Let me guess,” I said. “He prefers not to.”

“You’re catching on,” Bartleby said with a big grin.  “But you should definitely ask Him, couldn’t hurt. Maybe He’ll burn a bush for you or something, you might get lucky.”

“But if I may sum up,” I said, “I’m expected to accept without argument your assertion that God would prefer you not to do your job, and to conclude that the appropriate response to these circumstances is not for you to resign from your job but rather for you to remain employed here, not doing the job in question.”

Devoid of agitation and impertinence, Bartleby finally smiled – a smile of such placid serenity that I just wanted to sock him in the face.

In the weeks following, coincidentally, the rest of the fellows in the county clerk’s office all found religion, fostering rapid and fervent beliefs in heretofore undiscovered faiths with very specific strictures against coming in on time and answering phone calls and filing papers and working Friday afternoons and wearing non-drawstringed pants. The ensuing months have been trying ones for me, as I am indifferent to matters spiritual and thus my workload seems ever to expand – however I do take comfort in the assumption that there must be some intangible benefit to working in what must surely be the most devout cubicle cluster in all of county governance.

Ah Bartleby! Ah bullshit!

Aggrievopedia Brown is On Your Case

In a New York Times profile, the blogger and activist Charles Johnson -- often accused of being an internet troll -- spoke of having strong ties to law enforcement. "Have you ever read the book or heard of the book Encyclopedia Brown?  That's the capacity in which I help them."

 Socks Sodpucker marched into the garage and slapped twenty-five cents on the gasoline can next to Aggrievopedia Brown.  "I want to hire you," he said.  "Someone stole my lucky nickel, and I think it was Bugs Meany!"

Brown thought for a second.  It was the kind of high-stakes case that could get him lots of attention, which he liked.  On the other hand, he was in the middle of writing stuff about the mayor's sexuality — this innuendo wasn't going to tweet itself.  Still, Socks was a good guy."I'll take your case," Brown said.  "Let's go."

"Okay," Socks said.  "I accused Bugs of taking my lucky nickel, but he has an alibi.  He said it couldn't have been him, because he was in the library at the time doing a school project on bears.  He said he was in the 'K' section looking up koalas."

"That's a good lead," Brown said, "but I've got a better idea." The two boys marched up to the clubhouse belonging to a local gang of tough, strident, demanding, not-that-pretty girls who were always causing trouble.  They called themselves the Tigresses, but they might as well have called themselves the Annoyances, because they were annoying.

Sally Kimball, the leader of the gang, was lounging on the porch painting protest signs.  All Sally wanted was a chance to get even with Aggrievopedia Brown someday, because he was always outsmarting her and had way more followers than she did.  "Well, look who's here," Sally said.  "What are you going to accuse me of today?"

"Let's figure that out together, Sally," Brown said, smirking.

"What are we doing here?" Socks whispered.  "We should be looking for Bugs.  He said he couldn't have snatched my nickel because he got arthritis from cracking his knuckles too much. If we hurry we might catch him—"

"So, Sally," Brown said.  "Where were you when my friend Socks lost his lucky nickel?"

"I was lying in the middle of Main Street protesting police brutality," Sally said."Sounds like something you'd do," Brown said.  "But I have reason to believe otherwise. You see, I've paid to have someone take pictures of your dad falling asleep in church."

"That doesn't have anything to do with my alibi," Sally said."No, but they sure are embarrassing pictures," Brown said.  "There's drool and stuff."

Socks tugged at Brown's sleeve.  "Hey, Bugs said he had a doctor's appointment this afternoon to get rid of some warts he got from a toad.  Maybe if we go there now—"

Sally jumped to her feet, anger flashing in her eyes.  "You think you're so smart, Aggrievopedia Brown!  But you won't stop me this time!  I'm organizing a protest against rape culture tonight and we're going to clean up this town!"

"You sure anybody's going to show up," Brown said, "after I published those pictures of you picking your nose?"

Sally glared at him.  "That wasn't even me!  That was some other girl entirely!"

Brown shrugged.  "People think it's you now."

Socks stomped his foot.  "Why are we wasting time here?  Bugs Meany is getting away with his crime!"

Aggrievopedia Brown smiled at Socks.  "The crime is solved," he said.  "I know who took your nickel."

HOW DID AGGRIEVOPEDIA BROWN FIGURE IT OUT?

Solution:

Aggrievopedia Brown knew that Sally took Socks's lucky nickel because Sally is a girl and girls always want to deprive white men of their power and their property.  Sally lives at 6160 West Elm Street, Idaville, FL 32301 and her phone number is (850) 555-1726.  The mayor is totally gay.

Surrender TiVo

NBC, CBS, and SyFy have all announced new Wizard of Oz-themed TV projects, including a medical drama and an apocalyptic adventure. It won't stop there.  Behold, a preview of the new series to be announced at the TV upfronts in 2015.

There's No Place Like Homeland
Agent Dorothy Gale conceals her delusions about witches and tornadoes from the CIA so she can pursue her hunch that there's something fishy about that straight-arrow Nebraskan who just arrived home to a hero's welcome in a hot-air balloon.  Committed to exposing him as a terrorist, she sleeps with him for some reason.

Two One Half Men
Hilarity ensues when a rakish, self-destructive munchkin moves in with his buttoned-up brother and together they navigate dating, the drudgery of working for the Lollipop Guild, and the challenges of finding bowling shirts in the right size.

Gale's Anatomy
The relentlessly introspective large animal veterinarian Dorothy uses nonstop internal monologues to explore her conflicted attractions to her coworkers, who she's adorably nicknamed McShiny and McFloppy.

Wicked Witch of the West Wing
A literate and talky drama of crone politics, with conflicts big (assessing whether an enemy's water reservoir construction is a civil project or a weapon of mass destruction) and small (what to do with one's broom during long corridor walk-and-talks).

Tin is the New Black
A blinkered hipster learns about life in a minimum-security prison, but the voyage of self-discovery screeches to a halt when the prison commissary stops stocking oil and he spends the balance of his two-year sentence motionless.

Mad Monkeys
Retro style meets office politics as white-collar simians compete with each other for accounts, promotions, and the cutest bonobos in the secretarial pool. But the smoothest silverback of them all conceals a crippling secret: he started life as a poor and wingless lemur.

House
House is a brilliant and crotchety doctor and diagnostician who walks with a limp because he fell on a witch and crushed her to death that one time.

Ding Dong the Walking Dead
MUNCHKIN CORONER: "She's not only merely dead, she's really most sincerely dead. Also, she’s ambulatory and wanting to eat you. You might want to run." The others squint grimly at one another.
RICK: "Can this wait, doc? The group’s kind of in the middle of a pretty big spat right now. "

Walking With the Stars
A panel of judges grades the efforts of celebrity scarecrows to cross the stage without falling down.  JUDGE BRUNO TONIOLI: "I have got hay fever!  You're like an orgasmic explosion of straw!  You may not scare any crows but you'll scare the competition if you keep walking like that, you bristly bundle of hotness!"

Yo Glinda Glinda
Magic, that voice, that hat, the freaky bubble, those weirdo friends — it's either a kids' show on Nickelodeon or something you recover from with Dr. Drew on VH1 (still in development).

Dr. Oz
The doctor behind the curtain prescribes green coffee beans to cure brainlessness, probiotics for heartlessness, red palm oil to restore courage, and socks filled with warm rice for a farm girl who just wants to go home. When these remedies seem to fail, Oz calls them miracle breakthroughs, releases a bunch of green fog, and cuts to commercial.

Sex and the Emerald City
Four friends — the promiscuous Scarecrow, the cynical Tin Man, the uptight Lion, and Dorothy the shoe enthusiast — explore life and love in the green metropolis while rigorously avoiding its squarer, less viridescent boroughs.

Melting Bad
The wicked witch becomes an unlikely kingpin, building a thriving underground poppy empire to pay her dermatologist bills. Probably won't end well for her. "I am the one who knocks," she thunders, "because the bell is out of order!"

Hunk Dynasty
While his sweetheart Dorothy is in a vague tornado-inflicted coma, red-state farm hand Hunk Andrews mines reality show hilarity from the building of a merchandising empire, focused primarily on sepia-toned vests and hats.  Quirky and heavily edited culture clashes abound: "Yeah, I told you, I am a friend of Dorothy —why you keep lookin' at me like that?"

This is My Brain On Books #1: Where the Wild Things Are

Recently on Facebook, Nicole — a friend who's tremendously talented and apparently very persuasive — tagged/urged/bullied me into sharing a list of books that influenced me in some way.  The easy thing in such circumstances is just to reel off a list of books you enjoyed, a list that's likely to be heavy on uncontroversial early-in-life titles (The Phantom Tollbooth) or uncontroversial collegiate reading (The Secret History) or uncontroversial recent classics (Oscar Wao).  The even easier thing to do, since social media is first a foremost a delivery system for performative wishful versions of oneself, is to list the books that you'd like to be the kind of person who loved (Ulysses, Woolf, Pynchon).

But if books have in fact been a constant and consequential presence in your life, a list of the ones that have genuinely influenced you, have actually moved the needle a little bit, is likelier to include some titles you aren't necessarily proud of.  Books that aren't even that good.  Books that have affected you in ways that have nothing to do with quality and everything to do with your receptivity to certain kinds of stimuli at the precise moment that those books landed in your life.With that in mind — and of course still being susceptible to the vain calculations that shape the construction of one's public self-presentation through the making of lists — my list emerged.  This is the first in a series of chronological entries discussing those books — some good, some awful.

1. Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.  This is a place where, if I were being more calculating, I'd prefer to list In the Night Kitchen, which is the Sendak book I prefer today, with its edge of dreamlike menace and its defiance of narrative logic and its roiling latent sexuality and its loving appropriation of elements from classic film comedy and from Winsor McCay, and the way the boy's relentlessly recurring little penis is an unmistakeable fuck-you to the moralists and gatekeepers that Sendak hated so much.  I'd like to be someone who was irrevocably shaped by In the Night Kitchen.  I'd be vastly more interesting now if I were.  But I don't know that we even had that book when I was a kid, or any other Sendak in the house.  But we had Where the Wild Things Are, the safer and more popular choice[1], the Bob Marley's Legend of Sendak books, and I did, justifiably, love it.[2]

It's brilliant, of course, a marvel of narrative economy and admirably resistant to sentimentality — the wild things are legitimately fucked-up individuals, their love is a brutal thing and they really will eat Max the fuck up — and you can tell I loved it because we still have my frayed, discolored, loose-spined childhood copy, and on one of the two-page wild rumpus spreads you can see where I covered the pages with a frantic, frenzied precipitation of brown magic-marker blots, as though the Dionysian energy of that sequence was so kinetic and compelling  that I just couldn't help myself, I just had to get involved in it somehow, had to interact with it, converse, participate in its savage revelry, even if my contribution was monochromatic and unartful.  It certainly reflects the loss of control, the anarchic surrender, suggested by the storyline (if not by the artwork — as ingenious and compelling as the beasts were, they were always a little too weighty and stolid to look like they were truly cutting loose).  In my recollection, no other book in my collection ever drove me to those heights of transgression[3], ever spurred me to commit shit-colored vandalism of my own property.  And even at the time I had to have registered how completely my efforts were falling short, how even the most torrential rain of marker blotches added little to the impeccable draftsmanship of Sendak's uncanny dream visions and dangerous storytelling.  So on some level my entire creative life since then may just be an effort to equal Sendak's accomplishment, to be worthy of that collaboration.  Haven't gotten there yet.

[1]

And how telling a detail about Sendak is it that a book as subversive and uncompromising as Where the Wild Things Are is his safe, mainstream option.

[2]

It's not like Legend doesn't have good songs on it.

[3]

Because in our house, as in so many houses, the defacing of books was considered a particularly grotesque crime.  To destroy something was prohibited; to destroy a book was a gross moral failing.  I don't think I ever showed my parents this particular piece of work from my early brown period.