24-ch17

When The Perfect Pair arrives back at The Hall of Indifference from their trip to the local church, SuperBarbie unfolds SuperKen’s wheelchair, and he settles into it like a favourite La-Z-Boy recliner. She parks him on the opposite side of the coffee table in the living room of the cottage, where Hippie Avenger and The Statistician are reading their magazines.

“You guys are back early,” Hippie Avenger says.

“Nobody told us it was an interdenominational service,” SuperBarbie huffs.

“That must have been kinda cool,” Hippie Avenger says. “Like, I should have gone with you.”

“They mixed a bunch of Islamic, Hindu, and Buddhist crap into the real service,” SuperKen gripes. “We got up and walked out. Well, she walked out. I wheeled out.”

“The last thing my baby needs after being injured by them is to have to sit through a bunch of their chanting and screeching,” SuperBarbie says. “It was just offensive.”

The Statistician thinks to himself, Did every single member of the Muslim, Hindu, and Buddhist religions beat up on SuperKen’s legs? It’s amazing that he can still walk. He knows better than to say this out loud.

“I’m sure nobody meant to offend you,” Hippie Avenger says. “A lot of different people take their vacations around here. They’re probably just trying to be inclusive.”

“‘Inclusive,’ ” SuperKen repeats, rolling his eyes. “Our society is too damned inclusive, if you ask me.”

“Language, sweetie,” SuperBarbie says.

“Sorry,” SuperKen says, “but it makes me mad. We bend over backwards for all these freakin’ minorities. And half of them are our enemies. If they don’t like speaking English and worshipping Christ, they can all go the hell back home. It drives me nuts.”

“Did you know that there is less than a 1 percent difference in the DNA of any two human beings, regardless of their race?” The Statistician offers.

For the sake of his argument, he withholds the fact that the genetic difference between any human being and any chimpanzee is also less than 1 percent. He is desperate for a debate.

“When you look at it that way,” The Statistician continues, “being biased against anyone because of their race is kind of asinine.”

“Hey!” SuperKen says, “Did you just call me …?”

The Statistician revises: “Such a bias would be mathematically asinine.”

“Whatever,” says SuperKen. “I still shouldn’t have to listen to our enemies wailing in church with their freakin’ diapers on their heads. This is a Christian country.”

“It’s a Christian world,” SuperBarbie adds. “Christianity is the most popular religion on Earth.”

“Is that true?” Hippie Avenger asks The Statistician. “Like, I would have thought that Hinduism or Buddhism would be number one, given the huge populations in Asia.”

“Counts and estimates vary,” The Statistician says, “depending on who is doing the counting and estimating. But it is generally held as true that Christianity is the most frequently observed religion, with approximately 2.1 billion practitioners, or about one third of the World’s population. Next comes Islam, at about one-and-a-half billion, or 21 percent. At about nine hundred million, Hindus make up about 15 percent, and, rounding up, there are about three hundred and eighty million Buddhists. That’s about 6 percent.”

Hippie Avenger listens to the numbers roll off The Statistician’s tongue like poetry.

“This is where the numbers get tricky, though. About another 6 to 12 percent of the population practises various indigenous religions, but it depends on the parameters used to define ‘indigenous religion.’ The number is higher if Chinese folk religions are included, lower if they’ve been mistakenly rolled into the figures for Buddhism. Anyway, about a third of 1 percent would be Sikh, and about a quarter of 1 percent would be Jewish. Confucians, Bahá’ís, Jainists, Shintoists, Scientologists, and pagans would account for …”

“So we win!” SuperKen cheers, raising his fists in the air like he’s just scored a goal. “Christianity is number one!”

“But,” The Statistician says, “Atheists, agnostics, and secular humanists blur the truth in the numbers somewhat, as they are often not included in official counts, nor do they have any formal way of declaring themselves on census forms and other surveys. So the figures I’ve …”

“Atheists and agnostics do blur the truth,” SuperBarbie says. “Non-believers don’t count in Heaven, so they don’t count here, either.”

“But that still leaves about four-and-a-half-billion people on Earth who aren’t Christian. And I suspect that they do count here.”

“Your numbers and your science can’t explain everything,” SuperBarbie says, pulling a frayed ottoman over beside SuperKen’s wheelchair. She points at The Statistician’s National Geographic magazine. “‘What Darwin Didn’t Know,’ ” she quotes from the cover in an I-told-you-so tone of voice. “Hmmph. It’s about time somebody finally exposed the Theory of Evolution as a farce. And all you scientific types were willing to sell your souls for that lie.”

“Well, actually,” The Statistician says, “the article is about how Darwin couldn’t have known anything at the time about the science of genetics, which is proving his Theory of Evolution to be correct. As subspecies intermingle and migrate, dominant genes are gradually eliminating certain recessive genes, causing species as a whole to …”

“The Theory of Evolution is not correct,” SuperBarbie interrupts authoritatively. “We did not evolve; we were created. Evolution is a flimsy excuse for the miracle of life, invented by non-believers to promote non-belief. Creation is proof of God.”

“For the sake of debate,” The Statistician says, gearing up for a round of his favourite sport, “explain to me how you think the Theory of Evolution necessarily disproves the existence of God.”

“The Darwinists say that all current living things came from previous kinds of living things,” SuperBarbie says, pronouncing Darwinists the way she would say Satanists, and taking The Statistician’s bait. She rises to her feet. “But The Bible says, ‘And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that it was good.’”

“Wow,” The Statistician says, “You really know The Bible. Impressive. But, still, the question remains: could God not have created life to evolve? Did you know that when a man and woman of different races have a child together, their partner’s dominant genes will cancel out the recessive genes of their own race, which usually carry most of the defects? And we’re all intermingling all the time, so evolution is actually improving the human race. It’s an amazing system, isn’t it?”

SuperKen rolls his eyes and huffs, “It’s amazing that anyone falls for that crap. It makes us soft on our enemies.”

SuperBarbie quotes, “And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness … So God created man in his own image, male and female he created them.’”

“Okay, fine,” says The Statistician, “but our debate isn’t about whether the Earth was created or not. It’s about whether Creation necessarily excludes the Theory of Evolution.”

“It does,” SuperBarbie says.

“It does,” SuperKen agrees, hoping he’ll get another ride out of it.

SuperBarbie folds her arms to signal that the debate has ended. For The Statistician, though, it has just begun.

“But the Earth itself slowly transforms itself constantly, right?” he persists. “Volcanoes erupt, mountains slowly weather away. The earth itself is in a constant state of flux. So why not the life upon it? Could God not have designed life to evolve, to adapt, to grow, to change, to improve with time?”

“‘And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.’ God made the world perfectly the first time. It doesn’t need to be changed.”

“But can’t some changes also be good ?” Hippie Avenger interjects. “We all grow throughout our lives, become more mature, more understanding, more aware of what we want and need. I think Humanity has grown and changed throughout its lifetime, too.”

“‘He saw that it was good,’” SuperBarbie insists. “God did it right the first time. That’s ‘What Darwin Didn’t Know.’”

The Statistician, realizing that there will be no sport in this argument, decides to retreat. “You should read the article,” he says. “Then we can have a genuine debate about it later.”

“I don’t need to read an article in a magazine,” Super-Barbie says, still standing. “I’ve read The Bible.”

“If it helps at all,” Hippie Avenger says, “I remember reading about something called The Eve Project. They isolated this single gene from a two-hundred-thousand-year-old female they found. Then they found the same gene in living women all over the world, from different countries and cultural backgrounds. It showed that all human beings, of all races and cultures, probably evolved from the same ancestral mother.”

“Where did you find that bunk?” SuperBarbie scoffs. “In some supermarket tabloid?”

“In a university textbook, actually.”

SuperKen guffaws. “No offense, but what you read in university hardly counts. You’ve got a diploma in Basket Weaving and Lunch!”

“I have a combined honours degree in Visual Arts and Women’s Studies.”

“Women’s Studies,” SuperKen says, rolling his eyes back as far as they’ll go. “Your degree might as well be printed on toilet paper. Women’s Studies.”

“Look, I don’t appreciate you implying that my degree is any less …”

“Did anyone notice that their precious Eve Project didn’t include Adam?” SuperKen rants. “Or that the study only sampled women from all over the world? That’s Femi-Nazi ‘research’ for you. Exclude men! Make men obsolete! Eliminate men!”

“The gene they sampled is only passed through mothers,” Hippie Avenger explains, “so it would have been pointless for the researchers to include men in their …”

“Bullshit,” SuperKen says, waving his hand in Hippie Avenger’s face, turning to The Statistician. “They invent the terms to put us at a disadvantage. Notice that the Femi-Nazis have invented a word for men hating women — ‘misogyny’ — but there’s no word for women hating men?”

“Actually,” The Statistician says, “there is a word for that. Misandry is a hatred of men by women. Just like misogamy is a hatred of marriage, and …”

“Well,” SuperKen huffs, “I guess you should know all about that one, eh?”

The Statistician clears his throat and continues. “And a misanthrope is a hater of people in general. Get it?” At the moment, The Statistician is feeling slightly misanthropic himself.

“Whatever!” SuperKen says, squaring off against Hippie Avenger again. “So, what were your Women’s Studies courses called, eh? Man-Hating 101? Introduction to Lesbianism? Advanced Studies in Whining and Bitching?”

Hippie Avenger jumps to her feet, steps over the coffee table, and stands before SuperKen’s wheelchair. “What were your courses called? Killing Innocent Women and Babies 101? Introduction to Thwarting Societies Whose Cultures are Different from Your Own? Advanced Military-Industrial Profiteering?”

SuperBarbie grabs Hippie Avenger’s shoulders and spins her around. “And I suppose you could do a better job protecting freedom and democracy from tyranny and evil?”

“So,” Hippie Avenger says, cocking her head to one side, “you’re okay with your own gender being mocked and maligned, but if anybody criticizes the military…?”

SuperBarbie pokes Hippie Avenger in the chest.

“He was injured fighting the good fight,” she spits, “protecting us and the ideals that we stand for. While he was overseas, getting his legs smashed up, you were over here, sipping wine and selling art.”

She pokes Hippie Avenger again.

“He’s a War Hero. What kind of hero are you, sweetie?”

Another poke.

“Ow!” Hippie Avenger yelps. “Stop that!”

“If you don’t stand behind our military,” SuperBarbie says, “try standing in front of them.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hippie Avenger says. “I read that one on the back of your minivan.”

“Well, y’know,” SuperBarbie says, the pitch and volume of her voice rising. “I read a lot of baloney on the back of your van! You should be ashamed of yourself.”

She pokes Hippie Avenger in the chest again.

The Statistician expects Hippie Avenger to fall back on her usual excuse, “My parents put those stickers on, I didn’t,” but instead she retorts:

“Oh, yeah? And what exactly, in your sacred opinion, should I be ashamed of?”

“‘What if they held a war and nobody showed up?’” SuperBarbie says in a nasal voice, quoting one of the stickers on Hippie Avenger’s Volkswagen. “What a bunch of bleeding-heart baloney! ”

“‘One Race — the HUMAN Race!’” SuperKen adds. “If we were all as naive as you and your pinko tree-hugger parents, there would be nothing left of our society.”

Hippie Avenger snaps at SuperKen, “Leave my parents out of this, Captain America.”

“Don’t you dare talk to my husband that way,” Super-Barbie fumes, “all of you ponytail-wearing, lefty liberals would be speaking Arabic if it weren’t for men like him protecting your Godless, granola-munching asses!

“How am I Godless?” Hippie Avenger yelps. “I’m Godless because I prefer peace to war? The Bible calls Jesus the Prince of Peace! Is Jesus therefore Godless?”

“Don’t you dare blaspheme!” SuperBarbie says, squinting, teeth bared. “‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain’ ! Have you heard that one before?”

She pokes Hippie Avenger again.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Hippie Avenger retorts. “It’s the second commandment if you’re Catholic or Lutheran, the third if you’re Protestant or Jewish. And stop poking me.”

“Then you’ve also heard ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’ right? And ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife’ ? I suppose it applies to our neighbour’s husbands as well.” SuperBarbie grins smugly.

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” The Statistician says.

“We’re just hanging out,” Hippie Avenger adds.

“Just hanging out. Hmm. So I suppose you also know the commandment that says, ‘Remember the Sabbath, and keep it Holy.’ But you chose to hang out all morning rather than observing the Sabbath, didn’t you?”

“‘Thou shalt not kill.’” Hippie Avenger says, glaring at SuperBarbie, then at SuperKen, then at SuperBarbie again. “Someone ought to remember that one the next time they launch a bunch of missiles at a village full of ‘enemy’ civilians, eh? Or how about, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, or anything that is thy neighbour’s’ ? Someone should recite that one the next time a bunch of kids are sent overseas to die for another country’s oil.”

“Our enemies are getting what they’ve got coming to them,” SuperBarbie hisses, poking Hippie Avenger again, “‘An eye for an eye’!”

“‘Makes the whole world blind,’” Hippie Avenger says, quoting one of the stickers on her Microbus. “And stop fucking poking me!”

“Don’t you swear at me, you bleeding lefty liberal!”

She pokes Hippie Avenger again.

Hippie Avenger grabs SuperBarbie’s finger.

“Stop. Poking. Me.”

“Let go of my finger.”

“Don’t poke me again.”

“Or what?”

SuperBarbie pulls.

Hippie Avenger doesn’t let go.

SuperBarbie pulls harder, digging her heels into the rug, flexing her muscular legs.

Hippie Avenger releases her grip.

SuperBarbie stumbles backward, landing on her ass on the ottoman behind her. She leaps right back up, lunges at Hippie Avenger, fists raised.

“Don’t mess with me, you, you …” Her face is flushed. She’s shaking. “I was the Female Athlete of the Year. What were you? You were nothing.”

In his wheelchair, SuperKen hisses, “Yesss!” pumping his fist in the air, bouncing up and down on the seat of his wheelchair. His wife is sooooooo sexy when she’s like this. It’s like watching her spike a volleyball off an opponent’s forehead. It’s like that enraged predator face she used to make as her chest broke through the ribbon at the end of a race.

“Okay, okay,” The Statistician says, pushing himself between SuperBarbie and Hippie Avenger. “This was only meant to be an academic conversation between four presumably rational and intelligent people. There is no need to get emotional. There is no need to get personal.”

“That’s why they called him The Android in high school,” SuperKen says.

“See?” The Statistician says, “that’s getting personal.” He is feeling quite misanthropic now. “Why don’t we all just agree to disagree, okay?”

SuperKen rises from his wheelchair and faces The Statistician. “So you don’t have anything else to say on the subject, Mr. Know-It-All?”

“Let’s just drop it for now,” The Statistician says. “Before someone says something they’ll regret later.”

“So you’re finished?”

“Yes. I’m finished.”

“You lose, then,” SuperKen says, folding his arms across his chest. “We win.”

“Excuse me?”

“You lose. We win.”

“But, terms of empirical evidence, we haven’t even …”

“You retreated. You surrendered,” SuperKen says. “So you lose. And we win.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Never declare war on a warrior, buddy,” he says, slapping SuperBarbie’s behind.

SuperBarbie winks at her husband, saying, “‘And God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.’ C’mon, baby. Let’s go upstairs.”

She prances up the steps, invigorated. SuperKen unbuckles his belt as he hobbles up behind her.

Hippie Avenger and The Statistician collapse together on the couch, heads pitched back, sighing simultaneously.

“Thanks, by the way,” she says.

“For what?”

“The bit about different races having children together and genetically improving the human race … dominant genes and all that … that was for me, wasn’t it?”

The Statistician shrugs. “It’s scientifically true.”

And Hippie Avenger realizes something about The Statistician: As the Not-So-Super Friend with whom she has spent the least amount of time, he probably doesn’t even know.

“You never met my parents, did you?”

He shakes his head no.

“So you didn’t know that my mom is black and my dad is white.”

“Really?” The Statistician says. “I thought you were Spanish, or Italian, or something like that.” The Statistician’s eyes meander from Hippie Avenger’s shapely olive-bronze legs, to her long, curly black hair, then into her dark eyes. “Regardless, your parents passed some pretty good genes on to you.”

This is the closest The Statistician has ever come to telling Hippie Avenger that he thinks she’s beautiful.

Upstairs, the sounds of attempted conception begin yet again.

Hippie Avenger turns sideways, lays back, slides her toes under The Statistician’s warm thigh once more, and wonders aloud, “Do you suppose there’s a gene that makes them the way they are?”

The Statistician sighs. “Let’s hope it’s recessive.”