The Umpire Has No Clothes

by Walter Witty

  “But. . . why? I mean, what’s his motive? What’s he hope to gain by—”

  “There has been some speculation on that point here. Perhaps the power or the novelty of it is attractive to him.”

  “Or maybe he’s a voyeur?”

  “Please don’t use that word, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Why not? Haven’t you walked down your own street at night, and looked at the windows of your neighbors’ homes? Imagine being able to legally enter any home you want at any time, and the owner of that home can’t bar your entry! What I want to know is how? What about rights to privacy? How can the President do this? Even this President.”

  “Privacy rights are waived solely on behalf of Mr. Sidon, and only for one year. He is exempt and immune from any violation, and Congress has been unable to prevent it as they are deadlocked in other matters as well. So for the duration of Executive Order 1482-421 no homeowner may prevent Mr. Sidon from coming into their home and observing, or searching.”

  “Searching?” Anderson stood and circled his desk in awe. “Oh. . . now I get it! He’s going to be cooperating with you guys, isn’t he? If he finds drugs or evidence of murder or whatever, they’ll be admissible in court because he has the sole right to enter without a warrant! That’s it, isn’t it?”

  The voice on the line tried to evoke calm. ”I have no comment on that point, Mr. Anderson, except to say that Mr. Sidon will have the full cooperation of the law enforcement, including an escort if he desires. Police must remain outside, however. They do not possess such rights. Whether Mr. Sidon chooses to reveal what he finds is entirely up to him.”

  Anderson cleared his throat, and steadied himself with his free hand on the chair. ”Oh my God. . . peeping Tom does want money. Millions. Guilty people will pay him a fortune not to tell! He’ll be as rich as Tiger, won’t he? Where’s he going to go first, the Kardashians’ house? John Malone? Dick DeVos? Kimora? Katy Perry?”

  “Again, that’s up to him.”

  “‘Up to him,’“ the 60 Minutes producer repeated in a daze. ”Holy Hopscotch. This guy is smart. Fame and fortune at the stroke of a pen! What’s he gonna wear, though. . . Kevlar?”

  “He shall be protected by both police and by the fame he achieves via executive order.”

  “OhmyGod. And. . . and if this is true, that’s who he is, right? He’s God?”

  “For one year. That is correct. If anyone refuses entry, they will be committing—”

  “A sin?”

  “No, a felony.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “With a sin, you pay later. With a felony, you pay now, Mr. Anderson. Ten to twenty years in federal prison, based on the severity of the offense.”

  “Severity of the offense?” Anderson laughed, albeit nervously. Yet the smile on his face felt too good to be true. ”Who decides the severity of the offense? No, don’t tell me. He does?”

  “See how it works?”

  “I do, I do. But what if someone pretends not to be home?”

  “That would make Mr. Sidon very angry, would it not? Ineffective as well, because he also has the right to force entry when he suspects it has been denied.”

  “How?”

  “With a SWAT team battering ram, should he request it.”

  “Holy—”

  “Listen, Mr. Anderson? I really have to go now. I’ve given you too much time already.”

  “Certainly, sir. I understand. Thanks. Thanks so much! This is the story we’ve. . . I’ve. . . been waiting for. . . for over twenty years!” Anderson glanced at his watch. ”Tell me, does anyone outside the press know about this yet?”

  “No, Mr. Anderson. Goodbye.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you and thank the President!” Anderson hung up, and then punched his intercom. ”Julie, get me Steve Croft on the phone, now!”

  “Yes, sir,” his secretary’s voice chimed. ”What about the man who’s been—”

  “Nevermind. Julie, listen to me, this is important. Cancel everything else today. No calls, no appointments. And I want the senior staff in my office in ten minutes. Leslie Stahl included. Got that?”

  “But sir—”

  “Do it, Julie!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Anderson sat and leaned back into his leather armchair. He imagined Sidon replacing deceased Andy Rooney, and giving his own career a kick in the process. A one year exclusive contract, with bonuses based on ratings. He linked his fingers behind his head, and now briefly smiled at the prospect of a whole new—and unlimited—source of privileged information. Anderson Cooper be damned, not to mention Oprah and her final chapter! He thought about what skeletons might be unearthed, an obvious consideration in hiring such a man-god. . . What if Sidon became displeased with his perks, overtime, or wanted to extend his contract? Anything might tick him off. Then it would be back to covering what Cowboys player Tony Romo eats at Tony Romo’s. Give this scary thought, what documents would need shredding, in that ca—

  Ohmygod.

  He remembered his complicity, years prior, in a CIA cover-up, when some idiot in the Bush administration proposed bombing Mecca, leaving clues that unknown radical religious terrorists did it. Of course operation “Buddha Bomb” had never gotten off the drawing board, and the CIA operative who’d leaked the memos had since disappeared. So what if Sidon didn’t care about Britney or Joey Votto, or some mafia don with a beach house and a payroll of cleaning agents? What if he wanted to go after the establishment itself? Would his copy of the CIA nondisclosure agreement protect him, just as it secured certain intelligence favors that maintained 60 Minutes’ very mystique? Several reporters had been KILLED to keep the operation secret. Even one SPORTS reporter.

  Anderson chewed on his lip until it bled, and then, as the CBS regulars gathered in his office, felt instead a giddy sense of power ease out his fears as he realized what hiring such a man would mean: at long last no one would be able to escape public scrutiny. Not even NCAA coaches.

  He waited until it was standing room only to speak.

  “Gentlemen,” he announced, “and Leslie. . .” The phone rang, interrupting him. He snatched it up. ”What?”

  “Mr. Anderson?” his secretary said. ”I’ve got Steve Croft on line two, but I think you should know. . .”

  “Know what?”

  “Well, remember you told me to cancel all appointments?”

  “Yes. . .”

  “This is odd, sir, but. . . well, I sent the man without an appointment away first, but he got pretty angry. He’d been waiting about twenty minutes, remember? Anyway, he just called me back, and I think you should know he’s at your house, now.”

  “Who, did you say? Who’s there?”

  “I’m not sure, but. . . and here’s the odd part. . . caller I.D. shows it to be your home number.”

  BONUS STORY 2: Lost in Space

  The International Space Station has been hijacked. We take you now to a NASA space shuttle in orbit high above the terrorist’s native Brazilian rainforest home. Spokesperson for the Quetzals, a descendant from a lost tribe of Mayans, explained her group’s goals via speaker phone from the station, now under Quetzal control. . .

  “Hello, Houston,” a cheery female voice greeted those who listened with giddy apprehension. ”My name is Not Important, but you can just call me Not. Anyway, I wanted to explain what we’re doing here on this lovely Friday, just to, you know, alleviate some of the confusion you might be experiencing at the moment. As you must know by now, we have captured this bucket of bolts you have floating up here as another boondoggle to waste taxpayer’s money by over-billing, and are proceeding to install the computer guided laser that our own scientists have developed, which will shortly be able to shoot down any approaching missiles, as well as to shatter a lot of bank building windows down there whenever Wall Street acts up again. Back in ten minutes with our demands.”

  At this point the radio went dead silent, and one of the three NASA janitors actually not dozing suggeste
d they wake up Bert Schillman, the administration’s program director, if only to fill him in. Bert responded to this personal assault by firing the bearer of the news, and was just about to nod off again when the speaker next to his half eaten cheese Danish emitted an unfamiliar voice.

  “Hi again,” it said. ”Not, here.”

  “Excuse me?” said Bert.

  “Not Important,” clarified the voice.

  “What’s not important?” the director demanded.

  “That would be me. And who be thee, pray tell?”

  “Well, I’m no prankster, I can tell you that!” Schillman declared. ”I’ve still got a job, too, which is more than you can say!”

  “Really?” said the voice. ”Are you the boss, then? The big cheddar?”

  “Damn right I am.”

  “Not,” said Not. ”That would be me, now. Shall I explain, or is it your intention to interrupt me at every opportunity, thereby sealing your doom?”

  Rendered speechless by this odd audacity, the NASA executive switched on the video monitor linking ground control with Major Tom Gorman, a man who presently appeared to be hog tied to the station’s cappuccino machine. Next, he stared in bewilderment at the Lady Gaga clone with the wicker headdress, purple eyeliner and stylish satellite phone. Behind her floated three warrior types who looked like WWF rejects, due to a subtle geekiness that nonetheless gave Bert the creeps.

  “What in the name of–” he began.

  “Uh uh uh,” said Not, rocking one finger in the air and reaching for a joystick controller with her other hand. The terrorist sighed. ”I suppose you want to know all about how we pulled this off. I mean, like your Super Committee, you can’t be expected to believe your own eyes, can you? So I can’t just lay out our demands, and move this along?”

  Bert shook his head once, yet vigorously.

  Not sighed again, more deeply this time. “Okay,” she conceded, taking in an enormous breath with the intention of letting it all out in one venting. ”Well, you see,” she explained, “about fifty years ago when the rain forest was just beginning to be clear cut, our parents stumbled out into this new clearing the size of Rhode Island, and decided to educate themselves, and I don’t mean by watching some lost Lost episodes. . . and so all the ancient stones were gathered and analyzed, including the strange rocks left by those who came from the skies to help them build a theme park at Chichen Itza, until they passed along so much knowledge that we were able to restart the abandoned European Space Agency site near Brasilia, apply for the proper grants, and get our show on the road, so to speak.”

  Not paused to take a breath, and then gestured as if to ask if that was enough.

  “No, it’s not, Not,” replied Bert, simply.

  “Okay, then let me add, too, that Quetzalcoatl protects us. And yes, we still believe in Him despite scientific evidence that the sun, moon and stars are not actually His body. Additionally, no, we aren’t primitive, either, and as such have proven that there are thirteen dimensions formed by tiny vibrating strings.”

  “I see,” said Bert. ”Go on.”

  “That’s pretty much it. We got computers, Wi-Fi, People magazine, a couple Russian ex-aerospace engineers, and with all that we figured out what we needed to do from there.”

  Bert nodded twice, slowly. ”Which is?”

  “Well, can’t you guess? There needs to be a sacrifice. It’s long overdue, don’t you know. Meaning unless we restart the whole bloody business quick, in fact, Quetzalcoatl will abruptly end the world in 2016, just as predicted in our calendar. Maybe even earlier, come to think of it.”

  “Sacrifice?” the NASA chief dared to ask, and not without incredulity.

  Not nodded in frustration. ”Haven’t you seen the drawings left by our ancestors on various temple walls? What we need are two teams of ball players, one player of which will represent Quetzalcoatl and the other his twin brother at the end. The loser gets sacrificed, just as God sacrificed part of Himself to create the universe in the first place.”

  “Sacrificed how? You mean by jumping into a well?”

  “Hey, that’s a cool idea,” said Not. “Or you could make it Niagara Falls, and without the steel cable tether. Gees.” Not paused. “Really, all you have to do is convince the Cowboys and the Raiders to do the right thing. For the Big Dipper, I mean.”

  Now Schillman laughed. “You’re kidding.”

  “Does it look like I’m kidding?”

  The director stared at his console monitor, noting the floating corpses and two space shuttles visible out the port windows of the station, not to mention the ominous looking laser cannon being assembled by the warrior types. One of the warrior nerds ominously paused to make a cup of coffee, much to the displeasure of a shrieking Major Tom, who caught an escaping globule of hot froth in one eye.

  “Okay, so you’re not kidding, Not,” Bert conceded. ”You’re just insane.”

  “That’s all in the point of view, though, isn’t it, Bert? I mean, you people have your own ball court games, where you dress in ceremonial garments and then sacrifice tortured animals at tail gate parties. Or munch on pre-packaged cow anuses shaped into meat tubes.”

  “How do you know my name is Bert?” asked Bert.

  “You’re wearing a name tag, are you not?”

  Schillman patted at his chest. ”So I am. But it says Schillman, not Bert. Who have you been torturing?”

  “We do not torture our guests. Leave that for the X Factor and Hell’s Kitchen. We Quetzal kill quickly, without soda commercials, for our glorious God.”

  “So what you got,” Bert jeered, “a hundred Richard Gere clones waiting for you in heaven, or what?”

  Not chuckled. ”Did you read my interview in Al Jazeera’s magazine last month, Bert? I’m impressed. I’ll bet you were disappointed by the centerfold, though, since only one of my ankles was showing.”

  “No, and let me say thanks for that. Although I wish you’d revealed your real name, not just a moniker. What was it, again? Foolish floozy?”

  “It’s ‘Not Important,’ Bert. Because no one cares about us or what we do under our dwindling canopy of trees. Until we do something to make them care. Catch my CO2 drift?”

  “I’m beginning to, unfortunately. But only because we’ve had lots of practice in the past few years, dealing with your like.”

  “Which explains why your CIA didn’t think to read the magazine before they bombed it? Or, wait, maybe it’s because you don’t read, except when scanning for Black Friday specials on wide screen TVs.” Not raised a finger, and pointed it purposefully. ”Now get me the president. . .of Fox News and CBS Sports.”

  Three days later a major sporting event dubbed the “Stuporbowl” aired live. The name was appropriate, due to the amount of alcohol consumed by sponsors prior to the game. Cheerleaders resembled the Men in Black, and had orders to shoot anyone running too far out of bounds. The half time show consisted of a fireworks display from space, as a tightly focused beam of energy licked down to explode the skybox windows one by one, just as it had with the windows on every high rise too-big-to-fail bank building in America, thereby causing the two networks that carried the game to brag about possessing the only orbiting satellite servers not fried by Quetzalcoatl in the past 48 hours. Nonetheless, the instant the Cowboys beat the Raiders by a field goal, such a hush fell over the entire world that you actually could hear a pin drop at the other end of a telephone line.

  Terrorists everywhere paused their bomb assembly operations to gape at the pirated cable signals shown on ESPN.

  Retired generals paused from their whiskey sours and their radio commentaries on Congressional deadlock.

  Reality show contestants glanced briefly away from their makeup mirrors.

  Rock stars stopped trashing hotel rooms.

  Gluttonous prosperity gospel church members stopped shoveling food into their mouths at “salad” bars.

  Indeed, everyone was eager to discover if the Raiders quarterback would really, truly
sacrifice all the babes and cocaine in his future by stepping off the top of the grandstand into a Mickey Mouse wading pool in the parking lot two hundred feet below. And, more importantly, if he did so, whether the Quetzal spokesperson would fulfill her pledge (or Not) to require a boxing match between one Israeli and one Palestinian in order to decide territorial disputes in the Middle East.

  Everyone, that is, except Bert Schillman. Drunk and out of work for more than seventy-two hours straight, Bert was heard to mutter “I’mmmm not important anymore” as his head lolled backward onto the red leather sports bar booth cushion, mouth wide for the giant roach rapidly approaching from his left.

  BONUS STORY 3: The Umpire Has No Clothes (The Movie)

  Awakening from one nightmare to another, she felt the knot in her stomach inexplicably tighten at the reality of her situation. The epiphany had its own ambiance, too: a slow, irregular rocking movement, the periodic vibration of it accompanying a dull but steady engine sound an octave lower than the pitch heard inside a passenger jet. In total darkness, as she lay on her back beside him, his hairy arm became a pressure beneath her breasts in clutching her like a possession, and this caused her doubts to coil ever tighter in clammy constriction with the realization of where she was—not in a honeymoon suite at all, but an inside cabin on a five day jaunt to Bermuda instead of the twelve day cruise to Alaska he’d first proposed. “We’ll save money, honey,” Russ told her at the change of plans. And she’d gone along with it, too, caught up in the afterglow of finally marrying the umpire and aspiring actor who had once been the target of every sonority vamp at Clemson. He was, after all, tall, dark, and as handsome as Derek Jeter. Buyer’s remorse?

  His breath was a stale heat on her shoulder, now. Connie hesitated to turn on the light, feeling a sudden ironic twinge of fear at the prospect of seeing his face after the wedding, to see that he’d changed somehow. Then a nauseating rush of claustrophobia finally forced her to flip the switch.

  The sight was anything but romantic. His mouth gaped. His thick stubble resembled coarse steel wool. One solitary hair grew mutantly long from the center of his upper left cheek. When she lifted his arm away, Russ snorted and turned his nude body as though rebuffed. At this, she also recoiled, but decided not to wake him, and instead—looking at her watch—dressed quickly to go to breakfast alone.