by Janis Ian
"I've got nothing against vegetables," he said. "Some of my favorite meals are vegetables."
"Then what have you got against Rabighan? You don't even know him!"
"I know everything I have to know."
"You used to tell me that when I grew up I could marry whoever I wanted!" I sobbed. "You never said anything about vegetables!"
"I don't care that he's a vegetable!" said Daddy. "I care that he's a goy!"
There was a sudden silence.
Finally Rabighan spoke up. "What is a goy?" he asked.
"You are," said Daddy. "A goy is anyone that's not Jewish," he explained, as if that was the worst thing in the universe.
"You mean I could marry a Jewish vegetable?" I asked sarcastically.
"Find one and we'll talk," he said.
Mama finally spoke up. "I'm afraid you'll have to go now, Mr. Rabighan. I'd invite you to stay for supper, but we're probably eating a bunch of your relatives."
She closed the door in his face and then turned to me. "Couldn't you see he wasn't our kind, Gertrude?"
"This isn't over," I promised her as I ran off to my bedroom. "Not by a long shot!"
The last thing I heard before I slammed the door was my father complaining: "What's the world coming to when your own daughter brings one of them home for supper?"
~~~~~
Walk me down to school, baby
Everybody's acting deaf and blind
until they turn and say
"Why don't you stick to your own kind?"
~~~~~
Naugustus 6
I cried myself to sleep last night. Daddy can be so unreasonable.
This morning I cut classes and looked all over the campus until I found Rabighan. Most of the kids just averted their eyes and pretended we weren't together.
"I'm sorry they treated you so bad, baby," I said sympathetically, taking hold of one of his six arms. "I hope you didn't take it too hard."
"A vegetable has no ego," he said.
"No ego?"
"None."
A frightening thought occurred to me. "Does that mean we can't...uh...well, you know?"
He stared at me curiously but didn't say anything. It's like he had no idea what I was trying to ask him.
"Never mind," I said. "I just want you to know that no matter what Daddy says, nothing's going to keep us apart."
I held his arm tighter, to show how much I loved him.
It broke off in my hands.
"Ohmygod!" I said. "Are you all right? Should I get you to a hospital?"
"I'm fine," said Rabighan.
"But your arm..." I said, holding it up for him to see.
"I'll just grow another one."
"You can do that?"
"Of course."
I decided not to mention it to Daddy. He'd just point out that Jewish boys hardly ever grow back body parts.
"Hiya, Trudy," said Benny Yingleman as he walked toward us. "What have you got in your hands there?"
"Oh, nothing," I said, trying to hide Rabighan's arm behind my back.
"That's some boyfriend you've got yourself," he said with a nasty smile. "Most plants just shed leaves."
"Yeah?" I said heatedly. "Well, he can grow anything to any size he wants whenever he wants." I gave him a withering look of contempt mixed with pity. "Can you do that?"
"Are you guessing, or is that a first-hand observation?" asked Abe Silverman, who I didn't know was coming up behind us but obviously heard every word I said.
"Why don't you leave us alone!" I screamed.
"Hey, are we asking to come along on one of your dates?" said Abe.
"Where does he take you, Trudy?" asked Benny. "The biology department's greenhouse, or do you just find a cozy swamp somewhere?"
I turned to Rabighan. "Are you just going to stand there and let them tease you like that?"
He looked confused. "I thought they were teasing you."
"It's the same thing!" I snapped. "We're one flesh and one soul!"
"Actually, she's got the math right," said Benny. "He hasn't got any flesh..."
"...and no vegetable has a soul," concluded Abe.
"He's got more soul than you do!" I said furiously.
"You think so?" said Abe. He turned to Rabighan. "Hey, Veggie—where do you guys go when you die?"
"We don't go anywhere when we die," answered Rabighan. "Our limbs no longer function." He looked curious. "Do you continue to ambulate after death?"
Abe shot me a triumphant grin. "See?"
"All I see are a bunch of bigots teasing the most beautiful, most perfect thing in the universe," I said.
They just laughed and kept on walking.
"I hate them!" I muttered.
"I thought they were your friends," said Rabighan.
"I thought so, too," I said. "I was wrong." I turned to him. "Once we're married, let's leave Society and go to a world where people will accept us."
"You keep using that term," he said. "What is married?"
"You're joking, right?" I said.
"I am a vegetable," he said. "Very few vegetables know how to make jokes." He paused. "What is married?" he asked again.
"It's a ceremony that will make us man and wife."
"I will become a wife?"
"No, silly!" I laughed. "I will be the wife."
"Then this ceremony—it will make me into a man?" he asked uneasily. "It sounds painful."
"You don't understand," I replied. "It's a beautiful ceremony, and when it's over we will spend the rest of our lives together."
He stopped in his tracks. "But that's horrible!" he said.
Suddenly he didn't look quite so beautiful. "What's so horrible about spending the rest of your life with me?" I demanded.
"You will die in another seventy or eighty years," he answered. "And if I am to share the rest of my life with you, then that's when I will die, too." He paused. "But if I am not married, then I can expect to live at least two millennia, perhaps three if I find some exceptionally favorable soil in which to root."
"What are you talking about?"
"My adolescence will only last another few centuries," he said. "After that, I will find a planet with acceptable rainfall and the proper nutrients in the soil and extend my roots into it. I will then delve silently into the universal and ageless questions of philosophy and examine the eternal verities, and if I should be fortunate enough to gain some new insights, I will pass them along to my seedlings."
And suddenly I realized what a fool I had been, what kind of a future I had almost let myself in for—no dancing, no holo theaters, no pizza, just standing around thinking. With each passing second, he was looking less like the most gorgeous lover in the galaxy and more like an animated fern.
"All right, Rabighan," I said. "It's time to admit that we came very close to making a terrible mistake. Let's be mature and shake hands and walk away from each other and not look back." I even forced a tear for dramatic purposes, but it caught in my half-inch eyelash and never rolled down my cheek.
"If that is your wish," he said. "But I would prefer not to shake hands."
"Why not?" I mean, if I could touch a goy, what was his problem?
"I really can't spare any more."
I can't see you any more
No, I don’t want to see you any more, baby…
~~~~~
Naugustus 39
I think I'm in love—and this time I know it's the Real Thing.
My God, he's just BEAUTIFUL!!!!!
His name is Krffix, and he can't be away from water for more than an hour at a time, but that's okay—I've always thought it would be neat to live by the seashore.
The problem is that the world is filled with small-minded bigots, but at least I've had some experience with them, thanks to the time I spent with—what was his name now?—Rasputin?
Ramses? Oh, well, I know who I mean.
Back to Krffix. We can put a shirt on him, so Daddy won't notice the scales right
away, and if we say he's an artist, he can wear an ascot and cover his gills and nobody will think anything of it. As for his nose...well, he can always tell people that he lost it in the war.
He never blinks, which can be a little disconcerting at first, but after you get used to it it just makes him look very intellectual, like he's concentrating on whatever people are saying to him.
Okay, he eats worms—but if I tell Daddy they're kosher worms, how can he object?
Mrs. Krffix. Mrs. Morning Glory Krffix. I like it!!!
I wonder if he's willing to convert?
(Back to TOC)
Second Person Unmasked
Janis Ian
He said—I've broken stallions
I've broken mares, too
Given time, and the right frame of mind
I swear I'll break you
~ from His Hands by Janis Ian
So by the time you get there, you figure you've done pretty much everything a man can do in this life, right?
And you're tired of worrying about consequences and all that—right?
I know. I've been there.
Under the leaded skies of Low Port, anything looks possible. You amble out of the ship like you haven't got a care in the world, when all the time you're feeling just a tiny twinge of discomfort. Like there's something you ought to remember, something from way back when, before you were so God-almighty sure of yourself and everything you do. Only it's just on the tip of your tongue, and you're not talking.
They left a map in the cabin yesterday, when they finished cleaning up your mess and changing the sheets. Something to guide you through the down time, while the ship's in for maintenance. You leaf through it while you eat breakfast in the morning, checking out the ads, looking over the list of local customs. Amateur stuff, really, complete with tips for getting along with the natives. There's a picture of one, and some small print you ignore. They're humanoid, like most of the settled universe. That'll do.
You hadn't thought about natives when you decided to come here, but it's no big deal. You're always a stranger, and strange places are nothing new. You've always landed on your feet. Sometimes, when you're drunk enough to believe in an Almighty, you think He probably has a special place in His heart for you. Nothing else could explain your kind of luck, or the bullets you've dodged. Even on the ship, your luck's been holding, but you only indulged yourself once. You're pretty proud of that, showing some restraint. It isn't easy.
So you walk down the gangway and out into the night.
~~~~~
There's got to be some action in a port this size, paid action if necessary, though you'd prefer to talk her into it. Always feels better that way, watching their eyes go wide after they find out just how complete a seduction you intend. The lamb that goes willingly to slaughter tastes all the sweeter, or something like that.
You amble down toward what the guidebook identified as the "dangerous zone,” smiling as you recall its dire warnings about pickpockets and slave traders. You've been here before. You know the drill.
One hand's in your pocket, and the other's tucked into your belt, but the money's not in either place, right? Anyone knocking into you with the thought of sticking a hand in there is in for a nasty shock. That little spring-loaded double switchblade you picked up at the last stop might come in handy tonight, and you won't need to lift a finger to make blood flow.
The belt, now, that's seen a lot of usage. You'd hate to lose it, so your hand stays where it is, tucked right in between the sharpened buckle and the first loop on the right.
Versatile things, belts.
As you walk down the sidewalk, past the drifters and the grifters who have nowhere better to go, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a tourist shop window. You've put on quite a bit of weight, eating three meals a day on the ship. Not terribly pleasing to look at, but then again, you aren't here to please. You're just here to survive, and have a little fun. Your kind of fun.
Your stride takes you past the tourist section and into the low rent area. You can tell it right away; the buildings are narrow, jammed together as closely as possible to block out any opportunity for light. The street lamps flicker, casting hallucinatory shadows against the dingy shop windows. Old-fashioned neon flames here and there, injecting a note of false warmth into the gathering dark. Not many people on the street, and those that are, mind their business. It's a quiet night, almost spooky in its intensity, but that's just as well for your purpose.
You've got a high forehead, with Don't-fuck-with-me written across it in lines that took decades to accumulate. Filthy beggars reach out to you, whining I lost my leg on The Charon, Mister, help me out wouldja? or pretending they spent time in the slave pits cracking rock. Anything for a hand-out. Once they see your face, they melt back into the shadows.
You walk a little further, enjoying the sense of conquest. You'll find what you're looking for, you always do.
About halfway down, when your legs are just about starting to feel tired, you spy the place. It's the same in every port. Same cheap signs, half-eaten by time and negligence. Same run-down decorations in the window, beckoning the weary traveler, promising companionship and good cheer. Same fake atmosphere, same sluggish trade, same flat-line employees, all the same. Nothing new under the sun, as they say.
You pause at the threshold, letting your eyes become accustomed to the darkness. Perfect. There's a jukebox in the corner playing some godawful thrash-band thing, and a sign saying WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE THIS MEANS YOU!! over the bar. You walk toward the mirrored counter, and the bartender suddenly gets busy mopping out a beer stein. You know you've made an impression with your entrance, because everyone in the place looks away from you.
You'd better have made an impression; the suit cost enough. Let them think you're a rube out for a good time, spending his savings on keeping up appearances. Let them think you're a fool. You've fooled them before.
And the extra weight doesn't hurt here, does it? Just adds to the overall impression of untraveled stupidity, mixed with a shy desire to try something, anything, new before you go back home for good.
So you sit yourself down at one end of the tattered bar, where you can survey the room in the mirror without appearing too interested. Shadows veil your face like a shroud, keeping it anonymous and forgettable. The bartender takes his time getting to you, suspiciously eyeing the tailored shirt. Don't get many of those in these parts, I can tell you that right now. But you put him at ease with a couple of carefully chosen words, and before too long he's back with a tall one, chilled just the way you like it.
You put everyone at ease. It makes things so much simpler, in the long run.
~~~~~
After a while you get up to use the facilities, and on the way back you sling a couple of creds into the juke, just for laughs. You have a tin ear, so you ask the nearest table what they'd like to hear. The man bristles, but the two floozies sitting with him light up, pleased at the interruption on a dull weekday night. They think it's cute, you apologizing for intruding. You play on that first impression, explain about the tin ear, ask them diffidently if they'd mind choosing their own favorites instead of leaving you in this awkward position. It would be a real favor to you, an off-planet tourist who just wandered into the area, drifted in by accident one might say, not really familiar with this sort of place, no. You add a little stammer for effect, then you offer to buy the guy a beer.
He relaxes and declines, asks where you're from, why don't you bring your own drink over and sit a while. The girls'll take forever picking their songs, women are like that. You know. He winks as he says it. You'd wondered if he was a fag, from that shiny piece of hardware around his neck, but now you guess not.
So you agree, looking serious and man-to-man, then excuse yourself to fetch the half-finished beer from its lonely spot at the bar. When you return, the girls are slow-dancing to a song that sounds vaguely familiar. You recall hearing it a few years ago, when it was a big hit. Now it
's just nostalgia, like everything else in your life. Nothing new under the sun.
The man finishes his drink and rises to get another, offering to buy you a refill. No, no, you protest, it's not right, after all, I'm intruding on your evening, and you so kind to take in a lonely stranger for a few moments of all-too-rare camaraderie. Not at all, he replies, after all, we're a friendly port. Don't believe the rumors you hear out there, my pleasure. You protest again, observing the forms, and before you know it he's back with two cold ones.
He continues to talk, and you continue to listen as though you're paying attention, but you're really focused on the girls and their movements. You have a fair amount of practice looking like you're paying attention when you're not.
They slow-dance together as though they've had a lot of practice doing it that way. You wonder if they come in a pair, a matched set, there's something you haven't done in a while. The girls are strikingly similar, blonde, full-chested, with long lean legs and vacant eyes. Just your type.
You notice they're wearing similar jewelry around their necks, similar to the guy that is, and there's a certain family resemblance. Maybe sisters and brother. That could be a problem. You try to find a delicate way of broaching the subject, not wanting to offend local custom. He might take offense if you hit on a family member, always best to be cautious.
But you don't have to worry, he's already taking care of it. Dragging your thoughts away from the women, you hear him say something about tits and ass, nothing new under the sun, only tits and ass. Just a couple of friends, easy on the eye, that's about the size of it. He's ogling them himself now, so you relax.
The girls come back, flushed and giggling. Pretty, pretty, you say to yourself. Pretty, pretty, and they snuggle up to you like kittens on a rainy night. You buy another round, and he takes off to empty his bladder.
One of the girls asks if you want to go into the back room with her. The other one asks, too. Then they both grin, and giggle into the air around your face. You laugh shyly, nervously twisting the cheap wedding band you picked up at another port last week. You look bashful, stunned at your good fortune. It's all new to you now, isn't it?
I've just, you say, I always wondered, small town back home, everybody knows everybody, never even thought to ask anyone, just wouldn't do, right? And what about me looking silly you add, wouldn't laugh at me or anything would you? No, they say, wouldn't laugh, no. Lots of fun, you should try it, let's go, let's go. You let them urge for a few moments, then you put the worried look on your face, so they'll ask what's the matter.
