Peter Maize

Author: petermaize

  • ZOOM OUT on Kindle

    Zoom Out is now available on Kindle for a mere $2.99.

    That’s less than a penny a page.

    Zoom Out is the first book in a series that follows the adventures

    of two Americans in Asia. Brian and Amy are very different people:

    he’s an underachieving grocery store clerk with a wastrel’s tastes

    and a mystic’s soul; she is a hardworking  journalist struggling to

    make it big.

    The South China Morning Post, Hong Kong’s leading English language paper,

    called Zoom Out an enjoyable novel, giving it 3 and a half stars out of 5 and

    declaring: “It’s a pleasure for once to read a book in which the city and its

    people are reported accurately…” The Post suggested “..it’s worth sending to friends

    who can’t grasp the realities” of living in Hong Kong.

    The book is about much more than Hong Kong, however. Between them, the two protagonists

    visit Nepal, Pakistan, Fiji and China, among other Asian destinations. In China the journalist, Amy, gets the big story she’s been waiting for: the democracy protests that engulfed Beijing in 1989.

    I was a journalist covering the Tiananmen Square demonstrations, and the book is informed

    by what I saw and learned during that exuberant and ultimately tragic period.

    HK magazine gave Zoom Out 4 stars, saying “the penetrating portrayal of life in Asia

    keeps the pages turning.”

    The book is well-suited for anyone interested in adventure, exotic locations and

    the varied efforts humans make to craft satisfying lives. Even if you’ve never been out

    of the U.S. you will recognize the characters and their struggles.

    Zoom Out charts the intersecting journeys of  a driven young woman and a lost young man;

    journeys that wind through Asia, addiction and occasional aburdity.

    Enjoy!

  • Philistines and Pharisees, Part 1

    Sometimes it seems that our society is torn between Philistines and Pharisees.

    The Pharisees are the moral guardians, the self-righteous “fun police” who judge others

    and dictate/demand correct behavior. The Philistines live for personal satisfaction

    and reject traditional values as they pursue their own goals, be they pleasure

    or wealth or eg0-enhancement.

    Goliath was the most famous Philistine, but his namesakes today are less

    warlike, and smaller.

    One thing that both Philistines and Pharisees have in common is that they both see the Bible

    as a book of rules.

    I’m more concerned about the Pharisees. Primarily because they are following the wrong path,

    even as they proclaim that they are taking the high road.

    Jesus called the Pharisees hypocrites. Why? Because they cared about outward appearances,

    not the status of the heart.

    As my favorite Christian writer, Thomas Merton put it, the Christian is not “…simply

    a man of goodwill, who commits himself to a certain set of beliefs, who has a definite dogmatic

    conception of the universe, of man, and of man’s reason for existing. He is not simply one who

    follows a moral code of brotherhood and benevolence with strong emphasis on certain rewards and

    punishments.”

    No, Christians are not merely people who accept a set of beliefs with the expectaton of a big reward for their obedience.

    At least, they are not supposed to be. Another favorite writer, Oswald Chambers, says, “You could read

    volumes on the work of the Holy Spirit, when five minutes of total, uncompromising obedience

    would make things as clear as sunlight….Beware of becoming one of the ‘wise and prudent.’”

    Obedience. Not obedience to rulers and rules–obedience to God’s will. Trusting that God’s plan for you is better than anything you could come up with.

    It’s dismaying whenever Christians seem to be judgmental, angry and intolerant.

    Almost makes you want to be a Philistine. The Philistines say, “come on over to our party,

    love yourself, follow your own truth, have fun.”

    That’s a a much easier sell in our culture than “if anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up

    his cross and follow me” (and maybe also give away your wealth to the poor, reject lust and forgive those who hate you).

    Goliath’s path is easier. But if you want to reach the top of a mountain, you don’t take the

    easy path. Whether they recognize it (or admit it), the Philistines prefer the easier path,

    because it indulges and pampers the Self.

    It’s a con. Pretty words with no meaning.

    “Find your own truth” is an invitation to rationalize any kind of behavior and justify selfishness.

    Because the Philistines put the self first. And the self doesn’t WANT to be subservient to anyone, even God.

    Pursuing an intimate relationship with the Master of the Universe on his terms,

    and subjugating your own desires and preferences to that person, is not an attractive propostion to Philistines.

    Or to Pharisees, who prefer to enforce rules instead of unconditionally loving rule-breakers.

    The Philistines take the easy road, but it’s the wrong one. The Pharisees claim the high road

    but head blindly in the wrong direction.

    The Bible is not a rule book; it’s a love story.

    It’s always been about the relationship, not the rules.

    The Pharisees ignore that fact. That Philistines don’t want to know it.

    MORE TO COME

  • Who is White?

    I’m confused.

    I read the report from the Census Bureau that for the first time ever in the U.S.,

    more non-whites are being born than whites. Now, I consider myself a white guy,

    and probably everybody else would, too. I grew up in a WASP neighborhood in the

    60’s that was startlingly homogenous.

     

    The Census Bureau attributes the recent demographic change to an increase in non-Hispanic whites.

    I guess we all know this means people from south of the border. But I find myself confused by the terms.

    If there are non-Hispanic whites, there must be Hispanic whites, and maybe other kinds of Hispanics.

    Is this an important definition? A family that moved to Mexico from Spain during the height of the Spanish

    Empire, and then continued to marry into other privileged families, thus maintaining the bloodlines

    of their ancestors: are they Hispanics? How are they different from people who remained in Spain,

    who I assume are classified as White? And what is the relevance of this?

     

    Aren’t all Europeans classified as white?

    Greek people are whites, too, right? Because they are from Europe.

    Even though a Greek could look vastly different from a Norwegian, and they

    have very different cultures, they still get lumped together in the “white” demographic. Then how come Hispanic whites

    have their own category, when the difference between a Honduran and a white Iowan is no more extreme than

    the difference between a Greek and a Norwegian?

     

    The Census Bureau considers Jews to be white. What other category would they fit? If you say, “well, they’re Semitic”,

    because of the cultural origin of the people group, then that means that other people groups from the Middle East

    are white, too. Palestinians, Jordanians, Syrians. Abraham, the father of the Hebrew people, was originally from an area

    that is now in Iraq. Abraham’s grandson Esau is named as the father of the tribes who settled in Edom, just south of present-day Israel.

    He made the move because Canaan, where his brother Jacob lived, was getting too crowded for the both of them.

     

    This gets more confusing, because the sons of Abraham who now live in “the Middle East”, as we call it, would consider themselves to

    be Arabic. Is that a racial definition?

    No. It is cultural.

    What about the Turks? They’re in the EU. At different times over the pat two thousand years they’ve been part of the

    Byzantine Empire, and of course Constantine ruled the Roman Empire from what is now Istanbul. He must have been

    a white guy, surely. What about Armenians, Azerbaijanis, Siberians, Uzbeks, Afghanis?

     

    There may have been a time when it was relevant to divide people into racial categories. It is meaningless today.

    I am pleased to say that my country allows anyone to become an American. The country where I spend most of my

    time, China, doesn’t allow non-Chinese to be Chinese citizens. Their country is racially defined. Oh, except that there

    are 55 officially-recognized minorities in China–people who are not Han Chinese, which is the dominant ethnic group.

    Those minorities are allowed to be Chinese citizens because their little nations were swallowed up by China over the past 1,000 years.

     

    In 2012, what is the need for identifying someone as an African-American, or a non-white Hispanic?

    Other indicators–religion, poverty, wealth, the location where a person grew up–are going to tell you a lot more about a people group

    than the color of their skin or other random self-identifying ethnic descriptions.

    Culture matters.

    Skin color and arbitrary ethnic definitions don’t.

     

     

     

     

  • Why I Don’t Skip

    The natural state of a young child is joy.

    At least until they get tired or come into unexpected conflict with the universe.

    But even if they’ve been scolded or a toy is taken away, little kids

    spontaneously revert to joy. It is their default mode. They want to be ecstatic,

    and prefer to be bouncy and happy and carefree whenever possible.

    They like to skip. They like to hold hands.

    I don’t skip anymore.

    I haven’t tried for a long time, and wonder if I could even do it. I doubt I could do it joyfully,

    even if no one was watching. Why? Why can ‘t I skip with joy? Why isn’t that my default mode?

    This morning I was driving to work, listening to an 80’s hair metal song (please don’t judge me),

    and I was rocking out, not really caring if anyone saw a man in his mid-50’s bopping along to the chorus.

    Perhaps that was a glimpse of unrestrained joy. But I think “not caring” about the reaction of others

    is not the same as being in the zone of joy.

    I was in the Tulsa airport a while back, when a small group of past-their-shelf-life hippies

    were standing in line at the ticket counter. To pass the time, they were blowing bubbles, using the

    little wands and bubble containers that little kids love. They were sending small bubbles across the

    terminal and occasionally into other passengers’ clothing or hair. Some of the more stern people in the line,

    who probably have never had a high opinion of hippies even when they were young, eventually told them to knock it off.

    Although I didn’t hear anyone say “Hey man, don’t be so uptight,” it was clear that the hippies saw this as

    a confrontation between straight-laced conformists who can’t tap their inner joy, and the peaceful love

    children who were free to follow their bliss.

    But blowing bubbles in a public place is not a sign of innate joy, unless you’re 4.

    What would a 53-year old man do if he was truly joyful as a manner of being, not just as an occasional

    fleeting feeling? Perhaps it is not surprising that my moments of greatest joy have been provided by

    my own children. I have also had rare moments of joy as I experienced the work or the

    grace or the love of God. But those were fleeting, too.

    The Bible has 218 references to “joy”.

    The one I like best comes from Matthew, when the women (not the men–I like that part, too)

    come to the tomb the morning after Jesus has been executed. They are told that Jesus has been raised from the

    dead and is no longer in the tomb. They left, “afraid, yet filled with joy.”

    Afraid, yet filled with joy. I think I could handle that. But so often I am merely afraid.

    If I rely on the world to provide my joy–to bring me prosperity and status and good health and good things,

    then I will surely be afraid much of the time–anxious that I won’t get these things, or that I won’t be

    able to keep them, or that you are trying to take them from me, so I must oppose you.

    That’s no way to find joy.

    Yet I can’t view the world the way a 4-year old child does. They are filled with joy, but they don’t recognize

    the dangers the world presents to them. They are–or should be–shielded from those dangers by others.

    I can no longer retreat behind that shield. I know too much. I know what the world is like, and the world isn’t interested in providing me with joy.

    Also in the Book of Matthew, Jesus says that God will provide what we need. He tells us not to be anxious.

    I’m trying. It’s not easy because my faith is not very strong.

    If I could cast aside my fears, I think I could be joyful.

    Maybe not all of the time, but joy could be my default mode. Sometimes I might be afraid, but

    soon I would spontaneously revert to joy, like a child does.

    I might learn how to skip.

  • Untitled

     

    He continued down the path, pausing only once to turn and look back.  The sun had finally set, and it was dark. But
    it was not the same darkness that had descended on the land just a few hours ago.

     

    Inside the hut his wife was sewing, putting a patch on their youngest daughter’s cloak. The fire was
    low, and no pot hung over it. Only bread on the table, and water. His wife looked up.

    “Did you feel the earthquake?” she asked.

    He nodded. “Where’s Joel?”

    “With his friends, as always.”

    He sat down at the table, and grabbed a piece of coarse bread.

    “The entire house shook,” she said. “A jug fell off the shelf, but it didn’t break. I was scared to death.”

    He didn’t respond. For awhile the hut was quiet, and his wife worked silently as the single flame
    flickered on the stand in front of her.

    “He died quickly,” he said. “I was surprised. They came to break the legs of the condemned, but he
    was already dead.”

    She had no response. Merab didn’t concern herself with politics or religious conflict. Every few years
    there was a new rebel, a new savior of Israel. Usually they gathered a small army of malcontents out in the desert, or attempted to stir up the towns to revolt. They all came to nothing. Messiahs appeared, and disappeared. The
    Romans remained.

    Eventually, though, she got curious.

    “Were many people watching?”

    “Not as many as I expected.  After the big reception he got last week, I thought more people would turn out to see the crucifixion. But maybe they were scared, or embarrassed. Certainly no one wants to be associated
    with him now. Even his own followers stayed away: just a couple of them were there, on the fringes. And some women. And only a few members of the council bothered to show up, after all the outcry they made for his death. It actually was not a very big scene.”

    More silence as he munched the dry bread, and then poured water into a clay cup.

    “So why did you go?”

    She wasn’t looking at him. The nimble, rough fingers continued to work the cloth, the needle rising and
    descending. She watched its progress as her husband remained quiet, then cleared his throat.

    “I don’t know. I rarely go to public executions. I don’t know what I expected.”

    “That he might save himself at the last minute? Fly up into the sky and land on the top of the Temple?” She was smiling, still not looking up.

    He wasn’t insulted, but he didn’t share the joke. Their eldest daughter walked in the door, carrying a
    pail of water from the well. He smiled at her and the girl said hello as she poured half of the pail’s contents into the jug.

    “I’m going back outside to talk to Sarah,” she announced, setting the pail on the floor. Now her mother
    looked up from her sewing.

    “Only for a short while. I don’t want you out late.”

    “Yes, I promise,” and the girl was gone.

    Merab resumed sewing and he continued eating, wishing they had even a little meat. Finally he said what
    was on his mind.

    “I was able to get close to the criminals after awhile. Most people stood back. At the beginning, there were a few people taunting Jesus, challenging him to save himself if he really was the Messiah. But after awhile everyone just watched, and talked among themselves. The sky got unusually dark about the sixth hour…”

    “I know,” she said. “I was at the market, and suddenly everyone was lighting lamps because it got so dark.
    Very strange. No clouds that I could notice. Just the sky becoming gloomy. I didn’t like it.”

    He waited a moment before continuing.

    “But before then, while the condemned men were still conscious and able to talk, one of them was also
    insulting Jesus. I remember he was scoffing like the others, even though he was hung up there on the beams. Foul until the end. And he was saying, ‘aren’t you the Christ? Then save yourself, and us!’”

    He shook his head.

    “But the other one…the other one did the strangest thing. The way he spoke, I could tell that he really believed that this man was the Messiah. I mean, even as they are hung up there together, and just hours from certain death—so obviously this man is not going to save anyone, let alone the nation of Israel—the robber is sa ying, ‘remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ And you know what?”

    She stopped sewing and looked up. Her husband’s face was intense, eyes wide.

    “Jesus said somethinglike, ‘I tell you the truth, today you will be together with me in Paradise.’ Can you believe it? How pathetic! He’s hanging on a cross and still promising to give people eternal life! That’s when I turned away. It was too embarrassing to watch. Even the guards turned away.”

    He was more agitated now than he had been on the long walk home.  He stood up, pacing the length of the tiny hut and turning again to his wife.

    “A man who is being executed, by the request of the council of elders and the authority of the Romans, promises eternal life to a condemned sinner! What kind of lunatic is that?!”

    His wife didn’t feel a response was necessary.

    The hut was too small. He stepped outside. The sky seemed normal now. Stars adorned the heavens. A cool
    breeze brushed his face.

    “Only a fool could believe this,” he said, then shouted at the sky. “I wanted to believe! I wanted you to
    be the messiah. Now you are dead, yet you promise a sinner that he can join you in heaven!”

    He thought about the miracles he had heard about. He’d never seen one personally, although some men
    at work said they had. But then he also thought about the crazy teaching, the strange, absurd concepts. Love your enemy. Give to anyone who asks. And the ludicrous promise to a criminal, hanging on a cross. As if Jesus could deliver what he promised.

    As if he could save anyone who asked.

     

  • They Don’t Make the Future Like They Used To

    Here  is the opening chapter from a recently-completed novel, and exercise in Christian science fiction (!)

     

    Jimmy shuffled half-heartedly over to the fence to retrieve the ball. He hated football. He wasn’t very good at it, and he dreaded being in situations where other kids could make fun of him.
    “Hurry up!” one of his classmates shouted. Sounded like Alex. Alex was a bully. Jimmy walked to the fence and picked up the worn leather ball. He turned back toward the playground, where a dozen pairs of 4th grade eyes
    watched him impatiently. Jimmy wondered whether he should throw the ball or kick it. He wasn’t good at either. He could run back with it, but that might be embarrassing, too.
    “Come on! Kick it!”
    That was definitely Alex. Jimmy swung his leg and booted the ball as hard as he could. It didn’t go straight, and it didn’t go far, veering off toward the basketball courts.
    “Awesome kick, dude!” Alex barked, and several kids laughed, including Emily.

    Jimmy was glad there were only a few minutes left in recess.  He started to wander slowly back to the game, tennis shoes scuffing the short, ragged grass.
    “James!”
    Jimmy jumped, startled by the harsh, booming voice. He spun around. Standing on the other side of the fence was a monster. He was big, but bent over, with wild hair and a gruesome face and rags for clothes. He was glaring
    at Jimmy with fierce red eyes. Jimmy didn’t move, stricken with sudden fear.
    The monster edged up to the fence and curled one hand through the chain links. Jimmy saw that two fingers were missing from the hand. The monster spoke his name again.
    “James. I thought it was you. Even as a child, the features are unmistakable.”
    Jimmy couldn’t say anything, and he didn’t think of running.
    The monster started to speak again, but began coughing. It was a horrible sound, labored and thick. He leaned his face against the fence. His eyes were choked with red, angry veins. He stopped coughing.
    “You don’t know who I am, do you? Because you’ve never met me, James. You’ve yet to send me to my doom on a mission you knew would fail.”
    He raised his other hand to the fence and gripped it tightly.
    “How do I look, James? Not bad, I think, considering I spent twenty years IN THE WRONG DAMN CENTURY!” He roared the words, and Jimmy was petrified.
    “You know, it took me all those years to find another loop. And in the meantime, what happened?”
    Jimmy could see that the monster had no teeth. He was drooling out of the left corner of his mouth. Jimmy started to back away.
    “OH NO YOU DON’T!” the monster bellowed, moving sideways toward the gate. “You can’t imagine what I’ve been through trying to get back here. And of course, irony of ironies, coming back I landed almost exactly where I wanted to be—only off by twenty years and a few hundred kilometers. Imagine that, James. When you sent me to Jerusalem you got it wrong by 100 years, and I landed in Persia. You did that on purpose, didn’t you little boy?”
    He cleared his throat and it sounded like a chainsaw revving.
    “Persia’s not very nice in the second century. And you know what, James? They don’t like foreigners. They destroyed my equipment. Took my gold. Tortured me for fun.”
    He held up his mutilated hand.
    “And all the while I kept thinking of how I could get back. And what I’d say to you when I finally found you.”
    Jimmy was filled with dread. The man talked as if they knew each other, accusing Jimmy of things he couldn’t understand. Jimmy was afraid he would be attacked by this horrible, sick creature. He looked quickly behind him,
    preparing a dash to safety. The man was only a few feet from the gate, but maybe he was too sick to run very fast. Then Jimmy saw Mrs. Larkin approaching, striding quickly across the grass. She was coming to save him, to protect him from this evil thing that was blaming Jimmy for doing something terrible.
    “Well, I’ve finally found you, James. And I want you to see what you’ve done to me. I want the whole world to know, and Badri and the staff. But they’re all children now, too, aren’t they? No one’s even in college yet.” He laughed: an angry hiss.
    “You there!” Mrs. Larkin was trotting up to them. Jimmy backed toward her.
    “What are you doing here? What are you doing to this boy?”
    The ragged man’s fierce eyes remained riveted on Jimmy.
    “It’s not what I’m doing to him, ma’am. It’s what he did to me. James McPherson is an evil person. He sent me to oblivion. But I’m back, James. I made it back.”
    Mrs. Larkin put her arm around Jimmy protectively.
    “You leave here at once, or I’ll call the police!” she declared.
    The man turned his grotesque head to look at her, the first time he’d taken his eyes from Jimmy’s face.
    “Do what you like. Believe me, the police inIllinois don’t scare me.”
    He started to move through the gate. Jimmy saw that he was limping. Mrs. Larkin retreated, drawing Jimmy closer to her with one hand and slipping the other into her purse. She withdrew a mobile phone. The man hobbled toward them. Jimmy was relieved to see that he could barely move. He couldn’t outrun them.
    Mrs. Larkin punched three numbers and held the phone to her ear.
    “Yes. I have an emergency. I’m at Crawford Elementary school. I’m a teacher. There is a man threatening children in the playground, along Addison Street. Send someone quickly, please.”
    This seemed to enrage the ragged man. He shouted as he continued to hobble toward them.
    “Am I threatening you, James? Did I ever threaten you? Is that why you sent me to the wrong century? My mission was to meet Jesus, and you sent me to hell! Well, I’m back from hell, James! And you…you’re a little boy. You don’t
    even know what I’m talking about, because it hasn’t happened yet.”

    Mrs. Larkin had been speaking quietly and quickly into the phone while the monster was raging. She snapped it
    shut and grabbed Jimmy by the hand.
    “Come on, Jimmy. Let’s go. Now.”
    They backed away at first, then turned and ran toward the school, looking over their shoulders at the man. He didn’t follow.
    “You can’t run away, James! Because I’m back! Back to tell the world what you did! Remember the name, James. Benton Scott! BENTON SCOTT! You can’t escape now!”
    Jimmy was sprinting for the safety of his classroom. As he looked back one last time, he saw a police car pull up and stop onAddison Street.

    ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** *** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
    “Welcome back, Mr. McPherson.”
    The pretty security guard smiled at James as he breezed through the metal detector and reached for his security pass. He was oblivious to her presence.
    James waved the pass over the monitor, then stood still while his eyes were scanned. The door slid open with a hiss. Inside, the Cassandra Project team was hard at work. James strode briskly into the room, well aware that all
    eyes turned to follow him. Badri Singh approached, arm outstretched and smiling.
    “Welcome back,” he said, as the men exchanged a perfunctory handshake.
    “I trust everything went as planned?”
    “Without a hitch.”
    They walked together to the center of the large, austere room.
    “So we’re free to proceed then?” Singh inquired quietly. James just nodded. Badri smiled broadly. “And now the fun begins.”
    James nodded again, scanning the room. “Did you get my mathematician?”
    “Sure did. You’re going to be quite pleased with him. I’ll introduce you.”
    Singh led the way down a long hallway into the War Room, as they called it. A man was slouched in one of the plastic chairs, fingers at his temples, eyes closed.
    Singh rapped lightly on the door.
    The man looked up. He had very short hair but very long sideburns. One
    small gold hoop hung from his right ear. Probably has other piercings, James mused, and a few tattoos to boot.  Singh cleared his throat.
    “James, I’d like to introduce you to Benton Scott.”

  • The Missing Chapter

    It’s difficult to let go: whether it’s a doomed romance, a favorite old coat or a bit of prose, it’s not easy to say goodbye. You plead, argue, rationalize. But then you realize it’s for the best. Such was the case when an entire chapter was chopped from my novel, Zoom Out. Ultimately I agreed with the editor that the chapter just slowed down the story arc.

    But I still like that chapter, and fortunately it works as a short story. So here it is: the Missing Chapter, reborn. To set the story for you, Amy Spencer is a television reporter in the tiny city of Scottsbluff, Nebraska (“a place where terminally ill people should go, because if you only had six months to live, in Scottsbluff it would seem like an eternity”). She’s dying to get out, and trying to make the best of situation while she’s there. That’s why she finds herself going to:

    THE RODEO

    Amy rolled out of bed early. She and a reporter from the local country radio station were driving to Hereford, Wyoming
    to participate in a rodeo.  Hereford was about an hour’s drive from Scottsbluff, a sleepy town placed haphazardly among the
    bluffs and wheat fields and cattle ranches.
    Amy liked going to Wyoming– there was a chaotic wildness about the state. Although  Scottsbluff was only 14 miles from the
    border, it retained the Nebraskan Midwest sense of stability and order.  But Wyoming was the Wild West. Cowboys. Outlaws.
    The state license place depicted a cowpoke getting the ride of his life on a bucking bronco.  Today Amy was going to watch the real cowpokes do their thing. In this part of the country, rodeos were at least as popular as baseball, and nearly as popular as sex. Every county seat had a fairground with a ramshackle rodeo arena. Hereford, Wyoming, population 2,332, was no exception.

    Amy picked up Carolyn Medaris at 8:30.  Carolyn was a big, earthy girl from Denver.  She also was the only reporter at her
    station, but unlike Amy, faced  minimal demands for stories each day.  A few updates during the afternoon, and the rest was strictly Willie, Waylon and Hank Junior.  Carolyn had graduated from the University of Colorado. Her first job out of school
    was at KCOW in Alliance, an hour’s drive from Scottsbluff in an even more remote section of Nebraska. After a few months she’d moved to the relatively more upmarket territory of Scottsbluff.  Now, like Amy, she was eager to move on. For
    Carolyn, Mecca was Denver; back home with family, friends and the benefits of a big city.

    Carolyn was sitting on the front steps of her house when Amy drove up in the Celica. She finished the last sip of coffee and set her mug under the porch swing.  Carolyn grinned and offered an exaggerated wave to her friend in the Celica.  The two women had grown quite close in recent months.  They came from different backgrounds but had a lot in common.  Both were assertive, self-confident women.  Both were eager to move out of Scottsbluff.  And both worked for idiots.

    Carolyn trotted across the lawn while Amy shoved tapes, Diet Coke cans and a notebook off the passenger seat.  She grabbed a few petrified French fries that had been buried under the mess and tossed them out the window.

    Carolyn got in.

    “Hiya.”

    “Morning. All set?”

    “Yep, got my boots, got my bandanna.”

    “Where’s your hat?”  Amy asked. “All rodeo cowgirls need a hat.”

    “Well this one doesn’t.  Where’s yours?”

    Amy gestured to the back seat.  A misshapen straw hat rested upside down on the   vinyl seat. Carolyn grimaced.

    “That ain’t no hat.  That’s a disgrace.”

    Amy put the car in drive and glanced in the rearview mirror.

    “Don’t insult my hat.  It’s perfectly fine.”

    She turned onto Avenue D. Carolyn buckled her seat belt and looked at Amy.

    “No cowboy’s going to give you a second look wearin’ that thing.”

    “I don’t want any cowboys giving me a second look, thank you. You may have  noticed – I’m not the
    cowboy type.”

    “Oh that’s right.” Carolyn began laughing. “You’re the fast food burger type.”

    “No, I’m not the fast food burger type, either. Despite what you may think.”  Amy
    shot a surly glance at her friend.

    “Of course. Of course you’re not,” Carolyn chortled. “You’d never be involved with any burger
    merchants.  You would never do that.”

    Amy had pulled up to one of Scottsbluff’s four traffic signals, so she was able to turn on her
    tormentor. “Now listen here…”

    “So tell me about your date last night.”  Carolyn interrupted, unable to contain her mirth.

    Amy gripped the steering wheel. “It was not a date.  I met Ed for one drink.  That’s it.”

    “Oh, okay,” Carolyn nodded.

    “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

    “Absolutely.”

    The light turned green.

    “And I have no intention of having any relationship with him.”

    Amy looked stern as she drove through the intersection. Carolyn tucked her long brown hair behind her
    ears, still smiling.

    “You know, he’s got a cute butt.”

    “Oh, shut up.”

    For the next few minutes neither woman spoke.  Amy wasn’t really bothered by Carolyn’s words.  Both of them knew Amy would never seriously date any man in Scottsbluff unless a nuclear war had eliminated all other options. And in the event of a nuclear strike, Scottsbluff and its environs were likely to be among the first targets.

    Buried deep in the earth all around Scottsbluff were Minuteman silos.  Each silo held a ballistic missile containing
    four warheads.  That meant each missile fired from this remote farming land was capable of destroying the four largest
    cities in the Soviet Union – killing up to 10 million people.  There were dozens of these silos scattered across western Nebraska and eastern Wyoming. Amy had seen many of them.  They all looked the same.  Along some country road
    there would be a gravel driveway leading to a simple fenced enclosure. The chain link fence would stretch about 80 feet on each side.  Barbed wire on top.  Inside the enclosure was a big concrete slab.  Nothing else. Just well-trimmed
    grass and a big chunk of cement.

    The slab was a blast-cover protecting the silo from Soviet missiles.  In the event of a nuclear war, the two
    officers sitting 80 feet below the ground would be called upon to launch the Minuteman. The slab would literally be blown to one side by explosive charges.  It would fly approximately 100 yards across a farmer’s wheat field, revealing the silo underneath. Then the missile would be fired and millions of Soviet citizens would die approximately 12 minutes later.

    Amy turned onto the Mitchell highway heading west out of town.  There wasn’t much traffic.  A few cars, trucks hauling goods to various destinations and an occasional tractor.

    “How are things at the station?” Amy asked.

    Carolyn was slouched in her seat, staring out the window.

    “Oh, fine. Eldon’s still on vacation, so things are pretty relaxed.”

    There was a pause as the scenery rolled by.

    Amy brought up the topic that consumed her.

    “Any luck on the job front?”

    “Maybe.” Carolyn sat up. “I talked to the guy in Colorado Springs I told you about.  He’s heard my tape and he seems pretty
    interested.  They’ve definitely got an opening, so we’ll see how it goes.  I’m supposed to call him on Tuesday.”

    Amy was interested and envious. She hadn’t had any  conversations with news directors; it seemed impossible to get them on
    the phone.

    “Oh, that sounds promising,” she said.

    “Yeah.  I don’t want to get my hopes up, though.”

    “Well, you’ve got more prospects than I do.  I don’t have anything going on.”

    “What about that job in Huntsville?”

    Amy passed a tractor pulling a big round hay bale.

    “I didn’t get it.  For a while I really thought I had a good shot.  But I called last week, and the guy’s secretary told me the job had already been filled.”

    Carolyn looked atbAmy.  She knew how desperately her friendbwanted to get out of Scottsbluff.  Andbmore importantly, to move to a larger market in order to prove something tobherself, her family and her former boyfriend.

    “It’s not easy, isbit?”  Carolyn offeredbsympathetically.  Amy smiled withoutbhumor.

    “No. No it’s not.  I’m so desperate, I almost applied to a station in Hong Kong, for God’s sake.”

    “Hong Kong? They have TV there?”

    “Apparently.”

       “English TV?”

    “Yeah.  There was an ad in Broadcasting this week. I actually considered it for a few minutes.”

    “Wow.”  Carolyn tried to imagine what TV inHong Kongwould be like.

    “Was it for an
    international company, or, like CNN, or…”

    “Nope. Just a local station. I know it’s an English colony, so it makes sense that they have English TV.”

    “I didn’t knowHong Kongwas owned by the English.”

    “Yeah. I remember that from school.  Anyway, never mind.”

    Carolyn thought for a moment, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.

    “I guess it could be pretty exciting to live in a foreign country.  And it might be good experience, you know. Might be good for your career.  I don’t know.”

    A smile crept over her face.

    “You probably wouldn’t have to do stories like the egg report,” she said, tossing her head back and
    roaring with laughter.

    The Egg Report.  Definitely a low point in Amy’s broadcasting career.  The week before Easter there had been no news.  Absolutely none.  No crimes, no traffic accidents.  Not even any school board meetings.  Amy was desperately looking for any way possible to fill time.  She explained her predicament to Harmon, the young, prematurely balding production manager.

    “You gotta help me, Harmon.  I’ve got half an hour to fill and no news.  I’m going to end up reading
    the latest inflation figures fromEcuador.”

    Harmon looked thoughtful, as he often did.  Amy suspected it was a ploy to give his slow-working mind a chance to shift into
    gear.

    “Well, you could do a theme program. It is Easter.”

    Amy curled her lip. “Naw, I don’t want to be inserting religion into the nightly news.”

    Harmon looked even more thoughtful.  Amy was about to thank him and walk away when he offered, “Well, how ‘bout nonreligious things related to Easter, like chocolate or eggs?”

    Amy brightened. “Could do.” She pondered the idea. “We could look at chocolate sales this week, compare it to last year.
    Are people eating more chocolate…”

    “Yep.  And I’ve got a bunch of stuff on the poultry industry you could use,” Harmon added. “ It was sent to me by some poultry association.”

    That’s when Amy’s problems began.  She had accepted the poultry literature from Harmon just to be nice.  She had no intention of reeling off facts about chickens and eggs.  Amy preferred the chocolate angle.  But she leafed quickly through the material just to have a look.  Then she saw it.

    “The fascinating egg is uniquely constructed to support a significant amount of external pressure.  As fragile as this
    marvel of design may seem, it is actually remarkably sturdy.  When equal pressure is applied to the eggshell, it can withstand up to 75 pounds per square inch.  This is more pressure than even the strongest person could generate.  Put simply, you
    cannot crush an egg in your hand.”

    There followed an illustration of the correct way to hold an egg when testing its awesome powers.

    “No way.”

    Amy showed the pamphlet to Louise and Elda.  Louise had never heard of the amazing strength of eggs, but Elda
    had.  Elda also added that she had once lived in a converted chicken coop near Kearney when she was first married.

    “It’s true.”

    Amy couldn’t wait to test out this new information. She walked down the street, bought a dozen eggs at the Co-op, brought
    them back to the station and did her test right there in the parking lot.  Fully expecting to ruin her blouse with egg yolk, Amy squeezed, and squeezed harder. Nothing. She couldn’t break the egg.

    This is cool. She ran into the station and had Louise try.  Same result!

    That night on the newscast Amy proudly announced her discovery.  As expected, there wasn’t much ‘real’ news, so  Amy had plenty of time for the egg demonstration.  After reading  reports on a local brush fire and a few  Nebraska stories, Amy launched into her Easter Egg theme segment.  She started by mentioning the Good Friday holiday, then quickly segued into the Easter Bunny’s role in Easter celebrations.  That brought her to the historical role of eggs in Christian tradition.
    Finally, Amy was ready to spring her coup de grace.

    “As fragile as the egg may seem, you may be surprised to learn that you cannot break one in your hand.”

    Amy took the egg she had been holding in her lap and placed it on the set. Stewart struggled valiantly to follow the action. Amy had briefed him on what she planned to do, but the endeavor was straining his abilities to the limit.

    “It’s true,” Amy continued. “The egg is designed to support the weight of chickens that can weigh up to 25 pounds.”

    Stewart attempted to zoom in on the egg. It became a white blur on TV sets across western Nebraska. Just as he got
    the egg in focus, Amy picked it up. Stewart zoomed out rapidly enough to cause whiplash.

    “Although it’s easy to crack an egg by a sharp blow to one point—as any cook will tell you—the egg can withstand a tremendous amount of pressure if applied evenly.”

    Amy was ad-libbing the whole thing and having a great time. She placed the egg in the palm of her hand. She squeezed. The egg remained intact. Stewart zoomed in again to reveal Amy’s knuckles turning white as she attempted to crush the egg.
    Triumphantly she declared, “See! You can’t crush an egg in your hand! Try it yourself and see.”

    She smiled broadly and laid the egg aside.

    “Let’s take a quick look at the weather.”

    Amy rattled off the temperatures, plowed through a few sports stories and wrapped up the
    newscast.

    “That’s all for now. On behalf of the KBLF staff, have a happy Easter!”

    Another broad smile, some paper shuffling and she was off the air. Amy unclipped her microphone and stood up. Stewart was coiling the camera cable and lighting a cigarette as she walked by. Amy patted his arm.

    “Good job, Stewart.”

    He smiled shyly as Amy pushed the studio door open. On the reception desk in the darkened office  the lights on all four telephone lines were blinking. She smiled again. Viewers calling! She punched line 1.

    “KSBF.”

    “What kind of a joke are you trying to play?” a harsh, curt male voice demanded. “I just got egg yolk all over my couch, carpet, everywhere. Do you want to come clean it up?”

    Amy was dumbstruck. She didn’t reply.

    “That’s outrageous,” the caller continued. “I believed the whole thing. You’re putrid.”

    Amy sought words. The man hung up. The other phone lines blinked furiously. Amy stood in the empty office, motionless. A wave of dread and panic swept over her. After 30 seconds she slowly punched another button.

    “KSBF.”

    “Amy.” It was the voice of Bob Bassett, the general manager.

    “I’ve been getting calls from people who say you encouraged them to smash eggs in their living rooms. What did you do?”

    “Um…” Amy stammered. “I did a demonstration. You can’t crush an egg if you place it in the palm of your hand. I showed people on the air.”

    “Well, apparently eggs in Scottsbluff are very easy to crush. And a lot of irate people have been phoning me at home saying you ought to come over and clean their carpets.”

    There was a pause.

    “Look, Mr. Bassett, this wasn’t a trick or anything. I read it in a book. If you apply equal pressure…”

    “No doubt. But the book probably didn’t mention what happens if the person is wearing a ring, or if the egg has a tiny crack. I’ve known about this silly fact since I was a boy. But I’d never put it on TV. And I’d never encourage viewers to do the same in their family rooms!”

    Amy crumpled into a chair in the dark office. She sighed.

    “I’m sorry. I thought it was a good way to fill time.”

    “It was not. You will apologize on the air tomorrow.”

    “Okay.”

    Bassett hung up. Amy sat motionless. The lights on the phone continued to blink accusingly.

    Amy and Carolyn laughed once again about the Egg Report. It was easy to laugh about it now. Nearly five months had passed since that dark day, and Scottsbluff had gotten to know Amy. Viewers liked her, and despite occasional grumblings about
    egg stains, the girl on TV was now a local celebrity. Which was why she was coming to Hereford,Wyoming to participate in a rodeo.

    There isn’t really a border between Nebraska and Wyoming. A sign indicates when travelers leave one state and enter the other. Everything else is unbroken wheat fields and pasture lands. Just across the state line a large, weathered wooden sign encourages motorists to “Eat Beef”. The Celica rolled past.

    “Where are we meeting the rodeo guys?” Carolyn asked.

    Amy was lighting a cigarette. She exhaled out the window.

    “The VFW. They’ll give us the basic information there, and then we’ll go to the fairgrounds.”

    Amy and Carolyn had been invited to participate in a celebrity event. The man from the Hereford Chamber of Commerce had slyly declined to describe exactly what the event would be. He’d just chuckled over the phone and drawled, “Don’t worry,
    you won’t get your pants dusty. Just come out and have a little fun.”

    Amy figured it couldn’t be too bad. They wouldn’t put her on a bucking bronco or anything. Would they? So she and Carolyn decided to spend a Saturday with the cowboys, flies and hot dogs.

    Ten miles into Wyoming, Amy turned onto a two-lane blacktop road leading into Hereford. Three lumpy bluffs loomed on the right. In their shadow a large herd of cattle roamed without direction. A few random houses were tossed amongst the wheat
    fields and pastures. Barbed wire fences added an element of symmetry to the uneven land. Up ahead they could see the town’s water tower. In every town in this region, the tallest structure was either a water tower or a grain silo.

    Hereford consisted of a main street with a few side roads. Most of the buildings had been constructed
    at the turn of the century and remained unpainted since. There were no pedestrians. Only one car coasted along the main drag.

    “Hoppin’ place, huh?”

    Amy drove slowly through downtownHereford.

    “The guy said the VFW was at the end of main street, just past the Dairy Queen on the left.”

    They spotted the Dairy Queen easily, and then the large brick building 100 yards beyond it. Amy turned left down a gravel road.

    The Veterans of Foreign Wars hall had been built in the early 1950’s by men who had left this tiny rural community to fight in places they’d never heard of. They returned from Tobruk and Tarawa and Bastogne and raised money to build a shrine for their memories and sorrows and achievements. The veterans made their building solid and strong and enduring, out of fine cedar and red brick. And ever since they had gathered there, along with the men who fought in Korea and Vietnam, to drink themselves silly and wear funny hats.

    Amy parked out front next to three pickup trucks.

    “Well, here we are.”

    The two young women climbed out of the Celica and walked to the front door. They could hear the faint sound of country music inside. A rack of weather-beaten antlers hung slightly askew over the entrance. Carolyn hesitantly pushed the door open. Inside was a foyer with a glass cabinet containing various tarnished trophies: bowling, softball and one that could have been for either judo or dancing. A large reception desk next to the cabinet was unattended. The room was empty—of people, at least. It was crammed with more antlers, a moose head, rows of black and white photos, a stuffed armadillo and a collection of folding chairs. The music seemed to be drifting up a stairway on their right. Amy and Carolyn
    tentatively walked down a few steps and found themselves in a much larger room. A hall that was empty except for….

    “Howdy!”

    …a huge bar boasting copious amounts of  tufted maroon vinyl and polished wood. Seated on bar stools were at least half a dozen men and one woman. Everyone except the woman wore hats. Most had cowboy hats, a couple of guys wore baseball caps and one man was wearing something that looked like a Boy Scout cap. Everyone at the bar looked at the two visitors.

    “Come on in and celebrate!”

    Amy and Carolyn smiled and walked toward the eager, cheerful faces.

    “Why, sure,” Amy said.

    A plaid-shirted man with a big cowboy hat and a huge belly slid awkwardly off his barstool and grinned. In one hand he held a longneck Budweiser. He extended the other hand to Amy.

    “We all know who you are! Watch you ever’ night on TV!” he boomed.

    Amy smiled politely and shook his hand. The man’s grasp was firm and he was in no hurry to let go.

    “I’m Walt Dunbar, treasurer of this post!”

    “Amy Spencer. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dunbar.”

    “Walt, please!” He continued to hold her hand in a death grip, shouting over his shoulder to the smiling row of bar stool occupants.

    “Looks even better in person, don’t she?”

    A man in a ball cap with Gro-Rite printed on the front shouted, “Looks great either way!”
    His lopsided smile exhibited a textbook example of bad oral hygiene. Amy smiled and turned to Walt.

    “This is Carolyn Medaris from KOLT radio.”

    Walt slowly released Amy’s hand and shook Carolyn’s briefly. Carolyn nodded at the group. “How ya’ll doin?”

    “Couldn’t be better!” shouted the man in the Boy Scout cap.

    Walt introduced everyone at the bar. They all seemed to be officeholders in the VFW, except the woman. Her name was Doretta, and she didn’t smile nearly as much as the men.  Doretta had what Amy would describe as a tired bouffant. She was smoking Camels and looked as if she hadn’t had an easy life. Doretta’s face bore acne scars and her eyes were
    wrinkled, bloodshot and lifeless. They followed Amy without emotion. Doretta looked like she was in her mid-40’s. The man in the Boy Scout cap sat next to her. His name was Roy. Amy knew that without asking, because embroidery on his cap stated: VFW Post 836 Hereford WY Roy ‘Roy’ Kroger.

    Roy seemed pretty drunk, even though it was only 10 a.m. He had a dental hygiene situation, too, but he obviously wasn’t self-conscious about it. He smiled at Amy and asked if she’d ever been to Hereford before.

    “Just once,” Amy said, “to cover a grass fire.”

    This statement lit up Roy’s tired eyes.

    “I’m in the volunteer fire department,” he stated.

    “Oh, really?” Amy had become pretty good at feigning interest since she’d been working in Scottsbluff. Nothing interesting ever happened, so she was able to practice this skill frequently. As Roy described his role in the fire department, Doretta took a bottle of Jim Beam from the bar and filled a shot glass. This she deftly plopped into a half-full mug of beer. Doretta winked at Amy, raised the glass to her lips and tipped it nearly vertical. Within a few seconds it was empty, the shot glass sliding down the mug and resting on her lips. Doretta slammed the mug onto the bar and
    emitted a satisfied, “ahhh”.

    Amy was taken aback. Carolyn shook her head and suppressed a smile. Roy put his arm around Doretta, beaming. His bloodshot eyes glowed with pride.

    “That’s my wife,” he declared. “She drinks boilermakers.”

    “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Amy said, scowling.

    She was standing underneath rickety wooden grandstands next to cattle pens and cowboys. A man in a clown costume was
    spitting on the ground a few feet away. The air smelled of manure, cigarettes and hay. For the past hour cowboys had been riding bulls, roping calves and kicking up the dust. Just a few minutes before, a wild-eyed stallion had gone
    berserk in a chute, slamming a hapless cowboy into the rails, thrashing, rearing and snorting. Handlers had rushed to bring the animal under control. The moment they did, a man with a number pinned to his plaid shirt climbed aboard the beast, the gate swung open and the horse bolted out of the chute into the arena. 3.8 seconds later the rider was embedded in the dirt.

    “You know, no one’s told us what we’re supposed to do,” Carolyn observed with a frown.

    “Well, I’m not getting on any goddamn horse, I’ll tell you that,” Amy replied.

    Another horse was led into the chute as the arena’s public address system crackled. “Up next, Jim Arnold of Sterling, Colorado riding Whirlwind,” the announcer said.

    Walt Dunbar, big-hatted treasurer of the VFW, suddenly appeared at Amy’s side.

    “Good news, gals. I checked with the judge’s stand, and you’ll be up after Barney Ales. He’s number 66.” He smiled broadly. “You girls all ready for your big event?”

    “It depends,” Amy said, taking a step back. The man’s breath reeked. “What’s the event?”

    “What do you mean, what’s the event?” Dunbar said. His brow furrowed, causing his hat to do
    push-ups on his head. “Don’t you know?”

    Amy was willing to let her frustration and grumpiness show.

    “No. The guy from the chamber of commerce just said to show up. He made it sound easy. But we haven’t seen him all day.”

    Dunbar scratched the inside of his ear, a smile returning to his face.

    “Why, it is easy. You’ll be doin’ a little goat ropin’. Simple thing. Just chase down the goat (they ain’t that
    fast) and tie it’s feet up. Really ain’t nothin’.”

    Carolyn glanced over at the chutes while Dunbarwas talking, and noticed that a contestant wearing number 66 was climbing onto a bull. Amy’s powers of diplomacy were evaporating.
    “I’ve never roped a goat or anything else. I don’t know how the hell to rope a goat!”

    “Amy…” Carolyn murmured.

    “I want to talk to someone who can tell me exactly what’s going on,” Amy was saying.

    Carolyn watched as the bull exploded from the chute in a searing, wrenching rage. #66 resembled a rag doll as the bull
    rampaged across the arena, bucking in great powerful bursts. He bounced repeatedly, violently, out of the saddle—a twisting flash of denim anchored by one hand to the bull. Sudddenly, he flew into the air and landed heavily on his
    shoulder. The cowboy’s hat skittered off into the dirt. The bull, freed from its tormenting burden, continued to buck reflexively, making a tight circle in the center of the arena. As the cowboy rose slowly to one knee, the bull noticed him and stopped bucking. The clown standing next to Carolyn clambered heavily up the rail fence, spat on the ground, and then jumped into the arena. He trotted toward the bull, waving his arms. The animal was momentarily distracted by the
    combination of bright orange wig, polka dot bowtie and large red nose, giving the fallen rider sufficient time to limp away.

    Carolyn had been mesmerized by the violent drama in the arena. Now, released from its spell, she turned back to Walt
    Dunbar, who was speaking earnestly to Amy.

    “Honest, it ain’t that hard. All ya do is grab the goat—by anything, it’s okay—head, legs, whatever. You’ll have a length
    of rope, and when the critter’s on the ground, just wrap the rope around its legs, near the hooves. Three legs’ll do it. Ya don’t have to make it tight. Just wrap it around.”

    “Amy,” Carolyn said. “I…”

    Her voice was drowned out by the public address system.

    “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer boomed. “The Hereford County Rodeo Association is pleased to announce our next
    event, which features two regional celebrities I’m sure you’re all familiar with!”

    Amy turned to look at the loudspeaker over their heads, as if to visually confirm what she was hearing. Walt Dunbar
    smiled. Carolyn turned toward the chutes. She saw several cowboys perched on the railings, grinning. Faintly she could hear the bleating of a goat.

    “For your entertainment, Amy Spencer of KSBF TV and Carolyn Medaris of KOLT radio will display their goat roping skills!”

    A cheer erupted. It seemed to Amy to be the loudest of the day. She turned toward the chutes. One of the cowboys was
    beckoning. Amy and Carolyn looked at each other. Amy’s mouth was open. Two more grinning cowboys began waving the women over to the chutes. The goat was now visible, bleating, through the railings. It was brown, and looked kind of cute.
    Not too big, skinny legs. Big eyes.

    “Go on!” Dunbar shouted over the applause.

    The loudspeaker boomed again. “So get ready for some excitement, folks!”

    “Doesn’t look like we have much choice.” Amy was frowning. “Alright, I’ll try to tie a damn goat’s legs together.”

    She strode over to the chute. The goat looked at her. Amy couldn’t assess its emotional state. A handsome cowboy who
    could easily have gotten a job as the Marlboro Man  reached his arm out.

    “Climb up,” he said softly. Amy looked at him. The Marlboro Man smiled. She took his hand and he effortlessly pulled her
    up to the top railing. The goat craned its neck to watch.

    “Don’t worry,” the Marlboro Man said, “you’ll do fine.”

    “Go, Amy!” Carolyn shouted, still standing next to Walt Dunbar. Her voice sounded unnaturally shrill. Amy looked at her
    mutely, and then back to the Marlboro Man. He offered her a rope, about three feet in length.

    “Now, just jump down there nice and easy. The gate will open, and the goat will run out. You just follow him and catch
    him.”

    Amy nodded. It sounded simple. The beautiful cowboy helped Amy down to the dirt inside the chute. The goat backed away. Amy was suddenly aware of half a dozen other cowboys staring down at her. They didn’t look like Marlboro men.

    “Are we ready?” the loudspeaker cried. The Marlboro Man waved his arm in response, then smiled at Amy.

    “Go get ‘em,” he said.

    The gate swung open and the cowboys ringing the chute whooped and yelled. The goat bolted into the ring. The animal ran
    about 30 feet, then stopped, glancing nervously around. The crowd was yelling. Amy couldn’t have felt more out of place. She started walking toward the animal, then broke into a self-conscious trot. The goat backed up a little, then fled. Amy pursued it, first to the opposite side of the ring, then along the grandstand fence, then back to the middle of the ring. The crowd loved it.

    The small brown goat wasn’t much faster than Amy. She could keep up with it. But like a child being chased around a playground, the agile goat dodged and scampered all across the arena. Amy couldn’t even get a hand on it. She was tiring quickly, aware that her failure to catch the animal was a source of great amusement to the audience. Amy was
    sweating, out of breath, and eating the goat’s dust.

    Finally, near the announcer’s stand, she guessed the creature’s direction, and as the goat cut left, she moved to head
    him off. Finally within her grasp, Amy lunged. The goat bolted deftly away, leaving Amy sprawled in the dirt. As she rose, the loudspeaker blared, “Let’s hear it for a fine effort by Miss Amy Spencer!”

    A cowboy appeared with a rope. He easily lassoed the goat and dragged it back to a pen under the stands. Amy looked up
    at the spectators, clapping and hooting. Her leg hurt. As she began brushing dirt off her pants, Amy realized her right side was covered with cow manure. She had dived directly into a king-size meadow muffin when she leaped for the
    goat.

    “I’ve got to get out of this place,” she sighed, walking slowly back to the gate.

    CHAPTER SIX

  • Where Is Everybody?

    “Where is everybody!?”

    Enrico Fermi asked that question during lunch back in 1950.

    Fermi was a Nobel Prize-winning physicist, one of the fathers of the Atom Bomb, and an expert on quantum mechanics. He was a serious scientist, and he asked serious questions.

    “Where is everybody?”

    During that lunch in 1950, Fermi was chatting with several other titans of science, when the conversation strayed to recent reports of UFOs (back in the late 40’s and early 50’s, reports of UFO sightings were common). Fermi did some quick calculating,  and identified a problem that now bears his name: the Fermi Paradox.

    The Fermi Paradox says that there are so many stars in the universe (about 700,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 at latest count) that the place should be teeming with life: the cantina scene in Star Wars should be the norm. If the Earth is a typical planet, and only 1 of every million solar systems could support life, there should be millions of planets out there with intelligent life forms.

    “Where is everybody?”

    Scientists have now identifed more than 650 planets outside our solar system, and last week announced the discovery of a “Super-earth” that could be habitable. It’s about 36 light years away, which in universal terms is just around the corner. Many scientists now believe that most solar systems probably have planets. Not all of those planets  would be in the “Goldilocks Zone” (not too hot, not too cold—just right!), but as Enrico Fermi would tell you, the law of probability dictates that millions of planets should fall into this zone.

    Shouldn’t they?

    The SETI project has been searching for signs of intelligent life for more than 50 years—scanning the heavens for radio signals or any electronic sign that someone else is out there. Not a peep. Every year SETI researchers explain why they haven’t found anything yet, but now that astronomers are discovering planets all over the place, it makes you wonder.

    Maybe the Earth isn’t typical.

    That would answer the Fermi Paradox, but it would run counter to conventional wisdom, as well as virtually every science fiction movie ever made.

    Just so you don’t feel depressed by the fact that we might be alone, I’ll offer two thoughts:

    First, all of the hydrogen in your body was created within the first minute after the Big Bang. Since 70% of your body is composed of water, and water is mainly hydrogen, you are primarily composed of atoms that have existed since the very beginning of time. Perhaps 10 billion years ago the hydrogen in your body was part of another star that died and eventually seeded the solar system you now live in. You’re actually made up of some very ancient stuff. You go all the way back….

    Second, consider that the Earth IS the only inhabited planet…for now. Consider that God really did start here, working first with a small, insignificant tribe and eventually expanding the knowledge of his ways and his will until the Earth becomes filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea. Then when his Kingdom encompasses this planet, it can be extended to others as his people become ready to assist in the Kingdom, which includes 700,000,000,,000,000,000,000,000 stars, and counting.

  • We’re #1!

    One of the things I appreciate about Christianity (in addition to eternal life and a close

    personal relationship with the creator of the universe) is the fact that it transcends culture.

    Most of us tend to assume that our own culture is perfectly normal and admirable, while

    other cultures are often strange and possibly inferior.

    When cultures come into contact, they can also come into conflict–even if it is only

    over minor details like what constitutes “polite behavior.”

    But the disagreements can be much more serious, and destructive, than that.

    I come from a country that proudly declares that it is the greatest nation in the world.

    I spend most of my time in a country that considers itself to be the greatest nation ever.

    The two countries base their declarations on very different rationale.

    The United States boasts of freedom, liberty, democracy and a culture that has been

    mimicked, embraced and admired around the planet.

    China points to a rich history extending over thousands of years, a legacy of refinement and

    wisdom; a culture that influenced and instructed many other nations near and far.

    The U.S. is leader of the free world and sole remaining superpower.

    China will soon become the planet’s economic powerhouse and has the largest population.

    It’s the American Dream versus the Middle Kingdom.

    Unless you’re French.

    I imagine there are a few folks in Paris who might believe that their country is actually the best:

    they can’t claim to possess the mightiest economy, but they have their reasons.

    Indeed, I imagine a number of countries might claim to be the “best”, “greatest” or “#1”

    There are no precise criteria for selecting the best country on earth.

    But every so often studies are done about the “happiest” nations on Earth, and usually Denmark wins.

    This is partly attributed to the Danes’ humility. They realize they aren’t very big or powerful,

    their climate isn’t so hot and their culture isn’t emulated worldwide. But they’re okay with that,

    and their acceptance of their situation leads to a high level of contentment.

    China is not content these days.

    America is anything but.

    Still, each culture maintains its superiority.

    Although China has been influenced greatly by America (so far selecting McDonalds and Apple over democracy)

    their customs and traditional worldview are very different from the U.S. Americans celebrate individuality while

    the Chinese respect harmony and consensus. We use forks; they use chopsticks. I could go on.

    But when Christianity enters the picture, cultural peculiarities lose their importance.

    The culture of love, forgiveness and humility transcends local tradition.

    “My” way of doing things no longer seems important

    in the light of a global gift offered to everyone for free.

    “Here there is no Greek or Jew…barbarian, Scythian,

    slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all.”

    Colossians 2:23

     

    Everyone can be part of this nation, which erases and overrides cultural differences.

    I find that my Chinese colleagues still do things that don’t make sense to me,

    and I have no doubt that my peculiar American habits confuse and amuse them.

    But we’re not just staring at each other from the pedestal of cultural self-righteousness.

    We can follow the advice to “…clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility,

    gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you

    may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these

    virtures put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.”

     

    Then it doesn’t matter which country is #1.

     

  • Mujahideen Shopping Mall

    ZOOM OUT is set in 1988/89.

    Maybe the world was just as scary back then as it is now, but it was a different kind of scary.

    Today I’ll take you to the dusty Pakistani town of Darra Adem Khel.

    Back in ’89 foreigners could visit Darra; today it is a battleground

    between Taliban and other forces in the untamed Tribal Region.

    Darra is famous for one thing, as you will see…

    CHAPETER 25

    “Okay fellas, let’s go.”

    They got in the car without a word and drove back down through the arid hills. Brian saw a
    sign that read: Entering Kohat Frontier Region. This tribal area looked like
    the other tribal areas: barren and dusty and uninviting. Maybe the Pakistani
    government left these people alone because they didn’t have anything worth
    troubling about. Occasionally there were crops growing by the roadside, but
    this certainly wasn’t a land of plenty. They drove for about half an hour. Many
    vehicles plied the road, and there were lots of people walking, carrying things.
    No factories or shops were visible, except for an occasional shack serving food
    or repairing tires. Brian wondered what all these people did for a living. He
    soon found out.

    The town of Darra Adam Khel appeared out of nowhere. At first there was no indication that this was Gun City.
    It looked rundown, poor and lacklustre. Little shops featured rusting Sprite
    signs and dirty glass cabinets with just a few items inside. A lot of people
    seemed to be just hanging around, smoking, sitting on steps. The car pulled
    over in front of one shop. Through the open window Brian saw a hand-painted
    sign with an AK-47 and Arabic  writing.
    “Darra,” said the driver.

    The gunman got out and wandered away. The driver motioned to Brian. They walked past the
    AK-47 sign through a narrow courtyard. Brian glanced around. On all sides of
    the courtyard were small stalls, about the size of a bedroom. In each one sat
    one or two men making pieces of guns. Brian slowed down to watch a man sanding
    a rifle butt. In the next stall an old man was cutting pieces of metal on a
    foot-powered machine. The driver motioned to Brian to keep walking.  The next shop was a little more upscale. It
    had glass cabinets in which a wide variety of handguns were displayed. Some
    appeared to be collector’s items—ancient and ornate with carvings in the metal.
    A grenade rested against a tiny gun with a brightly polished grip.
    “Pistol?” the woman behind the counter asked him.

    Brian looked up without a response.

    “Pen gun?”

    The woman was missing most of her teeth, but her clothes were nice. She reached into the
    cabinet and took out a bulky ballpoint pen. Deftly opening it, she revealed the
    operation of the deadly literary device.

    “Bullet here.” She pointed to the end of the pen where the ink tube would normally
    go, then screwed the two pieces back together.

    “Shoot here.” She clicked the top of the pen. “200 rupees.”

    Brian took the pen gun from her hand and looked it over. He clicked it a few times and
    looked down the barrel. Then the driver returned, motioning again. The driver
    didn’t enjoy speaking when body language could be employed. Brian handed the
    weapon back to the woman.

    “I already have two at home,” he told her.

    Brian figured the driver had a deal with one of the merchants, much like tour guides
    elsewhere in Asia had relationships with silk stores or souvenir shops. Except this shop sold firearms.

    “Good afternoon,” said a man who looked like a Pakistani Bob Hope. “Would
    you like some tea?”

    “Um, sure.” Brian liked the mint tea he’d had in Rawalpindi. He would have preferred a beer.
    The thought crossed his mind that maybe someone around here sold hash. But he
    was already a little too overwhelmed by the contraband on the shelves to
    attempt to score hashish.

    All around him were rifles: on the walls, stacked against shelves, lying on the ground. The
    distinctive AK-47 he could identify, but Brian couldn’t name the others. He had
    never been interested in guns. He was actually a gun control advocate, in a
    passive way. Brian had never owned a weapon and never intended to. At the
    moment it was a little scary being surrounded by so many guns. He assumed they
    were unloaded. Bob Hope didn’t try the hard sell approach. He surely knew that
    foreigners couldn’t legally purchase guns here. Brian wondered who actually
    bought all this stuff. Mujahadeen, probably. Brian spotted an old bazooka or
    antitank gun or something in a corner. Now that would be cool. Walk into Henderson’s with that
    thing some morning.

    “Hi, I’m here to see Chet.”

    Rapid gunfire burst from the street, and Brian jumped. Someone was squeezing off about ten
    rounds in the space of five seconds. Brian leaned out of the doorway and peered
    down the courtyard, but he couldn’t see anything. His heart was racing. The old
    man offered him a pen gun, but Brian declined. Despite his moral position on
    gun ownership, like any former boy, he was intrigued by all the guns.  Want a bazooka? M-16? There were a few other
    interesting items in the shop: an old British helmet, various insignia, a
    musket about five feet long. Brian didn’t touch any of it. The driver was busy
    talking to another man in the shop, so Brian said thank you to Bob Hope and
    strolled out. On the other side of the courtyard two boys were putting loose
    bullets in boxes. They were big bullets. The kids paid no attention to him. In
    the other shops men were assembling guns or examining pieces of metal. He
    walked back out to the street. Whoever had been firing the gun had left. Maybe
    back to Afghanistan to shoot Russians. Brian walked down the broken sidewalk. More guns. Guns
    everywhere. Then a kebab shop. Then more guns. He didn’t want to go too far
    away from the perceived safety of the car. Brian wasn’t extremely comfortable
    in Darra. But no one seemed interested in the foreigner. They were busy
    carrying pieces of metal around, or assembling firing mechanisms. The driver
    came out, unsmiling and unspeaking.
    “Interesting place,” Brian commented. “But I think I’ve probably seen enough.”

    As they drove back out of town he saw a man with a funny cap step out of a shop and point a
    rifle at the sky. Shots were still echoing down the street as they reached the Darra city limits.