judgmental and severe to oversweet, as if she were speaking to one of her moon-faced grandchildren. “Honey, that’s quite all right. Not everybody’s up to speed on whorehouse ethics these days. You finish that nice new building for us, and don’t worry too much about your men. What we do, it helps men, it relaxes them, makes them happy.” She opened a cupboard, pulled out two containers: one a ceramic candy dish full of homemade butter toffee, and the other a blown-glass chalice over-flowing with little disks packaged in shiny foil. Polite gentleman that he was, Golden selected one of each.
“If you’d ever like to come back,” said Miss Alberta, “remember to bring that condom with you, we’re requiring them now, and we’ll take good care of you. If not, might as well have one of my toffees. They’re better than sex anyway.”
Outside, the bleached afternoon light blinded him; even in March the shock of heat and sun was like being hit across the forehead with a shovel. He walked out into the parking lot, blinking and grimacing, until he could see well enough to locate his pickup. He got behind the steering wheel and Cooter jumped into his lap, wiggled his entire body with excitement.
Golden stared at the shiny package glinting in his hand like a polished doubloon. The only other time he’d seen a condom up close was at the tribal fair in Page, Arizona, several years ago. He’d been waiting in line for snow cones with eight or nine of the kids when Donald Mifflin, a roofing contractor Golden had worked with on a couple of projects, walked up and cried, “Why lookee here! Hey-hey! If it ain’t the great Golden R.!” Donald Mifflin was of the species of construction man for which Golden had little tolerance: the fat and hairy and loud kind, the kind full of hale bravado and endless lines of bullshit.
“So!” shouted Donald, gesturing with his corn dog to the crowd of sweating, impatient children. “All these nippers belong to you?”
Golden gave a noncommittal chuckle; he had learned long ago not to engage strangers or acquaintances about his family situation.
“Seriously now,” said Donald. “They all yours?”
Golden looked down at the kids, who stared back up at him, waiting patiently for him to claim or disown them.
“Ehhh.” He sighed. “Yep. All mine.”
Donald held up his corn dog and, mouth screwed up in concentration, dug into his back pocket for his wallet-on-a-chain, from which he extracted a small square packet of green foil and handed it to Golden. On the packet was printed in ribbons of cursive, Gentleman’s Best!
“What is this?” Golden said.
Donald looked around meaningfully at the children, stepped forward, and in a whisper just quiet enough for everyone within a fifty-foot radius to hear, said, “ This, my friend, is so you don’t go fucking yourself out of a spot at the dinner table .”
With that he gave Golden a clap on the back, a wink and a nod to the kids, and shambled off in the direction of the bumper cars.
Though Golden had never heard anyone in the church address the topic of condoms specifically, The Evils of Birth Control was a subject taken up often and at length. Birth control was high wickedness and pure selfishness, an abuse of mortal agency, a corruptor of men, a destroyer of civilizations. It poisoned the fountains of life, made mockery of God and all His commandments, the most fundamental of which was to multiply and replenish the earth. The condom, then, in its shiny little wrapper, was the embodiment of worldly vice, the antithesis of everything for which the church and its proudly prolific members stood.
That afternoon at the county fair Golden had tossed the thing into the nearest garbage barrel as if it were the maggoty remains of a mouse.
But today, in the hot cab of his GMC, he considered the gold foil package for a long time. On the front it said, A PleasurePlus Prophylactic , and on the back, For the Pleasure of Sensual Living . After
“If you’d ever like to come back,” said Miss Alberta, “remember to bring that condom with you, we’re requiring them now, and we’ll take good care of you. If not, might as well have one of my toffees. They’re better than sex anyway.”
Outside, the bleached afternoon light blinded him; even in March the shock of heat and sun was like being hit across the forehead with a shovel. He walked out into the parking lot, blinking and grimacing, until he could see well enough to locate his pickup. He got behind the steering wheel and Cooter jumped into his lap, wiggled his entire body with excitement.
Golden stared at the shiny package glinting in his hand like a polished doubloon. The only other time he’d seen a condom up close was at the tribal fair in Page, Arizona, several years ago. He’d been waiting in line for snow cones with eight or nine of the kids when Donald Mifflin, a roofing contractor Golden had worked with on a couple of projects, walked up and cried, “Why lookee here! Hey-hey! If it ain’t the great Golden R.!” Donald Mifflin was of the species of construction man for which Golden had little tolerance: the fat and hairy and loud kind, the kind full of hale bravado and endless lines of bullshit.
“So!” shouted Donald, gesturing with his corn dog to the crowd of sweating, impatient children. “All these nippers belong to you?”
Golden gave a noncommittal chuckle; he had learned long ago not to engage strangers or acquaintances about his family situation.
“Seriously now,” said Donald. “They all yours?”
Golden looked down at the kids, who stared back up at him, waiting patiently for him to claim or disown them.
“Ehhh.” He sighed. “Yep. All mine.”
Donald held up his corn dog and, mouth screwed up in concentration, dug into his back pocket for his wallet-on-a-chain, from which he extracted a small square packet of green foil and handed it to Golden. On the packet was printed in ribbons of cursive, Gentleman’s Best!
“What is this?” Golden said.
Donald looked around meaningfully at the children, stepped forward, and in a whisper just quiet enough for everyone within a fifty-foot radius to hear, said, “ This, my friend, is so you don’t go fucking yourself out of a spot at the dinner table .”
With that he gave Golden a clap on the back, a wink and a nod to the kids, and shambled off in the direction of the bumper cars.
Though Golden had never heard anyone in the church address the topic of condoms specifically, The Evils of Birth Control was a subject taken up often and at length. Birth control was high wickedness and pure selfishness, an abuse of mortal agency, a corruptor of men, a destroyer of civilizations. It poisoned the fountains of life, made mockery of God and all His commandments, the most fundamental of which was to multiply and replenish the earth. The condom, then, in its shiny little wrapper, was the embodiment of worldly vice, the antithesis of everything for which the church and its proudly prolific members stood.
That afternoon at the county fair Golden had tossed the thing into the nearest garbage barrel as if it were the maggoty remains of a mouse.
But today, in the hot cab of his GMC, he considered the gold foil package for a long time. On the front it said, A PleasurePlus Prophylactic , and on the back, For the Pleasure of Sensual Living . After
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