Every Saturday, we meet at your split-level suburban house: you and your husband greet me at the front entryway; we all exchange pleasantries; then you and I retire to the house’s lower level and enjoy our romantic affair, while your husband remains upstairs alone —
“You two have fun,” he tells us; “I’ll stay here and take a nap.”
Now here’s the question: Is your husband really just sleeping, while you and I are downstairs? We never hear him make a sound, so he could be telling the truth. Nevertheless, we’re both suspicious — it’s hard to fathom why he’d feel so tired that he’d be able to slumber all through the afternoon and late into the evening. But if he’s not actually simply “taking a nap,” then what is he doing, up there on the top floor, while you and I are engaged in our steamy romance?
I suppose we could answer our curiosity by just tiptoeing up the stairs and having a look. But we both avoid suggesting this straightforward solution, because we’re afraid of what we might see. Here is a list of potentially disturbing discoveries that you and I fear making:
We might catch your husband in the act of tapping his khakis with a ping-pong paddle.
He might be up there pouring full sacks of sugar into a bathtub of Kool-Aid.
He might be sneaking local gangsters in through the window and helping them braid their hair.
He might be standing shirtless before the mirror and hand-painting muscles onto his chest.
He might be at his computer, putting the final touches on an animated depiction of himself receiving a hug from the county sheriff.
Also: what if he’s truly on the couch asleep, yet there are stray cats covering him from head to toe, catnapping all over him? This would be mysterious, because your household never has owned any pets. These stray cats are just sleeping there, piled up in silence, on top of your husband.
He could also be showering fully clothed, while drinking a whole case of nonalcoholic Blatz lager.
He might be whispering in conversation with a holographic image of Marilyn Monroe.
He might be sitting in a bean bag chair and twiddling his thumbs.
It could be that he’s in his home-office, with papers strewn everywhere, attempting to decipher the identity of the Shadow King of America.
Perhaps he’s on the phone with your mom.
He could be seated before a television set that’s turned off, staring contentedly with a mild smile at the blank screen.
Or maybe your husband is having his own romantic affair, with all those gangsters that he snuck in through the window. (I think the leader’s name was Billy.) Or maybe he’s typing up his own essay, asking the question:
What does the famous author Bryan Ray really do with my wife downstairs every Saturday, while I’m up here minding my own biz, just quietly napping under my heap of stray cats?
- I bet Bryan and my wife are playing a game of ping-pong: they’re probably the ones who took my other paddle that I lost.
- They’re probably sneaking whole gangs of female hairstylists into the house through an underground tunnel, and teaching them how to use the Dewey Decimal System.
- They’re most likely having a top-secret meeting about how to reverse the economic privatization trend while generally strengthening the public domain in order to cure the universe’s recurring financial disease.
§
Bishop Berkeley Helps Us Reach a Conclusion
In either case, what is actually going on? And how might we establish it with certitude? Whether it’s you and me wondering what your husband’s doing upstairs, or your husband guessing what we are doing down here, how can anyone know the truth?
To get an expert opinion on this dilemma, I paid a visit to the great philosopher George Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne. His answer was shocking but persuasive — he proclaimed with confidence that: When we’re not looking, your husband simply doesn’t exist.
No comments:
Post a Comment