A Parable

Basketball Jones was the kind of guy you never worried about. In high school, he was a notable player on each sport team each season for the Skopkie Crap-Kickers, and still managed to be president of the student body. This prepared Basketball Jones for adulthood, where he was always ready to pull his hat low and let others take care of him. “My leaders look out for me,” Basketball Jones would tell his friends and onlookers, “That’s what I elected them to for.” At that point, he would usually turn to the nearest and prettiest woman who was most certainly not his wife, and tack on, “God knows they’re more qualified than I am to do it.” Then everyone, including and especially his wife would laugh and go on about their business.

Basketball Jones was a simple man living a simple life. He had nothing to hide. He had his status-quo-wife, and his two-point-five-status-quo children, and every night they all discussed their status-quo days over status-quo dinners together. They frequently ate dinner in front of their status-quo television as to avoid discussing their roles as archetypes that almost never exist. Matters like philosophy were lost on people like Basketball Jones.

As long as he had his morning coffee and orange juice while he read the paper and his wife did the dishes, Basketball Jones was happy. Then his oldest daughter would kiss him on the cheek and go out through the gate in the white picket fence to the school bus, followed by his second child, the pre-pubescent boy. It scared Basketball Jones that his son used tongue in that kiss, but the boy pointed out it’s the common greeting in the college fraternity the boy hoped to join. Basketball Jones believed fraternities build life-long friendships, so he never buried his son under a wall of mud, which is the normal cure for this type of affliction. When the others were gone, the half-child, the one that was neither boy nor girl would kiss him on the cheek and board the van to the special school the hill that wasn’t discussed. When they were gone, Basketball Jones and his wife, Judy, would engage in quicky-morning sex, occasionally outside the bedroom.

Why shouldn’t Basketball Jones be happy? He was coming up for a big promotion at the paper-weight factory. Everyone knows paper-weights are the way of the future. “A job with us will get you a job anywhere,” his bosses would tell him and clap him lovingly on the shoulder. “You’re going somewhere, my boy. We don’t say that often, that’s why it sounds awkward.”

Of course, Basketball Jones heard of terrorism. Who hadn’t? It was in the papers, on the billboards, in magazines, and most importantly, it was on the television. Basketball Jones knew he had to worry about terrorists. They could be anywhere. To be on the safe side, he would look in his closet and under his bed every night to make sure they weren’t there to disrupt his way of life. Judy begged him to check for the children, but any child of his loins should know by instinct to secure the perimeter before laying to rest.

The children were infinite headaches without any additions. The boy spent too much time alone, gabbing with God-knows-who on that Internet. The girl stayed out all hours of the night with strange boys, and she read a lot. What did she see in those books? He thought it might be subversive, but never took the time to look it over. In the end, Basketball Jones realized that no reputable publisher would ever print anything that might teach his only daughter how to be a terrorist.

The real story of Basketball Jones starts with that damn point-five child. Naturally, being only half a child, it was somewhat slow. The ‘Abnormality Cleansing Commission,’ or ACC as they were commonly called, offered to dispose of the child on birth, but a battery of tests, showed the child just met the requirements to live. The choice was left to weak-hearted Judy who helped in the child’s class every day at school. Basketball Jones told everyone he loved all his two-point-five children equally, but the half-child was known to be his least favorite. When the government agents arrived, Basketball Jones was only upset when they scratched his white picket fence.

The agents looked the half-child over carefully and scowled with displeasure. “No, no, no,” said one, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. “This will never do.”
Basketball Jones was nervous.

“Your half-child is a half-wit,” said the G-man. “You can tell by the promiscuity. They don’t know any better, so they mate with everything in sight: furniture, animals, even other children of lesser appeal. It’s clear they want to overrun the world with half-wits. Your child is a terrorist and he’s got to come with us.”

“But why?” Basketball Jones asked.

The G-man held up his finger. “It’s a matter of National Security, sir.”

Life went on. Things became marginally normal. Unfortunately for Basketball Jones, the peace didn’t remain long. It was only a matter of weeks before the G-men came skulking back, circumventing the house and knocking on the back porch door. Before Basketball Jones could ask the nature of their visit, or even if they wanted to join him for morning coffee, the agents demanded entry to his domicile.

“Why?” Basketball Jones asked.

“It’s your daughter,” the agent said, tapping his clipboard with disdain as the other agent went through the cupboards and drawers . “She is out there, running here and there with strange boys, fornicating willy-nilly. Your daughter, it seems, is a common tramp. With this promiscuity, she could be breeding with terrorists. She’s going to have to come with us.”

“But, why?” Basketball Jones asked.

“It’s a matter of National Security,” the agent said.

“Well,” Basketball Jones thought to himself. “The government does know best, right?” On top of that, she was a girl, not exactly an accomplishment he was proud of. Basketball Jones let his daughter go, because who can you trust in this day and age. Maybe she was a terrorist.

Life went on.

Then the government men came back again.

“Why?” demanded Basketball Jones, upset that his breakfast was disturbed.

“National Security,” they answered. “It’s your son. He spends all that time locked up in his bedroom, and who knows what he’s doing. It’s bad enough that he may be touching himself in impure ways. He might be on the Internet talking to terrorists. That is a risk we can’t take. He has to come with us.”

“Why?” Basketball Jones asked again.

“National Security.”

That boy was a late-comer. He was supposed to be the first. Basketball Jones knew he couldn’t trust someone who had been born without a sense of time. Also, what if he was touching himself impurely? Basketball Jones didn’t want that going on in his home. After careful consideration, Basketball Jones ignored his wife’s protests and let the G-men take away his only son.

Life went back to normal.

For a while.

Then, one morning in late fall, while the sun was beating through the kitchen window, illuminating his wife’s delicate hands as she scrubbed that morning’s plates and cups, there came the dreaded knock. This time, it didn’t come from the front, or the back, or even the side window, but came instead from the window above the kitchen table. Looking down on Basketball Jones, a slick-haired agent beckoned to open the window.

“Is this for my wife?” Basketball Jones whispered, afraid the possible terrorist might hear him talking. “What has she done?”

“It’s not your wife,” said the agent. “Her character is paper-thin, she could never do anything to draw anyone’s attention but yours.”

“Who are you here for?”

“You, Mr. Jones,” said the agent, taking out his gun.

“Why?” asked Basketball Jones.

The agent jabbed a finger at Basketball Jones’s nose while his partner produced a pair of handcuffs. “I’m afraid it’s a matter of National Security.”