Standards

Standards, and our attempts – sincere or not – to meet them, have lately been much on my mind.

Just a little while ago, an itinerant preacher proclaimed a standard that’s made him moderately famous:

And behold one came and said to him: Good master, what good shall I do that I may have life everlasting? Who said to him: Why asketh thou me concerning good? One is good, God. But if thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments. He said to him: Which? And Jesus said: Thou shalt do no murder, Thou shalt not commit adultery, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness. Honour thy father and thy mother: and, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. [Matthew 19:16-19]

That citation has appeared here more than once. It proclaims a universal standard. If you’re a living human being capable of reason – what ethical philosophers call a moral agent — you’re expected to conform to it. There are no exceptions, no dispensations granted.

But other standards are less universal, because they arise from particular stations in life. They pertain to the roles we play, whether or not we have chosen to accept them. Some of those roles are “commonplace:” husband; wife; parent; guardian. Others are less so. Few come with no ethical obligations.

Sometimes, those ethical obligations are misconceived, or misunderstood.

Ever heard the old saw that “the captain always goes down with his ship” — ? That’s not a true obligation of a maritime vessel’s commander. The impulse to follow it doesn’t arise from any reasonable moral or ethical standard, but from the shame and embarrassment a responsible commander will feel should he lose his ship, even if through no fault of his own. The stigma from such a loss means de facto ruination, professionally if in no other way. When the moment has been upon them, many men have been unable to face it.

The real obligations a captain must bear are those that arise from the responsibilities he freely and consciously accepts when he assumes command. He is obliged to do everything in his power to get his ship to wherever it’s going, and to keep its entire complement safe from beginning to end. If his ship is a military vessel, there are additional obligations: to be true to his mission, and not to surrender his ship to the enemy if it’s possible to avoid doing so. But if he should decide for tactical reasons that his ship must be scuttled, he is not obliged to “go down with it,” nor to take his own life in any other fashion.

Achieving clarity about one’s occupational or situational obligations is a vital chore. It’s also something we’ve done a decreasing amount these last few decades. And no, I’m not about to launch into another tirade about the failures and defaults of the United States Secret Service.

***

A lot of people, when supposedly committing to a responsibility, will have a private list in their minds about when that responsibility can be sloughed. Time was, we called that list mental reservations. Among such reservations is one common among the immature: “as long as it’s not too hard and doesn’t get in the way of something I really want to do.”

Imagine a babysitter holding such a reservation. Would you hire such a person to watch over your toddlers? I’d imagine not. Yet there are enough persons who silently maintain such reservations about what’s they’ve promised to do that many parents feel they can never leave their young children in someone else’s care, however fleeting. The impact isn’t confined to the restaurant and cinema industries.

The pervasive fear of such reservations is one of the symptoms that attends the loss of America’s previous high-trust society. It largely drives our atomization into small, intimate groups whose members know from experience that they can trust one another. For my part, it makes me more nervous than ever before to close my front door behind me – and I live in one of the safest neighborhoods in America.

***

I’ve written a fair amount about heroes, heroism, and the totalitarians’ drive to extinguish every trace of both. The hunger for heroes and heroism is the biggest of the reasons I write fiction. My readership isn’t large, but the feedback I get from it suggests that I’ve accurately conceived the need. Two young women under the mistaken impression that I must be a hero rather than just a storyteller offered to marry me, sight unseen. That’s how severe the hunger can get among those who feel oppressed or have been victimized.

But heroism isn’t confined to supermen who work a 9-to-5 shift at the Daily Planet, then don a onesie and a cape and go out to fight crime. Heroism resides in the decision to accept a risk for the sake of something greater than oneself. Sometimes, such a decision arises from a man’s recognition that he has pledged himself to a standard that compels him to act or be ashamed forever after…such as Lyle Worthing in the story that follows.

Norms

     “Hard livin’s my pleasure,
     “My money’s my own,
     “And them that don’t like me,
     “Can leave me alone.”
     “Why do you keep singing that inane song?” Lyle Worthing grumped.
     Jason Horrocks grinned. “It’s my song, champ.”
     Lyle shook his head, returned his attention to the grill, and flipped the chicken breasts over. He made to do the same for the sirloin steak he’d thrown on the grill for Jason when the mercenary said “Don’t bother. I’ll take it as it is.”
     “But it’s still—”
     Jason chuckled. “I know.”
     Lyle shrugged, forked up the unusually rare steak, and plopped it onto the serving platter.
     I could probably serve it to him raw, and he’d smack his lips over it.
     How much of this is just posturing? The soldier for hire reminding us over-civilized types how tough he is?
     Gemma Worthing shouldered the screen door aside and stepped out onto the deck. She set a large platter loaded with sautéed vegetables and a large bowl of teriyaki rice at the center of their glass and wicker dining table, smiled fleetingly at Jason, and returned to the house to fetch the beverages. Jason awarded her backside his customary leer. Lyle strove to restrain his temper.
     “Can’t figure how you bagged a woman that fine, buddy.”
     It compelled Lyle to grin. “Just lucky, I guess.”
     From the moment he’d first set eyes on her, Lyle had known that Gemma Thompson was out of his league. Her beauty, her intelligence, and her uncommon sweetness eclipsed any other woman he’d known before or since. Had she not approached him for assistance on a project, he would never have found the courage to ask her out. It continued to amaze him that she’d said yes to a date, much less to his proposal of marriage.
     “Had to be.” Jason continued to leer toward the screen door as it shut behind Lyle’s wife. “‘Course, in Venezuela—”
     “Yeah, I know,” Lyle said. “They grow ‘em in bunches.”
     “Damn right, buddy. You can pick your own off a tree.” The mercenary settled back in his lawn chair and set his folded hands on his belly.
     So where’s yours?
     Lyle judged the chicken cooked through and loaded it onto a serving platter as Gemma returned with three stemmed glasses, a bottle of Dry Riesling, and Jason’s six-pack of beer.
     Lyle set the platter of meat next to the one with the vegetables. “Dinner is served.” The Worthings seated themselves at their places, steepled their hands, and bowed their heads in prayer.
     Jason groaned mockingly, clambered to his feet with exaggerated difficulty, and joined them.

#
     Gemma frowned at the receding shape of Jason’s four-by-four.
     “What on Earth moved you to invite him to dinner?”
     Lyle grimaced. “I didn’t. He just…showed up.”
     Gemma’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
     “He’s been doing it since we were in school.”
     And nobody ever shoos him away.
     “That takes a lot of brass.”
     “He’s got a lot. Always has.”
     “Do you think the stories he was telling—”
     “Are true?” Lyle shrugged. “Probably. It’s what mercenary soldiers do. Some of them anyway, if there’s anything to the accounts I’ve read. And it’s the sort of thing he’d be proud of.”
     I’m just glad you didn’t catch him ogling you.
     She grunted her disapproval. “He certainly kept us up late enough with them.”
     “Are we cleaned up, sweetie?” he said.
     “The dishes are done. Have you covered the grill?”
     “Uh, no. I’ll do that now. And then?”
     “Then,” she said as she encircled his waist with an arm, “I think it will be time for bed.”
     He smiled. “What a good idea.”
#
     “Fall back!”
     Jason didn’t wait for the lieutenant to repeat himself. The Chavista armor was approaching fast, and his platoon had expended the last of its anti-armor munitions hours before. He scrambled to his feet, slung his rifle across his back, and hightailed it for the relative safety of the jungle. Within seconds automatic fire swept through the foliage behind them. He saw members of his squad fall to enfilading fire but kept plunging forward even so. Flight was the only imperative.
     He kept moving as fast as the jungle would allow, until there was a solid quarter mile of densely spaced trees and heavy brush between him and the road command had tasked the platoon to hold.
     He threw a glance behind him at the trailing remnant of his platoon. The lieutenant was nowhere in sight.
     Must have caught a round.
     That was too fucking close.
     We’re likely to catch a ton of shit from upper…if there’s any upper left after that column hits it. It was headed straight for the main base, and I don’t think that was by chance.
     Maybe we’ll be de-mobed now. No point in hanging around if the folks who sign the paychecks are all dead. Hell, we haven’t seen a penny for more than a year, anyway.
     It wasn’t long before the radioman announced that command had been overrun and the rebellion had been quenched. Jason’s wish had come true. Presently the remnant of the platoon was up and headed to their alternate exfil point and the river craft that awaited them. There were no long faces to be seen among them.
     At least I didn’t catch a bullet. Would have been for nothing.
#
     The pounding on the front door had a familiar quality. Gemma squeezed Lyle’s hand, laid it gently beside him, and went to answer the knock. She opened the door and frowned at the presence of Jason Horrocks.
     The mercenary grinned insolently. “Good to see you, babe. I’m just back from—”
     “From Venezuela?” she murmured. “I understand the rebellion has been crushed and its political figures are all dead or in prison.”
     He grimaced. “Yeah. Won’t be going back there any time soon. Is hubby gonna be grilling tonight?”
     She looked him full in the eyes. The half step backward he took nearly toppled him off the landing.
     “I’m afraid not, Jason. He hasn’t done any grilling for four months.” She produced her coldest smile. “Would you like to see why?”
     Jason’s face clouded. “Well, sure, lead the way.”
     She ushered him in with a wave and led him to the master bedroom. His eyes went wide when his gaze landed on Lyle’s unconscious form and the intravenous lines and monitoring devices attached to it.
     “What the—is he sick?”
     She shook her head. “Not in the usual sense, Jason. He was badly hurt in fighting off a pair of carjackers. Multiple fractures, including one to his skull. The surgeons had to remove his spleen and one of his kidneys, as well.”
     Jason paled. “Holy—but why? Why didn’t he just back away and let them have the car? It’s a piece of shit!”
     “Because,” she murmured, “they wanted what was in the car.”
     “Huh? What was in the car?”
     “Me, Jason. His wife.”
     The mercenary was struck dumb. Gemma noted his stupefaction and nodded.
     “He killed one of them, Jason,” she said pleasantly. “He managed to rip the brute’s throat open with his car keys. But the second one beat him half to death with a length of pipe before he fled.”
     She seated herself next to the bed and took Lyle’s hand in hers again.
     “His fractures have mostly healed, but his coma has persisted. The surgeons don’t know if he’ll ever regain consciousness. They’ve told me not to…hope for too much. All the same, I’m not going to let him go. ‘In sickness and in health,’ you know?”
     She caressed her husband’s hand. “So no, I don’t think we’ll be grilling tonight, the way we used to on Fridays. He gets his nutrition intravenously, and I prefer to bring my dinner in here and sit with him while I eat. Perhaps in a year or so—or do you expect you’ll have gone off to some other war by then?”
     “We go where the action is,” he croaked. “It’s what mercenaries do.”
     She nodded again. “He told me about the ways of your chosen trade. Well, Jason, he did what husbands do. The good ones, anyway. If he ever comes to, I’ll tell him you stopped by, but for now, I think you know the way out.”

==<O>==

A slightly shorter version of this story appeared at Liberty’s Torch V1.0 in August, 2020.