• Is it OK to tell everyone that I am very morally conscious, but then raise my children without limits to their wants and chuckle when they are rude and obtuse to others?
• Is it morally wrong to teach my children a variety of curses while I tailgate people down the highway trying to be first at the next red light? What do I do at the intersection after I’ve flipped off the guy I nearly sideswiped?
• Does my investment portfolio really need to leverage sweatshop labor in Micronesia?
• How much gas should my SUV burn going down the driveway to get my mail?
• Am I morally obliged to turn off my cell phone at the symphony?
• What is the most ethical choice in hollow-point ammunition for my handgun?
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In fact, we may have run out already.
The Reader
The MacDougals had just about the best of everything imaginable.
They had a grand home; two bright and vivacious children (male and female they had them); two extremely efficient imported cars for work and a large inefficient SUV for play; four television sets, one of which took up an entire wall in the room of the house known as the “television theater;” three video gaming systems (one for each of the kids, Katie, 13, and Jimmy, 17, and one for Mom and Dad); and they possessed other assorted luxuries of the good life, nay, the delightful life in America in the early years of the 21st century. Among these excesses was the best professional Reader money could procure.
The Reader’s name was Houston Hancock. He was 22 years old when the MacDougals hired him.
The MacDougals’ Reader came every Tuesday and Thursday evening, and every Wednesday and Sunday afternoon. On every third Thursday, the Reader presented MacDougal with a bill for services, except for Thanksgiving Day, which was still a holiday in the 21st century in America, even for Readers. (This is not to say that the Reader was exclusively the MacDougals’ Reader; on the other days and at other times he went to other homes, but the MacDougals, by contract, were entitled to believe that the Reader was theirs alone.)
“Mom! Houston’s here!” Katie or Jimmy would say upon the Reader’s arrival, and from that moment until 5:30, the Reader plied his trade in the MacDougal home, in much the same way the plumber puttered under the sink or the television man moved like a wraith behind the TV wall.
“Read this,” Jimmy would say, thrusting a cereal box into the Reader’s hands.
“Fortified with seven important vitamins,” the Reader said, turning the box over, “Send four proof-of-purchase seals and $4.98 for your free Day-glo Astro-Frisbee . . . Contents may have settled during shipping and handling because the box was packed by a machine . . . Ingredients: sugar, high-fructose corn syrup, corn starch, dextrose, vitamin B-6 and B-12. Our product guarantee: if not fully pleased, send the remaining portion back to us for your full refund. Offer void where prohibited . . .”
“Me next!” giggled Katie, who was clutching a crumpled envelope. The Reader took the letter and opened it. He could still make out on the deckled envelope the seal of a Scribe from Pittsburgh.
“This is the letter from Granny MacDougal. I read this last time,” the Reader said, and knew it was not his place to debate an assignment, but did anyway in the face of the sheer redundancy of the letter.
“Oh please, Houston!”
“Dearest Katie,” he began in the measured practice of his art, “How is my littlest granddaughter? I hope you received the set of porcelain dolls I sent from Quebec on my recent trip there . . .” His eyes flitted to the bottom of the page where the old woman had apparently taken pen in hand herself to inscribe the robin’s egg paper with her own signature. Professional ethics aside, the Reader felt a twinge of uneasiness at the sight of the shallow and shuddering script.
Jimmy went into the television theater and began watching a program called “Eat Your Heart Out” in which contestants battled to avoid winning big prizes on which they were obliged to pay enormous taxes. A cleanser commercial came on and a morose announcer said, “Life isn’t very happy at the Joneses – They have dirty bathtub ring . . .”
Jimmy sang along with the jingle for a moment and then switched to a soap opera in which six of the minor characters had entered into an open marriage based on a bizarre credit card fraud scheme.
“. . .and I am happy to tell you I enjoyed my flight to Montreal very much . . .”
Mrs. MacDougal came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
“Hi, Houston. I’ll be with you in a moment. I’m sure the kids have lots for you to do.”
The Reader finished the letter from Granny MacDougal, then read the afternoon program selections from the satellite TV menu to Jimmy, who was walking around and around the sofa, watching.
Mrs. MacDougal finally sat down next to the Reader with the morning mail.
“This one first,” she said, handing the Reader a crisp letter.
“It’s from Reader’s Digest. According to the outside of the envelope, you could be one of hundreds of big prize winners; as a matter of fact, you may have already won the big prize.”
“Oh, I’ve heard all about those big sweepstakes drawings. You can discard that one. How about this one?”
“It’s from the Gas and Electric Company. The little insignia on the cancellation says: ‘Heat happy, heat healthy with gas’.”
“How about this one?” she said, holding out an advertisement for fine furniture, upside down.
Etiquette for the 21st Century and Beyond
Now that the new millennium is well underway, let’s face it: humanity hasn’t accomplished all that much, “Net, net, net,” as the lawyers say. No cure for cancer; no solution for world hunger; no humans permanently living on other planets. We haven’t even been able to keep water out of the basement reliably.
But some things have changed. Take etiquette, for example.
What