Conventional Wisdom
By Kevin Filan © 2006



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"It's great that everybody remembers me," Patrick says as he examines his memorial shrine. "But I didn't really do anything to deserve this."

A belly dancer stands between the shrine and a plastic palm tree. Beside her a banner proclaims WELCOME SOLARCON. THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING HOLIDAY INN. The elevator opens and the belly dancer departs. Her veil brushes the Patrick O'Connor (aka Luther the Lionhearted) 8/14/67 – 9/11/01 sign. Across the lobby in the world of the dead a Goth girl hands out SOLARCON AFTERLIFE badges from a rickety card table. Patrick examines her cleavage, then turns back to St. Gerard Majella.

"It's not like I'm a martyr or anything. I just had a bad day at work is all."

"You touched a lot of lives," St. Gerard explains. "They wanted to say thank you for everything you did."

Patrick blushes beneath his neckbeard. "But I didn't do that much."

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself." Gerard smiles faintly as they walk over to the registration table. "Jesus always tells me that. I'm sure he'd say the same thing to you if he was here."

"We have two registrations," Patrick explains to the Goth girl as he tries to keep his eyes on her LUCRETIA name badge. "St. Gerard Majella and Patrick O'Connor."

The Goth girl's bosom heaves as she gasps. The light from the lobby chandelier sparkles in her ruby rhinestone necklace. "Oh. My. God. You're Patrick O'Connor? The Internet guy?"

Patrick looks down at the floor, his face maroon as her velvet dress. "Yes, that's me."

"I can't believe it! Wow! This is even better than meeting Ian Curtis! Now that we've got the Internet over here the Afterlife is so much more interesting."

Patrick stares at the tags on his battered suitcase. "There were a lot of people who helped set the Internet up. I really didn't do that much."

Lucretia turns to St. Gerard. "That tubercular priest look is so hot. It really works for you."

"I'm sorry, I'm not a priest." Gerard joins Patrick in staring at the floor. "And I keep meaning to get cured, but every time I have an appointment with Jesus there are so many other things to talk about…"

Lucretia pulls a fountain pen from her coffin purse, then scrawls a number on Patrick's flyer below Featured Speakers: J.R.R. Tolkien, Gene Roddenberry and a Special Guest to be Announced.

"I'm in 356. We're having a suite party Saturday night. I hope you both can make it. That would be so cool."

"Thank you, Lucretia," St. Gerard says. "I'll try to make it if I can."

Lucretia shakes her head in awe. "I can't believe it. I actually met Patrick O'Connor the Internet guy."

# # #

"I didn't expect to see you here," Patrick says to Charley DelCruccio, Intake Processing Guide (Second Class). "Are you a science fiction fan?"

"Naah, I 'm just doin' a little bit of moonlightin'." Charley puts down a row of chairs, then returns to the hallway for more. "After the Robinson – Graziano rematch I can use a little extra coin." Charley slams a stack of chairs onto the dolly. "I shoulda known that bum Graziano was gonna take a dive again."

"He didn't cheat, Charley," St. Gerard says. "Sugar Ray Robinson knocked him out in the fourth round."

"Jerry, with all due respect, I think I know a little bit more about boxing than you do."

"I don't know anything about boxing. But I know when people have done something wrong. Jesus says it's one of my core competencies."

"Whatever." Charley examines Patrick's lion costume. "So where's the Scarecrow and the Tin Man?"

"I'm not the Cowardly Lion," Patrick explains. "I'm Luther the Lionhearted, King of the Jungle. That's my fursona."

"Your what?"

"My fursona. The role I play at Furry Cons."

"At what?"

"When I wear this suit, I become Luther. Luther is noble. He's brave but kind. He protects the downtrodden."

"You realize you sound like a Boy Scout what's gone batshit nuts, right?"

"Charley!" St. Gerard looks up from his computer. "You shouldn't say things like that.

"It's all right, Gerard." Patrick sighs. "I know you don't understand, Charley. Most people don't."

"KAWAAIII!!!"

Three nubile Japanese teenagers run screaming toward Patrick.

"Ohhh! So cuuuutte!!! Can I touch?"

"Sure!" Charley says, then realizes they aren't talking to him.

"Luther is glad you like him," Patrick says as they stroke his plush fur.

"Wait. You're Patrick O'Connor," says the girl in the Hello Kitty T-shirt. "The Internet guy!"

"Ohhh!!!" her friends squeal in unison.

"So you girls know anything about massages?" Charley asks. "I got a stiff muscle."

"I think they're ignoring you, Charley," St. Gerard advises.

"It's so good to meet you! We were SO bored before we got Internet. Now we talk on AIM all day."

"Yay!" her friends say.

"You have to come to the suite party Saturday night. We're bringing lots of anime. And pocky sticks too."

"Suite party, ya say?"

"I think they're still ignoring you, Charley."

"Thanks for pointing that out," Charley fumes.

"You don't have to thank me." Gerard says. "It's no bother, really."

"See you there, Patrick!"

"See you!" her friends chirp in unison, then skip giggling toward the Sailor Moon convention.

"I'm Luther…" Patrick says forlornly after them. "Luther the Lion-Hearted."

# # #

"But why was the audience being so rude?" St. Gerard Majella asks. "That man couldn't help it that he doesn't have a neck."

Patrick sighs deeply. His yarn mane waves in the breeze as he exhales. Behind him a ghost in stormtrooper armor drifts toward the vendor room. "It's kind of difficult to explain. Rocky Horror is an interactive experience. The audience participation is part of the fun."

"I guess I don't understand. I'm sorry."

"It's OK," Patrick says as they head for the hotel restaurant. "It took me a while to get into Rocky Horror." Patrick pauses. "Actually, I never liked Rocky. But I liked this girl in the cast. So I went to see it a few times."

"I know," St. Gerard says.

"I figured you would." Patrick smiles. "She worked a few floors below me. I thought maybe she would be here. I guess she isn't. I'm happy about that. I guess."

"Everybody comes here sooner or later," Gerard explains. "Well, not to Solarcon, I mean."

"I know what you mean."

"Jesus!" Gerard exclaims.

"Is something wrong?" Patrick asks.

"Come on, guy," says Jesus Christ as he crosses the lobby. "You should know by now that Jerry never takes my name in vain."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle anyone." Gerard reddens. "I just didn't expect to see you here."

Jesus smiles. "I never miss Solarcon." He reaches into his pocket. "What do you think of the Spock ears?"

"Well…" Patrick hesitates.

"That's what I thought," Jesus sighs. "The plastic antennae didn't work either. Too bad. I was looking forward to dressing up for Gene Roddenberry's lecture."

Patrick smiles. "I always thought you'd be a Trekkie."

"Of course I love Star Trek. Although I still wonder what Shatner was thinking when he signed on for T.J. Hooker."

"Doesn't everybody?" Patrick asks.

"Point taken," Jesus says. "Say, I like that lion costume. You're really getting in the spirit of things."

"I'm trying," Patrick says. "I was hoping my friend Suresh would come, but he couldn't make it. He cashed out his options and bought a reincarnation in Mumbai."

"I'm sorry," St. Gerard says. "I'm sure I'm not as much fun as Suresh. I really don't know any of the people here, and I've only seen Star Wars twice…"

"Jerry, relax," Jesus says. "You're doing fine."

"You've been a great companion, Gerard," Patrick agrees. "I guess I'm just a little out of sorts is all."

"Excuse me." A little man walks up to them. His RALPH MOORE badge hangs from his pocket protector. "I was wondering if I could get your autograph?"

Patrick steps aside. "Do you need a pen, Jesus?"

Jesus smiles. "I don't think he's talking to me."

"I'm really honored to meet you, Mr. O'Connor." Ralph smiles, exposing teeth as ivory-yellow as the wallpaper. Sour cream and onion potato chip breath rises above the hotel disinfectant smell. "Thanks to you I'm finally able to read Slashdot again."

"Please…" Patrick stammers. "You can call me Patrick."

"I'm so glad you crossed over before Bill Gates did. I was afraid he'd show up and ruin everything." Ralph puts a crumpled flyer under Patrick's nose. "You're a real hero."

"I'm not a hero." Patrick looks down at his fuzzy-slippered feet. "I just convinced some people that an Internet connection would be a good idea."

"And you worked around the clock to make it happen," St. Gerard reminds Patrick.

"It was nothing, really."

Jesus shakes his head as Patrick signs Ralph's flyer. "You sure you two aren't related?'

"I don't think so. Patrick is Irish, not Italian."

Jesus sighs. "It was a joke, Jerry."

"Thanks for the autograph." Ralph examines the flyer, squinting behind his taped glasses. "Hey, wait a minute. Who's Luther the Lion-Hearted?"

"I'm Luther the Lion-Hearted. Luther is noble. He's brave but kind. He protects the downtrodden."

Ralph crumples the flyer. "If you didn't want to sign it, all you had to do was say so. You didn't have to be an asshole about it."

"I'm sorry," Patrick whimpers as Ralph storms away.

# # #

"That elf girl was kinda cute," Charley says as they exit the DVD room. "But she didn't show enough skin. They shoulda had her do a belly dance."

Patrick sighs. "Elves don't belly dance, Charley."

Charley snorts. "Everyone knows you gotta have some broad belly dancing in an epical film. Otherwise ain't nobody gonna sit through it but the men what wanna see the gladiators. And speakin' on that, am I the only one what noticed them guys Froodoo and Sam was awful close? I'm bettin' they go to gladiator movies together all the time."

"I don't think that's what Professor Tolkien had in mind at all, Charley," St. Gerard says. "But if you'd like I'll ask him about it."

Patrick's jaw drops down to his fur-covered chest. "You… know … J.R.R. Tolkien?"

"Yes. He's really very nice. I'm looking forward to his speech at the awards ceremony."

"You… know… J.R.R. Tolkien?" Patrick stammers again.

"If you'd like I can introduce you to him."

"You… know… J.R.R. Tolkien."

"He's right over there," Gerard waves. "Excuse me, Professor Tolkien. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I have a friend who wants to meet you."

"Hello, Gerard," J.R.R. Tolkien says as he saunters over. "Fancy meeting you here. I had no idea you were a fan of this sort of literature."

"J… R… R… Tolkien…"

"Hello, Professor. This is Patrick O'Connor."

"The Patrick O'Connor? The fellow behind this new 'Internet?'" Tolkien brightens. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. O'Connor. I'm a great fan of your work."

"But… but… but…" Patrick stammers.

"Yesterday I discovered a marvelous paper on the development of nominative objects in Lithuanian. Then I read an essay which compared and contrasted the syntax of Latvian and Estonian and I didn't even have to leave my hotel room. You've been an enormous assistance my studies of philology, young man. I am eternally in your debt."

"You're… in my…debt?" Patrick repeats blankly.

"Do you know Finnish? It's a wonderful language. Quite musical. And although some say it's difficult, I didn't find it so. Once you learn the fifteen cases it's all very logical. I can't wait to master some of the other Altaic languages. I've just recently encountered a Votyak discussion forum, and I'm going to be joining an East Karelian study group soon. And all thanks to your marvelous invention."

"I didn't invent anything…" Patrick says. "A lot of other people helped too."

"Young man, you're far too modest." Professor Tolkien reaches into his pocket for a pen. "I hope I'm not being too forward in asking for your autograph."

"You… want… my… autograph?"

"If you would rather not, I certainly understand."

"No, it's all right." Patrick says. "I'm honored. Really. 'To J.R.R. Tolkien. The road goes ever on. Patrick O'Connor (aka Luther the Lionhearted).' How's that?"

"Splendid! And if you are ever interested in learning Finnish, let me know. I'll gladly put you in touch with a teacher." Professor Tolkien puts Patrick's autograph in his front pocket, then pulls out his pipe. "If you'll excuse me, I was just heading outside. These American no-smoking laws are dreadfully inconvenient."

"You're tellin' me," Charley says. "It ain't like a little tobacco's gonna kill us."

"Yes, quite." Tolkien returns his attention to Patrick. "Once again, making your acquaintance has been a real pleasure. I do hope you will be attending the lecture tonight."

"J… R… R… Tolkien… wanted my autograph…" Patrick says blankly as Tolkien goes through the exit doors.

"Easy there, guy." Charley asks. "I think that costume's got you overheating."

# # #

"Thank you, Dr. Tolkien." Isaac Asimov leans into the microphone to be heard over the snoring. "I've certainly learned a few things about Bulgarian verb tenses, and I'm sure everyone else here feels the same way. Come on, folks. Let's have a round of applause for J.R.R. Tolkien!"

Patrick jumps in his chair as the crowd claps. "I'm sorry, Mistress, I'll get some more honey right away… I mean, where… I mean, thank you, Dr. Tolkien."

"Did I miss J.R.R's lecture?" Jesus sits down between Patrick and Gerard. "What a pity. I was looking forward to learning more about Old Church Slavonian."

Patrick eyes Christ's rabbit suit; two floppy ears peek out from the crown of thorns.

"I'm the Easter Bunny," Jesus explains.

"KAWAAIII!!"

The Japanese teenagers run up to the table. "So cute!!!"

"Domo Arigato. I'm glad you like it. But be careful with those thorns," Jesus says as the girl in the Strawberry Shortcake costume strokes his ears.

"And now for the moment we've all been waiting for. As I'm sure you all know, the Hereafter is now connected to Cyberspace."

The crowd cheers wildly. Patrick looks around nervously. Sweat beads his mane as he examines the coffee stains on the worn red carpet.

"Yes, I'm sure we all remember the bad old days when we had to masturbate alone," Asimov smiles as the crowd laughs. "But they're behind us now. And we've got one man to thank. I'd like to introduce Solarcon's guest of honor. This is the man who connected us to the Internet. Ladies and gentlemen… here's Patrick O'Connor."

A spotlight wheels around the crowd, then stops at Patrick's table. Patrick squints and slumps in his folding chair. The applause grows to a thunderous growl, then fades to an ominous silence.

"Come on up, Patrick. You're the man of the hour!"

Patrick stands, nearly tripping over his lion tail. The crowd begins stomping on the floor; the thumping nearly drowns out the pounding of his heart.

"SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!"

Patrick makes his way to the podium, the spotlight dogging his steps. The cheering swells again as he stumbles up the steps to the stage.

"Go ahead, Mr. O'Connor," Isaac Asimov says, "Your fans are waiting."

"SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!" the crowd chants again.

"Ummm… I'm happy to be here, I guess… and … umm… I gotta go!"

Patrick runs down the stairs and out the door.

# # #

"I thought I would find you here."

Gerard closes the door. Patrick sits silent in the darkness. On the TV CNN Headline News plays silently; stock prices scroll across the bottom. The tears on Patrick's cheeks sparkle blue-green in the CRT tube glow. His lion mane sits on the end table between the room service menu and the remote control.

"I'm sorry they pulled you on stage like that. It must have been very hard for you. I hate it when people ask me to speak in public."

"It's OK." Patrick wipes his nose with a Holiday Inn napkin. "I'm sorry I ruined the awards ceremony for everyone."

"But you didn't!" Gerard sits down on the bed beside him. "Everybody was happy to see you at the convention."

"No, they're happy that Patrick O'Connor the Internet Guy is here." Patrick sniffles. "I always used to love conventions. It was the only time I could be Luther the Lionhearted without people making fun of me. Now I can't be Luther anymore. I can't be just Patrick." Patrick suppresses a sob. "And I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore."

"What do you think Luther would do?"

Patrick pauses. "You're making fun of me, aren't you?" He shakes his head as St. Gerard stares blankly back at him. "Never mind. You wouldn't do that."

"Luther wasn't always King of the Jungle, was he?" Gerard continues. "I'm sure it must have been very hard for him at first. Everybody expected him to be noble and brave, and to protect the downtrodden. And for a while he didn't feel that way at all."

"I never thought of that," Patrick says.

"Luther had to act noble and brave, even when he didn't feel that way," St. Gerard says.

"Excuse me, I was minding my business," Ralph Moore yells from the hallway. "Then this… this thug… dragged me in the bathroom and stuck my head in the toilet."

"Guy, you weren't minding your own business," Jesus replies. "You called him a Guido, and a greasy little Mafioso punk."

"That's a damn lie! I ain't even made!" Charley says indignantly. "And my name ain't Guido, that's my cousin."

"Do you think everything will be OK?" Patrick asks, smiling despite himself.

"I'm sure it will." Gerard's smile is faint as Patrick's. "The Lord is in charge."

"Look, guys. What do I always say about turning the other cheek?" Jesus asks, his voice soft but resonant through the door. "Listen, there's a great suite party in 356. Maybe you two should spend less time arguing and more time partying. I just turned a few gallons of water into Château Mouton-Rothschild 1er Cru Classé Pauillac 1998. If you don't hurry you're going to miss out."

"That sounds real nice," Charley says. "Listen, I'm sorry about flushing your head. But you oughtn't to be making comments about people's ethnical orientation like that. Now howsabout we get a drink and make like this whole thing didn't happen?"

"First I have to change my shirt," Ralph mutters as he stomps toward the elevator. His footsteps rattle the plastic glasses on the dresser.

"I was just at that party," Gerard says as he turns back to Patrick. "It was very nice. Lucretia kept asking me where you were. When she wasn't asking me what I was wearing under my robe, anyway." High red spots of color shine on Gerard's tubercular face. "A lot of people were worried about you."

Patrick stands and picks up his mane. "Luther the Lionhearted isn't going to disappoint them. He's brave and noble even when he doesn't feel that way."

Gerard smiles sadly. "Sometimes I feel that way about St. Gerard Majella too."

# # #

"I really should introduce you to Professor Lewis," Tolkien says as he examines Patrick's lion costume. In the seat beside him Gene Roddenberry snores blissfully. "Charming fellow, even if he does go on a bit about Narnia."

"I'd like that, thanks," Patrick says. "Aslan is Luther's biggest hero."

"Yes, quite. Wonderful books, really. Although I don't understand why Clive didn't do more work on Narnia's linguistics."

Tolkien sips his port. Ralph Bornstein grabs potato chips from the buffet table. H.P. Lovecraft sits silent on the couch, a sleeping black kitten on his lap. Beside him August Derleth finishes his beer. St. Gerard Majella stands in the corner, staring blankly at a flogging scene. Lucretia puts down her deerskin flogger and picks up a leather singletail. The naked man tied to the coat rack moans as the first lash hits his shoulders.

"Gene and I were discussing fame earlier. We agree it's often more a curse than a blessing. But he gave me several useful suggestions for coping with overly enthusiastic fans. Perhaps you will find them useful. Gene?" Tolkien nudges him. "Are you awake, Gene?"

"Huhh?? Yes, I agree completely, Dr. Tolkien. They should have included vowel harmony in Klingon. I mean, I'm sorry, I'm still jet lagged." Gene brightens. "Say, aren't you Patrick O'Connor the Internet Guy?"

The Japanese girls stroke Christ's rabbit fur. Charley shares a joint with Philip K. Dick. The lash falls again. Welts rise beneath the naked man's back hair. St. Gerard shakes his head.

"It's wonderful that you're helping him with his penance, but he really didn't sin that much."

Lucretia smiles. "He's not doing penance, sweetie. He's enjoying every minute of this."

"I don't understand. Why would someone want to be flagellated because they enjoyed it?"

Maybe I could show you sometime."

Lucretia leans over and nibbles St. Gerard's ear. Her breasts press against his rosary beads. August Derleth throws an empty can toward the wastebasket. It rolls off the rim. Lovecraft's cat stirs, then goes back to sleep. Patrick sighs and signs an autograph for Gene Roddenberry

"I'm sorry. I have to go. I'll be back in a few minutes," Gerard says, his cheeks blazing crimson. "May I borrow your flogger?"