Jason McGuire spent his retirement years hosting entertainers and artists of the younger generation. Some were famous. Household names. Celebrities came to avoid the glare of public scrutiny. Jason's retreat remained a well-guarded secret among the national and international artistic communities. The address was passed around in conspiratorial whispers at parties, as if it were the name of an exclusion nightclub or fashionable guru.

At first the residents of Gopher Brook mobbed these stars of screen, stage, literature and art. But with time the locals became used to seeing well-known musicians and actors shopping at their general store. Requests for autographs died out.

Not all the creative people who came to the "Hotel McGuire" were established artists. Struggling performers found inspiration talking to the old man. The McGuire sanctuary was a sure cure for writer's block or artistic depression. Well into the late hours of the night Jason would toil on plot lines and dialogue with a budding playwright or screenwriter. In the mornings he might take a long walk with a developing artist, pointing out possibilities in the most mundane countryside. Afternoon might find him coaching a nervous actor before a role or a talk show appearance.

Reporters or paparazzi that showed up to hound the "celebs" found it impossible to get accurate directions to the McGuire estate. The local residents would route many of them to the town dump. Other guidance brought them to the Greyhound bus depot. Many would be sent on a wild goose chase through the back roads of the area. None ever found their way to the McGuire's. The townspeople liked the celebrities more than they disliked "that old crackpot".

In the Gopher Gazette Kevin Morley once wrote a teasing article alluding to this conspiracy of silence and the town's reputation within the artistic community. Morley called it the "secret notoriety" of the town. Outsiders reading the paper would have no idea what was Morley blithering about. But Gopher Brookers understood. They distilled the phrase "secret notoriety" down to "sec-not" (or "seek not") and adopted the expression into their local jargon.

While his grandfather entertained this constant stream of literati Jim struggled. He paid his share of the bills by reading and editing manuscripts for Stork Books, a west coast publishing company. Twice Jim had augmented his income by writing books of his own. Pulp fiction. Lots of sex. Political intrigue. Murder. Betrayal. The kind of books people forget faster than they read.

"Everyone disappoints their parents," Grandpa McGuire was fond of saying. Jim wondered if the old man was referring to Jim's literary efforts. His books weren't the masterpieces that some of Grandpa's guests produced. But was this any reason to ignore Jim's efforts entirely? When Jim brought up his books the old man would wince and change the subject. Jim became jealous of the encouragement that his grandfather lavished on their guests. Jason McGuire would work for hours to help writers and artists he'd never met before. Total strangers. But never a word of support for his own grandson. Why?

One day Jim determined to find out. He cornered his grandfather while driving him into town to shop for groceries.

"How come you don't like the books I write?"

Grandpa looked away. The truck was driving by Horton's farm. A herd of cattle was grazing in a depression. On a hill apart from the herd a calf suckled at its mother's teats. Light morning drizzle formed droplets on the front windshield. While Jim concentrated on the road ahead of him Grandpa McGuire turned his head, fixing his gaze on the cow and calf. Word around town was that Ed Horton was strapped for cash. These beef cattle would all be heading for the slaughterhouse soon.

As the truck turned the corner at Fulsom Creek the cattle faded from sight.

"Look," insisted Jim, "I know they weren't Pulitzer prize- winners but they were good enough to publish. Weren't best sellers but they weren't a total bust either. Fifty thousand copies isn't anything to sneeze at, you know. And the second one sold seventy thousand copies. Morley reviewed 'em. He didn't pan them. I made a lot of money from those books. Bought this truck. So how come you don't like them?"

For a moment the old man said nothing.

"What else did Mr. Morley say about your books?" asked the senior McGuire.

During a visit to the McGuires' the critic had been less laudatory about Jim's work. After a few drinks Morley had characterized the books as "steamy trash novels read by lonely women in the privacy of their bedrooms".

"These books aren't literature," Morley had scoffed, "they're cliterature."

Jim bit his lip at the memory of this rebuke.

"And you agree with him?" Jim asked his grandfather.

"There are other things to write about," observed the elder McGuire. "Other things that need to be said."

"Look," countered Jim, "I know you'd prefer that I write about peace, the environment, social responsibility and justice. Like your friends do. Politically correct shit. But that stuff doesn't sell. People don't want to read that bullshit. It's boring. I'm not Reverend Carter, you know. People don't pay money for me to preach to them. That's a fact of life. And, besides, this is the only kind of book that I can write. I'm a hack writer. That's the simple truth. I accept it. Why can't you?"

Grandpa McGuire stared down at his feet. He shook his head. His voice betrayed a deep sadness as he spoke.

"I've done a very poor job of preparing you."

Jim threw up his hands in exasperation.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Prepare me for what?"

The septuagenarian looked up, peering blankly out the front windshield.

"For what is to come..."

Jim clenched his hands around the steering wheel. He hated when his grandfather came up with these mysterious edicts. He knew that there was nothing to gain by pursuing the subject. Grandpa would only stare wanly off into the distance and ignore him. The two men finished the trip into town without further conversation.

On the way home Grandpa McGuire began telling Jim the old story about the dragon and the knight. Jim couldn't believe it! He'd heard this allegory a hundred times! He'd never understood it and couldn't comprehend why the old man insisted on retelling it time and time again.

"Once upon a time," started Jason McGuire, "an evil dragon captured a beautiful princess and imprisoned her in its cave. The townspeople were too frightened to fight the dragon. But intimidation doesn't work on those that history remembers. One brave knight took up arms against the dragon. The knight took his lance and sword, jumped up on his trusty steed and rode into combat.

"The fighting raged on for days and nights that turned into months and years. During this time some townspeople prospered, supplying the brave knight with armour and weapons. The knight sold his castle and property to buy these arms. But his descent into poverty did not dissuade the brave fighter. On and on he fought. Unfortunately, the battle was not going well for the valiant knight. The dragon's fiery breath had singed his skin. Its claws had torn his flesh away. The dragon's powerful tail had broken the knight's arm and leg. Still, despite imminent defeat, the man struggled on in battle after battle.

"It was at this point that the dragon made a fatal mistake. The dragon had always lived with the fear that the townspeople would someday unite against it. Cowards fear courage most, you know. Now that the dragon had all but vanquished the knight, overconfidence struck. The dragon resented the townspeople who had supplied the knight with arms. In a fit of anger the dragon lashed out with his tail, killing many town residents.

The townspeople were enraged. They took up arms beside the knight. Together, they surrounded the dragon and, after a pitched and bloody skirmish, slew their enemy.

"There was much exuberance among the townspeople. Celebration went on for weeks. There was singing, dancing and drinking. The people claimed a great victory, sharing little credit with the tattered knight who had lead them into the final battle. Great tales were told of the heroism shown by various town residents. Little mention of the knight's contribution. And there was no discussion of compensating the impoverished knight.

"In a speech to the townspeople the knight had some back- handed praise for his allies: `I never doubted your courage as victory bells chimed, so don't curse me for wishing it were all better timed.'

"With that the knight retired from the revelry. Months later he died in obscurity.

"In the heat of battle and the jubilation of triumph, however, everyone forgot about the princess. For decades the people could hear her chains rattling through the night air. If one listened carefully--very carefully--on quiet nights they could hear her cry: `SVAH-BOH-OH-OH-OH-OH-DAH. SVAH-BOH-OH-OH- OH-OH-DAH. SVAH-BOH-OH-OH-OH-OH-DAH'."

Jim rolled his eyes in gratitude at the completion of the fable.

"Grandpa," he complained, "you've been telling me that same silly story since I was a kid. I didn't understand it then and I don't understand it now. Why don't you just tell me the moral of the story and let it go at that?"

"Jim, these `silly stories', as you call them, are the legacy of your family. They have been passed on from generation to generation, updated periodically to suit the times. My mother told me these stories, just as her father had told them to her. As for their meaning, that is for you to determine. You give them your own understanding. And pass them on to your daughter, to keep the legacy alive."

"Grandpa, Sarah and I have been divorced for a year now. I don't see Margaret. When and if I do I'm certainly not going to waste our precious time together telling her a bunch of silly fables. Who do you think I am, Aesop? And besides, what if Margaret asks me what these stories all mean? I'll look like a moron!"

"Jim," responded Grandpa McGuire, "I don't mind looking like a moron telling you these stories."

Jim tried to defuse the situation with an apology. He hadn't meant to imply that his grandfather looked foolish. He simply didn't agree with the value of this "legacy" to his daughter. After all, Sarah and Margaret had their own lives now. Separate from Jim and his grandfather. They'd even changed their names back to Flynn, Sarah's maiden name.

Jim's divorce was a sore subject between the two men. Jason McGuire had done everything in his power to keep the couple together. Sarah and he had always gotten along well. He had always cherished his granddaughter and treated her like a precious china doll. In the final months of the marriage he had pleaded with the couple to give it one more chance. Unfortunately, this begging was counterproductive. Jim blamed Sarah for "forcing" Grandpa McGuire to humiliate himself. Sarah felt caught between the two McGuire men.

Jim remembered the long nights that his grandfather had spent playing marriage counsellor during this time. Often the old man would take Jim aside and expound about the differences between men and women in general.

"You know, Jim, men and women approach things from very different perspectives. Men start with the presumption that characteristics are permanent while relationships are temporary. We don't say that such-and-such a person is acting like a jackass. We say that the person is a jackass. Permanent trait. But relationships? Well, friends come and friends go. And the idea that people fall out of love seems to be a uniquely male concept.

"It's been my experience that women look at things differently. They start with the presumption that characteristics are temporary, relationships permanent. They are much quicker to forgive misbehaviour, saying that such-and-such a person is merely `in a bad mood'. Very temporary. Maybe this is why women stay with abusive husbands. They presume that the behaviour is temporary and hope--however forlorn this hope may be--that it will improve. But relationships, especially ones involving love, are permanent. To a woman love is forever. Falling out of love makes little sense to them. They figure that if you fall out of love you were never in love in the first place. Love is forever. If it doesn't last, it wasn't love.

"For men, love is a room with only one door. We move in and out of it with complete freedom. But one thing is worth noting: with only one door a man must exit the same way he entered. We usually aren't even aware of what made us fall in love. It may be something obvious: her personality, her sense of humour, maybe even her good looks. More often, though, it's something very subtle. So subtle we don't even know what it is. Maybe it's the way she tilts her head or the way she walks. Maybe her perfume reminds us of some pleasant moment in our childhood.

"But the perfume wears off. Mannerisms change. Over time, our perception changes, too. We begin to view their pride as arrogance. Their appreciation of our gifts becomes greed. The idealism that once drew us to them now seems to manifest itself in nagging. So even when women don't change our view of them does.

"We see them as perfect madonnas. Angels. And we expect them to remain perfect. If they change we feel betrayed. Cheated. It's as if we feel that they've broken some unspoken contract.

"For women, love is a room with no doors or windows. No one knows how they got there and no one dreams of a way out. It is a much slower and more arduous process, a woman falling in love. What is really tragic is that often the man has already fallen out of love by the time his partner has fallen in love. Ironic, isn't it? And there is another tragic irony: while the man hopes that his wife never changes, the woman often hopes to refine her husband. Smooth out some of the rough edges. Remember their premise: characteristics are temporary. Malleable. But men don't change. Men see change as a sign of weakness. An admission that their old self was flawed and in need of improvement. Meanwhile, the woman changes from moment to moment. Day to day. Year to year, as she matures. So both sides approach the other with unrealistic expectations."

Jim squirmed as he listened to this pedantic preamble.

"But what does this have to do with Sarah and me?"

"You know, we men are always ready to admit that we don't understand women. `Women!' we say, `Who can figger 'em?' Women, on the other hand, understand us too quickly. `Men are only interested in one thing', they say. End of discussion. In fact, women don't seem to understand us any better than we understand them. This isn't surprising. We don't talk much. Especially about the way we feel. A woman asks `How do you feel about such-and-such?' Men ask `So what do you think?' Women would have a very difficult time imagining what it would be like if feelings were a taboo subject. How would they test their friendships? How would they test intimacy? Over the centuries we men have devised very subtle ways of determining these things. We men don't like public displays of affection--especially towards other men. So how do we know who our friends are? Women talk about their feelings with their friends; the more intimate the discussion, the more intimate their friendship. Easy. Direct. Not so with men. We have a much more complicated formula. We start by swearing."

"Swearing?" asked Jim incredulously.

"Yeah. Cursing. Two men meeting each other for the first time do not use foul language. As they develop a friendship the language becomes more colourful. That's their first test. The second is teasing. Insults. We have a certain `smile-when-you- say-that' mechanism. We insult our friends. If they take offence they fail the test. But if they're our friends they laugh, punch us playfully on the shoulder and tell us to `fuck off'. All very structured. Ritualized. Very predictable.

"You know, women think that men sit around locker rooms all the time, talking about sex. Men never talk about sex. We may joke about it. Brag about it. Lie about it. We never talk about it."

Grandpa was quiet for a moment. Jim imagined that he was missing some cue. Was Jim supposed to say something here? He remained quiet.

"Women don't make very good men," continued the old man, taking up the slack in the conversation. "They cry. We figure that men who cry are wimps. Women don't tend to like watching sports. And they don't reduce things down to a sport. Work, politics, sex, money; all games to us. There's rules, risks, rewards, strategies. It makes our lives fun. Keeps us occupied."

Jim was taken aback. Had his grandfather actually used the word "wimps"?

"Of course, men don't make very good women, either. Some women consider us `amateur human beings'. We're all amateurs, really. Men and women. At getting along with each other, I mean.

"Women and men have different speech patterns. You know, women and men both value efficiency in speech but they define efficiency differently. To women, efficient speech involves packing all their feelings and thoughts into a conversation, leaving nothing out. Women occupy a conversation, like an invading army. We men speak like hit-and-run guerrillas. Be concise. Say it as briefly as possible, then shut up. Say what you know, forget how you feel. That's our idea of efficiency. And maybe that's why the two genders are so often `out of sync' with each other.

"Women use different words than we do. A whole different vocabulary. Words like `communicate', `relationship' and `commitment'. Commitment. Makes falling in love sound like being confined to an asylum. No wonder they call marriage an `institution'!"

Jim snickered. Then a thought struck him: if Sarah and Margaret moved away he'd never have a chance to have such a conversation with his daughter. Jim didn't chuckle for long.

"Ever notice how women always want to talk about their relationship? Sort of like a State of the Union address. We men don't understand this. After all, nothing much has changed. What's there to discuss? Ever watch that old TV show, `The Love Boat'? Ha! If love really were a boat women would dry dock it every half hour for inspection. Men would sail it until it sank!"

Jim didn't laugh. He was still thinking about Margaret.

"I remember talking to a young actress. Very pretty girl. Said she didn't go out much, though. Said that men only liked her for her body. Sex. I told her to think of the future; in another twenty years the men might not even want her for that!"

"I'm sorry, you lost me."

"I didn't mean to be cruel. I said I was sure that there were many unattractive women who would envy her. I told her that in order to be liked for more than her looks she would have to present more to the world. And another thing: why was she so focused on what her boyfriends wanted? What did she want? And what was staying home alone going to accomplish?"

"Did this advice help her?" asked Jim.

"I like to think so," answered Jason.

"What happened to her?"

"She married a very lucky man and gave birth to a beautiful daughter," explained the old man as he smiled and ran his hand across Jim's head. "And the daughter presented them with a wonderful grandson."

The talk had its desired effect. Sarah and Jim reconciled their differences. For a month or so the two had a "second honeymoon". They talked like strangers. They played like children. And made love like tigers, desperate for a moment's contact, always knowing how short the mating season might be.

The spell didn't last. The second wind died out. Jim retired to his den and wrote his second novel. One day he emerged to find Sarah and Margaret gone. No note, no fight, no explanation. Two weeks later a phone call from Sarah in New York City. Would he send her the rest of her clothes? Sure. Thanks. Well, take care of yourself, Jim. Bye, Sarah. Call me if you need anything.

Jim and his grandfather never discussed the marriage again. In fact, the two men didn't discuss much of anything any more. Grandpa McGuire entertained his guests. Jim stayed in his den, reading books for Stork and watching television. The only time the two men spoke was when Jim drove his grandfather somewhere. Occasionally the old man would go on what he called "an adventure". Jim would have to drive him east to the capital or some other city in order to fight for one cause or another.

Jim remembered the trip to Chicago. A group of Neo-Nazis were petitioning the city for a permit to march through Skokie--a largely Jewish community. Grandpa had pulled some strings in order to address the city subcommittee that was considering the application.

"Neo-Nazis!" laughed the old man. "As if there were anything new about Nazism!"

Jim remained silent as he swung the truck onto the Interstate. With four lanes and a speed limit of 65 miles per hour the driving would be much easier now.

"I know what you're thinking, Jim," stated Jason.

"Oh? And what is that?"

"You're wondering why we're driving 800 miles just to argue this silly issue with a bunch of city slickers. Why don't we just let these people sort this out for themselves? That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

"Something like that," conceded Jim.

"And you know what? You're right! It is silly. It's silly that in this day and age we still have Nazis. It's silly that we're actually debating this issue. You're absolutely right."

Jim looked over at his grandfather. Should he turn the truck around and head back home?

"I can't believe that in this day and age we're actually arguing about this," repeated the septuagenarian.

Jim remained quiet, waiting for Grandpa to tell him to turn the truck around. But Grandpa simply giggled.

"Listen!" said the elder McGuire, "Can you hear them? Can you hear them, Jim?"

"Hear who?"

"Our descendants," Jason explained. "Our descendants. I can hear them laughing at us."

Jim rolled his eyes. Was Grandpa off on another one of his diatribes? Better cut him off at the pass.

"Gramps, you know there will be a lot of people there to make the same argument you're planning to make. Some of your friends are going. Cohen. Stevens. Sinclair and Markham too, I think. All of them are going to argue against the permit. Maybe we won't be needed..."

Jason's head snapped back. His eyes bulged out as he looked at his grandson.

"Jim," he said in a shocked whisper, "you don't think I'm going to argue against the permit, do you?"

The two men rented a motel just off the I-94. It was one of those cheap fleabags with an air conditioner that sounded like a jet engine. Turn off the air conditioner and the ninety degree heat strikes you like a blow dryer. Jim turned on the unit and recoiled at the noise.

"Jesus!" he screamed as he turned it off, "Hiroshima was quieter!"

"And cooler," added Grandpa McGuire.

Jim crawled into his bed and muttered about sleeping in hell. Grandpa turned the air conditioner back on, walked over to Jim and handed him a pair of ear plugs.

"I've slept in these places before," he explained.

When Jim woke up he found his grandfather showered, shaved and dressed in the old man's favourite tuxedo. Black slacks. White shirt. Black shoes. Grey socks. But did he have to wear that insufferable pink bow tie?

"I'm sorry, Jim. Did my singing in the shower wake you?"

"No. It was the glare off that damned bow tie of yours."

Jim hoisted himself up and groped his way to the bathroom. Not thinking clearly yet, Jim stood under the nozzle while he turned on the shower.

"Suffering snailshit!" he bellowed as he jumped out of the stall. "Did you use up all the hot water?"

"No," shouted his grandfather, "they've labelled the taps wrong."

"Figgers."

Jim re-entered the stall, adjusted the taps and stood under the downpour. At least water pressure wasn't a problem; water flew out of the showerhead like a shotgun blast. Jim was staggered by the force of it.

"Christ!" he complained, "Now I know how Bonnie and Clyde must've felt."

Jim's greatest tribulation was ahead of him. He still hadn't braved the motel's breakfast diner.

"Couldn't we go to the Golden Arches?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question. Grandpa wouldn't hear of it. Something about recycling efforts. Too much styrofoam. And the food didn't taste much different from the containers, the old man argued.

"And this garbage is better?" asked Jim, staring down at his plate. "This is used food. Looks like a prop from `The Exorcist'."

"Think of it as a challenge, Jim."

Jim tried the coffee.

"Oh fuck!" he moaned. "They had better stuff to drink at Jonestown!"

Jason ate his breakfast with resignation. And a lot of catsup. Jim balked, glaring down at the meal in front of him.

"This reminds me," he said, looking up at his grandfather, "did we remember to flush the toilet in our room?"

The subcommittee met in a small auditorium at City Hall. Obviously, the officials had not anticipated that so many concerned citizens and reporters would jam into this room for these hearings. There were enough people packed into it to film a deodorant commercial. Rabbis and Skokie residents lined up against skinheads and uniformed Neo-Nazis. The American Civil Liberties Union had representatives present. Libertarians and Holocaust survivors spoke eloquently for both sides. Neo-Nazis and frightened locals spoke much less eloquently for and against the granting of the permit. Then it was Jason McGuire's turn.

Jim watched as his grandfather adjusted his tie and buttoned up his tuxedo coat. The senior McGuire cleared his throat as he stepped up to the microphone. Jim remembered the speech verbatim.

"I'd like to thank the committee members for giving me this opportunity to speak. This is a very serious issue which we are considering. Few of us here agree with what the petitioners stand for. I certainly don't. But what do we lose if we deny them their right to speak? Do we not lose our own respect for that right? Will we redefine free speech to include only those thoughts that we happen to agree with? Only those thoughts that don't offend us? I wonder if our forefathers arguing for democracy didn't offend the established order of their time. I wonder if abolitionists didn't offend. I wonder if suffragettes didn't offend. I wonder if certain religious figures didn't offend. Didn't Galileo offend?"

Jason McGuire was beginning to lose some of his audience. People began to shift in their chairs. They'd heard this type of posturing before. The background noise level in the room rose.

"What would we hope to accomplish by denying these radicals the right to express themselves? Are we naive enough to think they will go away? Fade into the woodwork? Or should we fear that, denied the ability to speak their views, they may see no alternative but to act upon them?"

Reporters sat uncomfortably, staring blankly into space. Committee members shuffled their papers. People in the audience turned to each other and began talking. Jason saw this and took quick action, shifting gears without warning.

"I'm afraid of snakes," said the old man, opening his jacket as he spoke.

Snakes? What was this about snakes? Did he say something about snakes? The audience hushed immediately. What was this foolish old man prattling about?

"But I'm not quite so afraid of snakes when I know where they are," continued the man in the tux.

Yes, he was talking about snakes. The audience reacted like sharks sensing blood, anxious to see someone humiliate himself in public. Quiet! Let me hear this idiot speak!

"That is why most poisonous snakes on this continent have rattles--to warn us of their whereabouts. We can cut off their tails to stop the noise. But a rattlesnake without a tail is still a rattler, no less poisonous. And it won't be inclined to go away. The only difference is that now we won't know where the danger is. We may even trick ourselves into thinking that it no longer exists."

Without another word Grandpa McGuire left the room. The audience sat stunned for a moment. Then sporadic clapping broke out, starting with some of the ACLU members. Onlookers cheered. Opponents of the permit sat silent. Many of the petitioners--too stupid to understand that they'd been insulted--stomped their feet in excited approval.

Jim caught up with his grandfather in the truck.

"Great speech, Gramps," he congratulated. "The ending was a bit abrupt, but that's your style. You were never big on goodbyes."

The same was true when the old one died. He uttered no final words. He wrote no autobiography. He did not even leave a Last Will and Testament.

He was never big on goodbyes.

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