Why I Inhabit Venus

868 words. Letter to the editor.

Note: This post is a continuation of this series of letters. It has a bolted-on Thanksgiving theme because that is the season when I wrote it and tried to get it published. The editor of one paper put it into the “potential” stack but it was edged out by dueling letters regarding Critical Race Theory and a bunch of bush-wah about giving sincere thanks etc. etc. Go figure.

During my months alone here on Venus, I have had much “me time” in which to reflect on my past. Reflections can sometimes cause confusion (e.g. ever try to read a book that you held up to the mirror? I have—I don’t recommend it). But when reflection involves looking not at the written word but your own actions, clarity sometimes results. My own personal reflections have led me to identify the source of my current solitary state: Cary Grant.

Some would say that my solitude resulted from choosing to ride a rocket to another planet, but that is a pat analysis that does not root out the…er…root causes. In my case the root cause was Cary Grant, but I was led to him (or his cinematic persona) by a life coach who I shall not name here. Some of you may know him. He swaggers around town wearing a cowboy hat and an elaborately embroidered denim jacket. He is expert in the manly art of shooting sporting clays. His botoxed face allows him to present a mask of equanimity at all times. If your life is wholly in order you may find him an odd model, but at the time I engaged his services I was wealthy but alone, and therefore quite vulnerable. Why had my material success not also led to a rich personal life including—dare I wish it—love? Perhaps this cool shotgun-savant could help me.

And so I signed up for a six month course (the minimum allowed) of coaching from the confident gentleman. The first session involved a guided study of the films of Cary Grant. I applied myself to the oeuvre of that suave Judy-Judy-Judy-sayer, binge-watching one film after another in chronological order by their theatre release dates. I am analytical by nature, so from the start I compiled a list of Mr. Grant’s defining characteristics: unparalleled grooming (except in Father Goose); tallness; good looks; and impeccably pressed pants. I am tall and (I think) handsome, so I was already halfway to Grant-hood. After watching his last work (a bootleg video of his late-career stage show, “An Evening With Cary Grant” that was very heavy on lascivious anecdotes about Dyan Cannon) I resolved to up my game by going for the missing 50% of Cary Grant traits.

I therefore put my Flowbee Home Haircutting System into mothballs and sought the services of a local spa. I emerged, if I do say so myself, looking quite spiffy. I was 3/4 of the way to matching the charms of Cary Grant. Next up: pressed pants.

If you are like me, you rarely if ever have your pants pressed. I mostly wear jeans and track suits, so I seldom have recourse to the pressing arts. And so I was intrigued to note that quite often in his movies, even when engaged in life-and-death struggles with murderous adversaries, Cary Grant would pause to ring up room service to summon someone to press his pants. Why that, in lieu of eating or finding a better hiding place? Clearly, there was something supremely important about having a sharp crease in one’s trousers. This struck me as risky on two fronts: 1) I thought time was of the essence when fleeing murderers, so how could he take time to wait for pants-pressing; and 2) while the pants are being pressed, if you are not at home you are rendered temporarily pants-less. But who am I to question The Master? Cary Grant always emerges not only not murdered and with his pants on, but also victorious.

And so I set about making frequent pants-pressing a part of my daily routine. At the local coffee shop I would place my usual order, and also whip off my britches and present them to the barista for a quick steaming. I became quite adept at removing my trousers in the blink of an eye (it starts with ripping the belt off with a flourish worthy of a toreador and a whip-crack worthy of Lash LaRue). At the cinema I would say “one, please” referring to a ticket to the next showing, but then (Olé! Snap!) I would also stuff my pants through the little arc cutout in the glass. And so on, from convenience store to grocery store to highway tollbooth.

You know what? Pants pressing has not only become less universally available than it was in Cary Grant’s cinematic world, but the act of politely requesting that service has gone from a sign of sophistication to—apparently—a misdemeanor offense. If you do it too often, it rises to the level of a felony; three strikes and you (and your pants) are out).

And so here I sit on Venus, my pants wrinkled and my wallet emptied by that lying “life coach,” with nothing but time on my hands. But I am not bitter. I enjoy looking out at the blazing hot landscape and also tidying up my coif with the Flowbee (yes, I brought it with me).

I hope that in this season of giving thanks (aka Thanksgiving), you can also find much for which to be thankful, in spite of any mistakes you may have made.

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