Life in the Middle

Middle Ground…a sterile no-mans-land littered with skeletons of past inadvisable skirmishes, a seething DMZ that exists between genders, both sides bulging with WMD’s. Eyeballs of suspicion peer cautiously across the uncompromised wasteland, that silent safe haven between outright war and tentative peace. Nothing moves.

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Spouses occupy opposite sides of this vast divide. These reluctant combatants, co-joined forever by the immutable pledge of nuptials, occupy the opposing precepts. They cannot escape the golden chain that’s linked by the impetuous vows of ‘I Do!’ They gaze across this immense chasm of disconnect, waiting for the other to blink. Neither does. Nothing happens. They wait.

Observers ask, “What hath provoked this hostile cleavage, this bad-blood animus?” Why, the unresolved Concept of Cleanliness, an abstraction that ignites smoldering fires of critique rather than edifying entrenched opinions. This insufferable gulf of discord is a battleground of personal preferences. Agreement is impossible.

The opposing warriors stationed here have come as close to the middle as they dare…a Cold War of nerves hangs on a hair over their heads like the sword of Damocles. Anything can happen. Sooner or later it will.

‘Cleanliness’ is a relative term, proportionate to the mind’s perception or in the eye of the beholder. It’s subjectivity on steroids, an aberrant gene, passed down through the ages. The genesis of it remains undocumented.

The first recorded words of the last troglodyte were, “Get out, you dirt bag, take your left-over bones with you.” Perhaps this forms the basis for the standoff. This utterance still reverberates through the heavens. Aliens avoid colonizing the earth for this reason. Cleanliness rules with an iron fist. Who can exist under its domination?

The concept of cleanliness has gone global. Germs lurk everywhere. Bottles of hand sanitizers are ubiquitous: elevators, gyms, grocery stores, offices, automobiles, even in holy places, like Methodist churches. (Yes, despite denominational differences, cleanliness is still akin to Godliness.) Before offering the sacraments of bread and wine, ushers first sanitize their hands. The story of the Last Supper does not reflect this nuance.

Barbeque is a national tradition. It’s a man’s opportunity to show his skill in something other than washing a pickup truck. Grills are as sacrosanct as a woman’s lingerie hanging on a clothesline in the sun. These middle grounds are hands-off for everyone.

A man’s grill is a nasty appliance. If inspected by the Health Department, the entire household would be quarantined. They should be avoided by anyone with a squeamish stomach. Even a casual glance has been known to cause PTSD, traumatize viewers and cause severe mental impairment in tiny children. It’s the principal cause of insanity among women.

Discussions about the cleanliness of a man’s grill are irrelevant, if not downright irreverent. Discerning chefs know the necessity of layered grease buildup. It deserves the Good Housekeeping seal of approval.

A backsplash oozing with recycled oil drippings from last week’s rib roast does wonders for taste. A clean grill would destroy the balance of nature in most backyard cookouts.

My wife asked me to cook some BBQ chicken for July 4th, said friends were coming. A man appreciates respect and being useful to his wife, seeing he has little utility otherwise. I fired up the cooker.

Men are enamored with fire. It’s a man’s idea of cleanliness. Even God uses fire to refine men, one way or another. Flaming grates soon produce white ash, clearly a symbol of the charred carcasses of all germs past. Cremation destroys all evidence.

Soon smoke billowed from the cooker. Tensions loosened, a cease fire was called. Doors opened, windows, too. Fresh air came in, a table with blooming flowers was set in the midst of the DMZ, enemies became friends, enmity ceased, wine made merry. John Philip Sousa played, a party ensued.

Firecracker explosions lit up the night. They reminded us that reunion is possible even in the midst of war. Even the most ardent adherents of any respective orthodoxy can achieve peace, even if only for a moment.

Everyone soon drifted off and we cleaned up the mess. The encyclopedia of good cleanliness was retrieved. I followed the directions with minute detail. Spotless. I received praise, which gave promise that perhaps more fireworks might explode later. Delusions die a hard death.

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Then she asked, “Did you clean your grill?” Instantly the middle ground reverted to a scorched and barren strip of earth. Windows closed, doors slammed shut, shades were drawn. The primal conflict continued unabated.

Oh, the reconciling power of BBQ chicken….

Bud Hearn
July 11, 2014


Illustration courtesy of Leslie Hearn