The Marital Corporation

Synopsis: Peter and Gordon have reached a tentative agreement on a partnership involving the purchase and maintenance of a classic schooner yacht. Gordon sealed his end of the agreement by fucking Marge. Meanwhile, Peter is seeking issues that will garner votes in the gay community. To that end, he is visiting with the editor of the local gay newspaper.

Chapter Six

The heavy metal door was equipped with a peep hole and security buzzer, and faced a wide-angle mirror on the wall across the hall. A ghostly voice echoing hollowly through a wall grill near the buzzer asked Peter his business.

Peter identified himself, and said he had an appointment with Mr. Lansing. He then heard the door lock click. He pulled the door open and walked into a short, narrow hallway lined with boxes. He followed the hall to a waiting room where he was greeted by a young receptionist, who spoke briefly in the intercom, then directed him to the second door on his left. Peter knocked on the door.

"Come in!"

Peter was surprised to find an Edward Asner look-alike sitting behind a desk heaped with disorderly piles of paper, contentedly puffing on a cheap cigar. So much for stereotypes, he thought wryly.

Not bothering to rise, the man behind the desk waved a beefy hand toward a chair facing his desk. "Have a seat," he said magnanimously. He even sounded like Asner. "I'm Barney Lansing. What can I do for you?"

"I'm not sure," Peter said hesitantly. "As I told you when I called, I'm an unknown running for the Republican nomination in the 43rd district. I'm sure this will sound cynical, and I certainly don't mean it that way, but I was hoping to gain some insight into issues of concern to the gay community . . ."

"OK, hold it right there," Mr. Lansing said, holding his hand up again, "did you notice that elaborate security setup at the front door? Do you think we spent $5,000 on that door just for the hell of it?" He shook his head.

"I'll tell you what concerns me. I'm scared shitless that some wildeyed Christian nut case will shoot up an abortion clinic and then decide to rid the world of its queers. That's why we have that door out there. Can you solve that problem for us?"

"I hadn't realized it was that bad," Peter said somewhat defensively.

"Bad? Shit, that's just the beginning of the story." He paused, looking at Peter through weary eyes. "I checked you out, Baylis. I still don't know much about you, other than you seem unnaturally honest to be a successful politician. But I do know you got some pretty good friends down in Olympia.

"I guess some of the timber guys were sort of pissed off though, weren't they? That spotted owl sure is a mean little fucker." Lansing sat quietly for a moment. Peter suddenly realized the man was silently laughing. "What really happened?" he asked.

Peter quickly explained that he hadn't been able to find any legal justification for ignoring the Endangered Species Act's requirement for owl protection by surrendering a large bloc of first growth school timber in Jefferson County to the Pan-Pacific Lumber company just because the President had made concessions to them in the national forest next door.

Pan-Pacific had argued that unless they had access to the state timber, they couldn't economically harvest the logs in the federal area. "That's when they decided to hire a more creative lawyer to head up the environmental protection section in the AG's office, and I went into private practice," Peter concluded.

"The world's a bitch, and then we die." The man even talked like the characters Asner often played.

"However, I do have an idea that will attract gay support. If your religious scruples will allow it, you might see what could be done about same-sex marriages."

"Yeah, I've read about that," Peter said. "I know Vermont has taken the lead and I understand there's an equal protection case in the courts in Hawaii on that issue right now. I've read that some of the other, more conservative states like Utah and Arizona, are trying to repeal the Full Faith and Credit clause in the Constitution to prevent this practice from spreading. Do I have it about right?"

"In a nutshell," Lansing said.

"I watched a debate about this on PBS the other evening," Peter said. "The proponent was head of a lesbian organization, while the opposing argument was made by a conservative Christian preacher. To my uninformed ear, they seemed to be talking about entirely different issues. The preacher, for instance, had much to say about sacred traditions, sacraments, and family values. The woman, on the other hand, stressed the inadequacy of current legal structures; pragmatic things like Social Security survivor's benefits, health insurance, that sort of thing. Can you sort this out?"

"Sure. The preacher was frightening his flock by telling them that the bad people were trying to steal stuff they think is very important, and reassuring them that the bad guys wouldn't get away with it. Especially if they stick with the Republicans." Lansing grinned unexpectedly at Peter. "I couldn't resist that," he added.

Peter blinked. "I haven't been a Republican very long," he said defensively.

"I wondered about that," Lansing said.

"It's easy enough to understand," Peter said. "There aren't many law partnerships open to people with a spotted owl in their resumes, and my firm made me do it as sort of a penance, I suppose."

"I see. Well, the lady tried to trump the Christian argument by posing as a secularist. Maybe she is, but the argument she used was equally phoney. The proportion of nonbelievers may be slightly higher in the gay and lesbian communities than in the population as a whole, but faith is faith no matter what your sexual orientation. Gays fall in love and, in my judgment, have as powerful a claim on the religious traditions of their particular faith as anyone."

"Philosophically, I agree," Peter said. "However, it's an easy call for me because I'm an atheist. Do you think it will happen in our lifetime?"

Lansing sighed, and spread his hands on his desk. "Yes, I think so," he said, "but I'm afraid it's going to cost us a terrible price. You'll think me nuts when you hear this, but quite frankly, I think gays and lesbians are being demonized by the Christian Coalition exactly as Hitler demonized Jews sixty years ago.

"The Tofflers are at least partly right. Society is undergoing a change as profound as any in human history. Of course, the nonsense Bennett and other two-bit drugstore philosophers are spouting about broken moral compasses, is so wrong it's just plain silly.

"I'm as good an American as anyone, but I'm also a realist, and I can tell you flat out, this country has never been guided by anything remotely resembling a moral compass. On the contrary. Our history is a continuous one of the strong preying on the weak. Four hundred years of slavery; the genocide of our native Americans; Jim Crow lynchings; the carefree rearrangement of national borders in Central America by United Fruit aided by the US Marine Corps; the Pullman strikes; that's the history of this great Republic. Where was Bennett's moral compass when all that was going on?"

Lansing's eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped as he added, "What's really got me scared, not only for the gay community but for all minorities, is that hate groups, fundamentalist Christians, law enforcement officials, and a number of politicians at all levels of government seem to have joined hands to defend the Faith against anyone who looks, thinks or acts differently."

He paused, then continued more slowly. "Sometimes I think that despite our technological gains over the past two or three centuries, we haven't learned a goddamn thing." He smiled sadly and shrugged his shoulders. "The dinosaurs lasted 250 million years or so. Warm blooded mammals have been around for 175 million years, but man didn't show up until quite recently. The way we're going at present, Homo sapiens may prove to be the shortest lived major species in the history of the world. If we don't breed ourselves into extinction, our natural meanness will do us in." Lansing paused, and gave his head a brief shake.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, "but when I have a fresh audience, something inside my head pushes the editorial button. It's a bad habit."

"But it brings me back to the purpose of my visit," Peter said. "I know I'll need a substantial part of the gay vote to win the primary election. At the same time, of course, I can't afford to alienate the moderate center." He paused as an idea began taking shape in his mind.

"We were talking a few minutes ago about same-sex marriages," he said. His voice took on a mocking tone as he added, "I agree that everyone should have equal access to the rights and privileges of their particular faith. But I also think this world should be a wonderfully perfect place with no hungry children, genocide, or human rights abuses. But it isn't."

Lansing smiled at Peter's whimsy.

"Since it is such an imperfect place, however, do you think gay lovers would accept a secular marriage if we used a different name for it? Is half a loaf better than none? Or is the principle involved so inviolate that a suggestion like that would be met with antagonism?"

"I don't know," Lansing said, rubbing his hand over his face. "What did you have in mind?"

The truth was, Peter had nothing in mind, so he listened carefully as he heard himself say, "First, let me set the stage. It probably comes as no surprise when I tell you that America is different from any other place on earth for three reasons."

"What's that?"

"Americans are notoriously impatient, always in a hurry, and have the attention span of five year-olds. Yet our culture, technology and wealth are the envy of the world. How do we do it? We form committees.

"A corporation is nothing more than a permanent committee. Corporations are lovely fictions that exist only because we think they exist. Physically, they amount to no more than a short stack of legalistic documents. Yet in most cases, they have what the courts call `jural personality.' That is, they can own things and they have the same right to enter into legal arrangements and sue and be sued as you and I. Better than us, they can even exist into perpetuity.

"I'm suggesting that we extend this wonderful invention to embrace a variety of permanent social as well as economic arrangements. Obviously, this idea is very much a work in progress," Peter added, marvelling privately at his inspired loquacity as the glib phrases continued rolling out of his mouth without a moment's conscious effort or thought.

"I'm proposing legislation that would confer the same legal status on personal relationships that is already conferred on economic relationships. I'm thinking of introducing a concept I call the `family or marital corporation', which would bestow on all partners to such an arrangement the rights, duties, privileges and status that persons bound together by present day marriage laws now enjoy."

"That's an interesting idea," Lansing said. "Did you mean when you said, `all partners' that there could be more than two people in such an arrangement?"

Peter nodded. "Why not? I'd like to restore multigenerational families. Many faiths already permit multiple wives, for example. I think strong familial bonds may be the best -- and perhaps only -- answer to the harsh social realities we anticipate in the next century."

Lansing's bushy eyebrows signaled his approval. "That's an intriguing idea," Lansing said, "but you'll never get an end run like that past Ralph Reed and his kind."

"Probably not," Peter said agreeably, "but who knows? In any case, we'll never know if we don't try."

Lansing sat silently for a moment, lost in thought. Then he wrote a name and after consulting his Rolodex, scribbled a telephone number on a note pad. He tore the sheet off, and handed it to Peter. "Give this guy a call. Tell 'em Barney Lansing sent you. He might have an idea or two. Meanwhile, I'll see if I can find out whether this idea of yours has a hope of flying."

Peter knew he was being dismissed. He stood, and somewhat awkwardly, since Lansing neither stood nor offered his hand, turned and left the room. The lad at the desk smiled sympathetically as he passed on his way out. The steel door opened smoothly, and closed behind him with a heavy, solid clunk.

It was almost noon, but Peter decided to forego lunch. Instead, he hurried back to the office. If he was to take the next day off, he had much work to get off his desk.

By day's end, his out-box was piled high with critical matters. Miss Perkins would be busy tomorrow.

The following morning, the alarm buzzer pulled him out of a deep sleep at five o'clock. At first forgetting that it was Kenny's night to entertain Marge, he quickly slapped his hand over the off button to avoid waking her, and slipped out of bed in the dark. Belatedly realizing she wasn't in the room, and feeling slightly silly, he snapped on the overhead light, and grabbed clean underwear on his way to the shower. He was shaved, showered and dressed by 5:30. He decided against taking time for coffee; he had a 30 mile drive ahead of him and would be fortunate to beat the early rush hour.

He drove down the hill to I-5. The lanes were already filling with early incoming traffic. He congratulated himself for having allowed an hour to reach the airport. He needed every minute of it.

He arrived at the customer service counter at seven. After paying for his ticket, he bought a morning paper from a nearby vending machine, he hurried past the airport screeners to his gate just in time to hear his flight being called.

The whole day was like that. The flight to San Francisco was uneventful. He arrived at 10:45, and by 11:30, was in a rental Nissan heading north through San Francisco to the Golden Gate bridge as fast as he dared.

Sausalito is only a few miles north of the bridge, but it is a sleepy resort town with slow traffic, and it was after noon before he reached a muddy driveway under a faded and weathered sign announcing Ernie's Boat Yard.

As soon as he parked the car next to an old pickup truck, he saw schooner masts rising above a rusty galvanized shed. He followed a rough path around the shed, and there, on the face of the pier, like a swan among crows, was Dancing Lady. He was no expert on Peterson's designs, but even a novice like Gordon would have recognized her inherent quality.

Peter felt strangely like a kid on his first date. He had no idea what to expect, but he was desperately hoping not to be disappointed. As he walked toward the big schooner, he first admired the curve of her sheer strake which, to the expert eye, could reveal much about a boat's design and her present condition.

Then he studied her rig. He smiled when he realized she was rigged as a topsail schooner. He knew Gordon would be excited about that authentic detail.

Her masts carried a moderate rake. Her lower standing rigging was worn in places, and appeared to be tarred. Instinctively, he began searching for flaws. Her topside paint was not fresh, but that didn't matter because he was sure Gordon would want to change her traditional dark green color to a lighter hue. Her seams seemed full and tight. Her brightwork and spars didn't sparkle, but the varnish was respectably clear and reasonably uniform in color. The ends of her running rigging were poorly coiled and hung haphazardly from belaying pins. A shirt hung limply from a makeshift clothesline strung from her foremast to her inner headstay; a sure sign this was a live aboard boat.

Peter noticed her chafed dock lines. Nevertheless, he felt enormously relieved and vindicated. Despite her minor flaws, she appeared to be in better shape than he had expected. He hailed her. "Hello, Dancing Lady! Anybody on board?"

A head topped with long, straw colored hair slowly emerged from the companionway hatch. A pair of bright blue eyes stared at Peter a full minute, studying his boat shoes, worn khaki slacks, and his knit shirt before reaching his face. "You the guy that called from Seattle?"

Peter was surprised. Not until she spoke was Peter aware that the person standing in the companionway was a woman. "I'm the one," Peter cheerfully replied. It was his turn to stare. He saw a tall woman of indeterminate age, barefoot, and dressed in a baggy gray sweat suit. She climbed out of the cockpit and stepped forward, offering her hand, saying, "I'm Martha Cole. I live here with Hal. Come on aboard. I don't bite." As she smiled, Peter realized that she had once been a beautiful woman, and for a moment he thought he recognized her.

Peter stepped aboard and accepted her hand. However, his close attention was focused on the boat instead of the woman. He deliberately stepped on the worn cap rail and was pleased to note that the boat was well ballasted; she never felt his weight.

The woman watched him with obvious amusement. "I guess you must be serious, flying all this way down here just to take a look." "Hello, Martha," Peter said, while shaking her hand, "I'm Pete Baylis. Yes, I'm always serious when I get a chance to look at a Murray Peterson coaster." Peter wasn't surprised that her hand was heavily callused, people living aboard often develop calluses. He was surprised by her firm grip.

"What would you like to see first?"

Peter noticed another face peering up from the shadowy interior, and thought it might be wise give them a chance to tidy things up down below. "Let's start with her rig and the deck."

Martha waved her hand. "Be my guest," she said. She returned to the cockpit and made herself comfortable, lounging in a pile of boat cushions. As she turned, her sweat shirt tightened briefly across her chest, and Peter automatically noted that she seemed well endowed.

He spent an hour examining the masts, shrouds and stays, the turnbuckles, chain plates, and the running rigging. The blocks were worn, and some of the lines were seriously chafed, but he didn't see anything in need of immediate repair. The ratlines bore his weight well, the shrouds were well set up and reasonably snug.

Her deck was ship laid; that is, her deck seams ran straight fore and aft instead of following the curved contour of her hull as is customary in the more delicate world of yacht construction. Peter made a mental note to look down below for signs of leakage. The joint between the coach roof and the deck seemed tight. The masts were fitted with suitable canvas boots to prevent water from entering the hull.

Then he turned his attention to her deck fittings and furniture. The anchor windlass had obviously seen better days, and there was a good deal of rust on the chain, which obviously needed to be regalvanized. Her anchors were old fashioned fishermen's stock anchors. The lighter of the two was only a lunch hook. She needed more ground tackle.

Peter hopped down into the cockpit. "She looks good so far," he said. "What kind of power plant does she have?"

"Perkins 4-108."

That was not good news. Perkins builds a good little engine, but a 4-108 was too small for a boat this size. "Does she have a full suit of sails?"

More bad news. "I'm not sure. You'll have to ask Hal when he comes back. I've never opened her sail bags. They're all piled in the back cabin."

"OK," Peter said, "If you don't mind, let's see her accommodations."

The two ducked below. A slender young woman wearing an apron was standing in the galley, putting dishes away. Martha said, "Sammy, I'd like you to meet Mr. Baylis." Sammy shyly nodded in Peter's general direction. Then muttered something about getting out of their way, and hurried on deck. "She's my daughter," Martha said. "She's very shy, as you can see."

Instead of the modern trend toward many small cabins, Flying Lady was fitted very simply with a large forward cabin, a main saloon, and a small after cabin that contained a double bunk, resulting in a compartment that was almost wall to wall mattress.