got a business to run.”
“Moral Excuse #5.” There was simply no justification for the desires of one person, let alone the desire of one person for money, to be imposed on everyone. Let alone granted immunity from morality.
“So?” Spike was relentless. “That gives him the right to kill people?”
“Look, I don’t mean no harm!”
“Moral Excuse #6,” Jane said. “The one favoured by people too stupid or lazy to consider the consequences of their behaviour.”
“What did you think would happen,” Spike screamed, “when you put a firecracker into a dog’s mouth—and then lit it?”
Jane turned to stare at her, eyes wide.
“Some kids—boys—male kids—did that,” she explained, quietly. “Saw a picture of the poor thing on YouTube.”
They were both silent. What the hell is wrong with them?
The one standing before them had had enough. There’s only so much self-examination a man can take. Only so much blame. So he drove off. That’s why men love cars so much.
“Quite apart from”—Jane wasn’t done, even though they were back in the car and on the road again—“there are enough alternative venues for advertising—radio, tv, newspapers, magazines, websites, malls. And every single one of them is preferable to the use of public space because one can choose, at least to some degree, whether or not to be a target.
“Advertising in public space is especially reprehensible when that public space is otherwise beautiful.” They passed an impossibly ugly billboard sign smack in the middle of a long stretch of forest. Possibly the only remaining such stretch within fifty kilometres of Montreal.
“Would those of us who can hear allow a deaf person to make a clamour with cymbals all day long?”
“We would not.” Spike thought she’d get a word in.
“Then why do those of us who can appreciate beauty allow aesthetically impaired CEOs to do just that?”
“You know”—Jane still wasn’t done—“the internet could make advertising totally unnecessary. Whenever you want to buy something, you could just look it up in a complete directory with a really good search engine that could provide a shortlist based on your preferences. The shortlist would have product information and customer reviews.
“Then instead of spending $500 billion to make their products look good, companies could spend the $500 billion to make good products. And to clean up their messes.”
“Like that’s what they’d do with it,” Spike muttered. Mostly to herself.
“Did you know,” Spike added a moment later, “that drug companies spend more on marketing than on research and development?”
Jane looked over, horrified, but said nothing.
“Twice as much more.”
Five kilometres later, Jane was revisiting the scene of the crime. “And you know, there’s something objectionable about a perfectly-capable-of-working adult being ‘kept’ by another adult. It seems to me the epitome of laziness and immaturity to be supported by someone else, to have someone else pay your way through life.”
“Worse,” Spike agreed and went one further, “we subsidize their keep. Typically, if a couple files their income tax jointly, they pay less than if they filed separately.”
“Yeah, but that goes for same-sex couples too.”
“True, but initially …”
“Yeah … Why does our government reward men for keeping a woman? Encourage them to do so? Oh.” She knew very well why. Sigh.
“Not just the government. It’s cheaper to add your wife to your car insurance as a second driver than for her to buy her own policy.”
“Or for a woman to add her husband— But again, yeah, initially …”
“And what that means,” Spike continued, “is that the rest of us pick up the slack. We have to pay extra income tax so what’s-his-name’s wife can pay less. We also subsidize her discounted car insurance. Her discounted club membership. Should either of us ever belong to the same club. If he wants to pay her way, fine, but her way should cost the same as ours. It’s not like she’s making some huge contribution to society by being married.”
“Yeah!” Jane said with renewed passion, having just thought of something else. “Why should a professor’s wife get health and dental, when she’s not even teaching? Not even one class!” Jane had often taught three classes.With no health or dental.
“So, you’ve got directions to Sophie’s Croissant Café?” They both needed chocolate.
“I do. But first we’re going to the last remaining feminist bookstore in the country.” Almost better than chocolate. Jane gave directions.
“Cool.” Spike looked forward to spending an hour in such a haven. It was so relaxing, to be surrounded by validations rather than challenges. To not be compelled to say something, to do something, about the otherwise ever-present sexism.
“Remember the Montreal massacre?” Jane asked. As they passed the BIENVENUE! sign.
“Of course.”
“I was subbing at a high school at the time. And the next day, all the male teachers at the school vehemently denied that it was a crime of misogyny, a reflection of the so-ordinary-it’s-normal misogyny in our society. Even though the guy had killed only women. And had said—said—that women were ruining his life. They all insisted that what he did was symptomatic of mental illness. ‘Yes!’ I agreed. But they didn’t get it.”
Spike got it. She just stared out the window.
They took the next exit, found the last remaining feminist bookstore in the country, and were astounded to discover that the place was so busy, they could barely get inside the door, let alone browse the shelves. They’d thought feminism was dead. Morphed into something recognizable only as Deluded Princessism.
“Hey, you’re here for the SlutWalk?” a cheerful young woman greeted them.
Oh. That explained it.
“No,” Jane replied. “We didn’t know there was a SlutWalk. Today. Here. We’re just on our way through.”
“Oh, you should hang around then. The speeches are about to begin, and then we’re walking through downtown, along Rue Sainte-Catherine.”
Before she’d even finished the sentence, Spike had located, and confiscated, a bullhorn. Jane grinned. And reached into her pocket. They made their way back outside and around to the small empty lot behind the store, where a platform had been set up.
“… and we can dress however we want!” The speeches had apparently already begun. “We have the power! To choose! We’re proud to be SLUTS!”
Cheers rose from the gathered crowd, most of whom were, indeed, dressed as sluts. That is to say, they wore their boobs and butts on the outside, accentuated with bustiers, fishnets, and stilettos.
Oh dear. Jane stumbled, horrified