The Moralist
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"Dangerous" - Dallas Voice HE MORALIST a novel ROD DOWNEY Critical Praise for The Moralist "Straightforward and candid... a story that must be told." —In Touch "An often funny and introspective novel... Downey is keenly aware of the contro- versy lhat his book has caused" —Outward Magazine ''''The Moralist is worth reading because it brings much needed light to a sub- ject generally considered taboo." —Key West Celebrate! ". .this voice needs to be heard in these new dark ages for civil liberties." —Frontiers Newsmagazine "Read it if you dare. The Moralist is brilliant and outrageous. It is about things that matter: art, philosophy, politics, science, religion. Above all it is a love story, and one like no other. But be warned. Your settled notions of right and proper con- duct could be blown sky high by this controversial oeuvre." —Tom O'Carroll, author of Pedophilia: The Radical Case "The Moralist. expresses a radical moral perspective that challenges con- temporary ethical thought in an outrageous and funny way." —Dr. Frits Bernard, author of the novella Costa Brava "The Moralist is a stunning personal and political document. Rod Downey has created an antidote to the poisonous hysteria surrounding inter-generational rela- tionships in today's society." —Gerald Moonen, creator of the photographic collection Image Dei "This daring book should be read by all who are concerned about building a healthier, more compassionate, more richly diverse society." —David Werner, author of the internationally acclaimed community health care handbook Where There Is No Doctor "The Moralist is an impressive statement about a kind of relationship that few have heard of. It should be read for that reason." —Dr. Frans Gieles, educational specialist Readers' Comments ... "This book is so real it is destined to be burned! Looking for a transfor- mative experience? Read this book! . .At last, we have the long awaited 'New Novel' of America! It should be enough to make Albert Camus salivate. Not only is it a book, it is a dare." —Montana "Downey tosses a torch into the fireworks factory. A work of courage but deeply disturbing, The Moralist can change lives, and so should come with a warning label: 'Flammable: Handle with Care.'" —Texas "The sometimes light-hearted treatment of the serious subject matter belies the importance of the underlying fusion of recent real events combined with outra- geously funny fiction." —Australia "Witty and truly refreshing. Rod Downey needs to be congratulated on a fine, fine piece of art." —Pakistan "I have never in my life been so transfixed into another man's mind as when I have been reading this 'novel.' I see myself and many of my friends in these pages. This book makes me rethink much of my life." —Florida THE MORALIST a novel by Rod Downey Copyright © 2004 by Rod Downey All rights are reserved. This book or parts thereof must not be reproduced in any form or medium without the prior written permission of the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ISBN 1 887650-40-7 Online: www.themoralist.com e-mail: themoralist@,prodigy.net FACTOR PRESS Post Office Box 222 Salisbury, MD 21803 To D.B. Dulcissime Totam tibi subdo me! —Carmina Burana Aesthetics is ethics with an ass. "Now you see it, now you don't." ur life was a dream within a dream in this floating world, where our only certainty was fortune, no certainty at all, and our only purpose oto discover beauty. Red found it in a boy named Jonathan Frame. On his fiftieth birthday (Halloween), Red's arrested adolescence collided with his mid-life crisis. He gave himself a special gift: Minoxidil. His father and brothers were bald by the time they were thirty. But despite the "little wigs," as Michael used to call them, that had collected in the shower drain for twenty years, Red had somehow miraculously kept his hair; it had always grown back, until lately. The bald spot on his crown—the Minoxidil box called it a "vertex" with a photo of a man's scalp with a little pink yarmulke—was beginning to show. With his hair still dark, barely a silver thread in sight, his youthful appearance led most to assume he was at least ten years younger than his age, sometimes more, but now he was threatened by baldness and deter- mined to fight the losing battle of age with every weapon at hand. He shared this obsession for a youthful appearance with his boss Faye, the former child movie star turned corporate communications consultant, just behind Red in age but still dressed in the Peter Pan collars and Alice in Wonderland white leggings of a little girl. Her skinny no-hips, no-tits figure completed the look of eternal pre-adolescence. Even the blonde hair pulled back in twin ponytails matched identically the obnoxious New York rich girl she'd played in a Hollywood movie when she was fourteen. Fading framed posters and stills from the film decorated the office. Red and Fay traveled together to the boardrooms of America, where they taught "media skills," how to keep the CEO's foot out of his public mouth. They were "spin doctors." He liked Faye but was uncomfortable sitting next to her on the plane. The relationship was artificial and strained, the balance unequal. The boss held all Rod Downey the cards, and except for their mutual love of youth and an understanding of showbiz, they had little else in common. She was a conservative Republican businesswoman, he an artist and social revolutionary. Luckily, most of the time, they sat in silence. A compulsive workaholic, she tapped away furiously on her laptop, as Red sipped a cocktail and read Gide. Traveling was a great opportunity to catch up on his reading. Canon only—Gide, Genet, Mann, Joyce, Nietzsche, Wilde, James, Dos Passes, Cheever—no airport bookstore junk. There was too much good stuff out there. You could never read it all. Life was too short for junk. The flight attendant told Faye to put away her electronic device, so they had no choice but conversation. She leaned his way and inquired pointedly, "What do you do, Richard, when you're not working? How do you spend your leisure time?" He had been with her agency for almost two years. She took a personal interest in her professional staff, so he was accustomed to personal questions, was surprised she hadn't asked sooner. "I read," he replied indicating the novel in hand, "and I write plays and fiction." "Really? Well, I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. You're our best writer," she flattered him. "Have you ever had anything published?" "A few short stories here and there in literary magazines," he answered cau- tiously omitting the rest of the sentence: "that specialize in boy-love writing." "I'd love to read some of your work." "I should warn you, Faye, it's provocative. I may be very discreet in my business life, but in my art, I don't pull any punches." "Now, I want to read it more than ever," she smiled knowingly, confident it was nothing she couldn't handle. She was mistaken about that. Red dreaded this request and hoped it was insincere, as it usually was. He had a rule: They had to ask twice. Once could be understood as politesse and ignored. Twice required a response, and what would he give her? His stories were all tales of pederasty. That would curl her ponytails. He hoped she would forget to ask again. "Do you ever do any volunteer work?" she asked. "Not really," he confessed. "Between my day job and my writing, there isn't much time." "You know, I encourage everyone in our office to do volunteer work. It's important to be involved in the community, and I'm very flexible if you need The Moralist to take time off during the day," she stated company policy, as the plane touched down. Point taken. A globular orange sun descended to a silken lavender sea. Red and Malcolm admired the view from the cliffs on a breezy afternoon in early spring. The two men stopped and gazed quietly at the vast silent panorama, too high up to hear the crashing surf below, only the persistent Pacific coast wind rushing in their ears. Malcolm was seven years Red's junior, tall, lean and intellectual even to the Ichabod Crane nose between cool dark blue eyes with long fluttering eye- lashes, more like a boy than a forty-three-year-old university professor. Also like Ichabod, Malcolm was a Yankee. They'd met at Harbour University twenty years ago, when Red and Theo were living together and working for the university, and Red was writing his first unpublished novel, Seeing Red, the story of Theo, his playwriting coach, mentor, and madman lover. The book outlasted the relationship. Theo's madness got the better of him. He couldn't keep a job, ran up the phone bill, and medicated his mania with alcohol. Red sought refuge with his grad student buddy, who fell in love with the young writer. They met at the Flaming Peacock, the kind of raging, blown-out queer bar that only the disco seventies could produce. A giant papi- er-mache peacock hung over the dance floor with flames of light shooting from its tail. The walls were niched with archways hung with beads.