James Callan

Who Would You Rather?

“Who would you rather fuck? Queen Amidala or Princess Leia?”

I consider Joakim’s question with serious thought. I delight in my options. “Hmmm,” I vocalize my internal struggle. “Natalie Portman or Carrie Fisher… Hmm….”

We are in the butterfly house where old man winter is unwelcome. The cold-hearted bastard remains, uninvited, just beyond the greenhouse walls. He mopes outside the patchwork of glass that retains a rich, warm, atmosphere, dense air, heady with the scent of earth, humid, and vibrant with life. The cold, like Dracula, cannot enter without consent.

“No,” Joakim takes the game seriously. “Not Natalie Portman or Carrie Fisher. Queen Amidala or Princess Leia. I’m not asking you which actress you’d rather have sex with, but which character.”

“As they were in their prime?”

“Well, certainly not as they are in the present. Both characters are now dead in the up-to-date story. One actress, too, in the up-to-date reality. And remember, they lived a long time ago.”

“In a galaxy far, far away.”

“That too.”

Flowers and butterflies compete to see which one can outdo the other, plant versus insect, a showcase of brazen, loud colors on display, an electric fashion show that smells as good as it looks. Orange and black monarchs flit about, sit and fan their tiger-stripe, speckled wings on cosmos petaled parchment white, it’s-a-girl pink, or radioactive magenta. Strawflowers carpet the earth in thick patches, every conceivable warm hue, every nuance of yellow, orange and red. Then, just to spite them, outdo them, a living neon light of radiant blue, cold as ice, traced in black, a blue morpho butterfly, parks its outlandish, gaudy and gorgeous self to break up the heatwave, to render it second class. Sunflower, echinacea, zinnia, azalea, big and bold, elegant and frail, no end of hue, beautiful, fragrant, just fucking lovely. Glass wing and blue moon, Julia and tailed jay, the butterflies counter with their own extravagance, their own great library of beauty. I just take it all in, sight and smell. I call it a draw. Insect and flower equally matched, equally gorgeous. It’s all so fucking divine.

In the face of so much beauty I consider my options. I go internal. I conjure up my own lovely imagery. Visions of Carrie Fisher in her prime come to the forefront of my mind. Jabba the Hutt, crime lord and fat bastard, his pudgy, slug-like hand gripping a leash fastened to his beautiful, mostly naked sex slave.

“Well, Joakim,” I say after some thought. “I’d pick Portman over Fisher, but if we are talking characters, not the real women who embody them, then I’d have to go with Princess Leia.”

“You’re thinking of Return of the Jedi,aren’t you?”

“Scantly clad, collared and chained, can you blame me?”

“Oh, look, the luna moth.” Joakim gestures to a winged creature, a veritable angel, that I could not miss if I tried to.

Equal parts erratic and graceful, the Luna moth dances through the air, an artful trajectory from flower to flower. Lime green, watered down with milky white, it sails across my face, silk on the wind, about the size of my outspread palm. Stunning. Incredible. Unreal. In this moment I am reminded; nature, great and small, is seraphic, and in this instant, I walk within Seraphic Park.

“My turn,” Joakim prompts me to continue our little game of who would you rather? So I think real hard. Try and abandon the Star Wars universe and come up flat.

“Who would you rather fuck? Harrison Ford or Hayden Christensen?”

“You mean Han Solo or Anakin Skywalker?”

“You’re such a stickler, Joakim.”

“Rules are everything. Without rules, we are merely animals.”

“We are merely animals, besides.”

“We are men.”

“Is that something to be proud of?”

“It’s something to accept. To embody. To exemplify. As men, we follow rules.”

“So who would you rather fuck?”

“Hayden Christensen.”

“You mean Anakin Skywalker?”

We look at each other. We laugh. We leave the butterfly house behind. We walk through a set of dangling plastic strips that hang down like those cloth curtains at a car wash. The transparent tendrils cover the exit, keeping the butterflies from leaving their floriferous kingdom, the shiniest of gilded cages in the whole of the zoo. We walk through another set of giant strands of plastic fettuccine because it’s always a double door at the zoo. Even for insects.

The next room is a narrow walkway, enough for three people to walk abreast. To our right is a concrete wall, a giant mural of tropical rainforest, the occasional plaque with animal information and fun facts. I study the isolated wads of chewing gum that teenagers and assholes have pressed into the wall. I zero in on a pale blue glob, likely spearmint, that covers the toucan’s eye with precision. It is gross, but artistic in its own light.

To our left is a low wall, a hip-high partition, and a wide expanse of simulated, indoor jungle. The large skylights provide a pleasant, natural light, illuminating a shallow pool below, moss-strewn rocks and logs, mature trees. Just beyond our reach, a net stretches from floor to ceiling to keep various birds from coming into contact with the humans that view them, and more importantly, vice-versa. In the pool below I see a dozen flamingos and admire their pink feathers, white zinfandel and rose. Above them, a trio of scarlet macaws, a vivid explosion of primary colors.

Joakim leads me to the next room, which is much the same, but with stronger protective netting. Here, I witness Zazu, the extravagant avian wonder, the lonesome great hornbill.

We wait for a passing mother and her child to move on before continuing our game.

“Who would you rather fuck?” Joakim asks. “Jar Jar Binks or Shrek?” Sometimes we do this, reverse the challenge. Try and think of a pair that would be hard to choose based on their undesirability. I hate CG characters and Joakim knows this. But in this instance he’s failed to make it a challenge.

“I wouldn’t touch Shrek with ten-foot barge pole.”

“You’d rather fuck Jar Jar Binks?”

“I’d rather not fuck Shrek.”

“Fair enough.”

We walk on past a “staff only” sign and unlock a door to enter Zazu’s attractive, but limited indoor rainforest. Zazu swoops down, mischievous and bored out of his mind, but delighted for our company, for some relief from the hours of nothing. Most of the zookeepers are afraid of going in with Zazu because he has an enormous beak and willfully bites, capable of breaking someone’s fingers if they are careless or unlucky.

I’m not worried, however, because Joakim has imparted a technique to avoid any misadventure. His tactic is straightforward, simple as can be. Rather than try and shoo the bird away, push aside his beak, or hold up your hands to protect your face, you simply make a fist, which protects your fingers, and offer up an arm. Zazu can break a finger, but he cannot break a wrist or a forearm. Sure, he bites your arm, and yeah, it hurts a little, but it’s no big thing. It’s not that bad. And besides, you get an incredible, up-close view of a stunning great hornbill, offering the beast an interlude of entertainment among its quotidian malaise.

The first thing I think as Zazu swoops down upon us is Woah, big fucking bird. And with a five foot wingspan, I’m not wrong. Perching on a branch level with our faces, he cocks his massive, banana-beaked head while scrutinizing Joakim and I. In his discerning, red eye I see intelligence and personality. I see an individual with a fiery soul.

At the crest of Zazu’s head, joining with his formidable beak, is a large, horny growth, brightly colored and cumbersome, like an ornate helmet or a decorative headpiece. Joakim tells me this is known as a casque, used as both a counterweight to a hornbill’s long beak as well as for amplifying vocalization.

From head to toe—or tail feather for that matter—Zazu presents himself a grand spectacle. He bedazzles with untamed beauty, prehistoric charm. He commands our attention, affecting authority over our senses. As I gaze at him up close, am not in the least disappointed.

Tangerine fades to banana, bright orange to yellow, from the tip of a razor beak to its base, colliding with cherry red eyes that showcase intelligence. I feel like I am looking into the face of a clever, feathered fruit salad. Sunset feathers fashionably match that rich, gorgeous tiara, that cornucopia headdress. Neck down, the great hornbill is robed dominantly in black, broken up in alternating bands of white. The overall look is impressive and eye-catching, yet avoids crossing over into something gaudy. Zazu’s appearance is suggestive of royalty. So it comes as no surprise when Joakim tells me that in Nepal his species is called homrai, and in parts of India, banrao, names which both mean “king of the jungle.”

Tight in a fist, my fingers remain safe as I offer my forearm to an under-stimulated hornbill. I defend my eyes from a beak that could easily gouge them from their sockets, blind me, or tally my face with red scratches. The pain in my arm while it’s used for a chew toy is minimal. I endure it, soaking up the marvel that sits before my eyes. Greedy and insatiable, I drink it all all in. I gaze in wonder, eye to eye with the king of the jungle.

Banana, pineapple, and mango, slices of ripe pear, an abundant sprinkling of cat biscuits: humble offerings to our liege. I take one last long look at Zazu and commit his regalia to memory. From his presence, somehow, I draw strength. With his image in my mind, mysteriously, I bolster my fortitude. As Joakim and I walk away, I feel like a improved version of myself.

Joakim breaks the spell. “My turn.”

I am lost in the majesty of a feathered king. “Turn for what?”

“The game. Who would you rather?”

And just like that, my dream-bubble pops. Reality takes place of mystic whimsy. Vacuous and all encompassing, blatant actuality rushes in. So I play the game. 

“Who would you rather get nasty with? Mel Gibson or Steven Seagal.”

“Who’s Steven Seagal?”

“You know, the asshole in all those karate action movies in the 90s. Black ponytail tied back tight. You know, Under Siege? On Deadly Ground?”

“I want characters, not actors. The rules, man! The rules!”

“Fine,” I yield. “Yoda or Kermit?”

“The frog?”

“Ribbit.”

“You give me a choice between little green creatures?”

“You gave me Shrek, a CG perversion, Mike Meyers on acid in hell, a green fat bastard.”

Joakim sighs. “Yoda, of course.”

“You like older men?”

“I like wise men.”

“Best stay away from Paul.” Paul is our boss. Gym build, tall, perfect teeth, dumb as a stack of bricks. 

“Now there is someone I’d like to fuck.”

I’m not gay, but I felt a bit jealous. I wondered if Joakim would like to fuck me. I don’t know why, but I hoped that he did.

We carry on, blah blah blah. We laugh as we walk back the way we came, past macaws the color of Superman, pink flamingos balancing on one leg. We wade through a ballet of butterflies, a fluttering of angels on the wing.

Just before we exit the butterfly house the luna moth lands on Joakim’s shoulder, then dances onto mine. It stays there, opening, closing, opening, closing, its milky, lime-green wings, the delicate pages to an ethereal storybook.

“Here’s a good one,” Joakim ventures. “The ultimate question…”

I silently doubt that the ultimate question awaits, but I await, nonetheless, for a question.

“Who would you rather become? What would you rather be?” Joakim asks me, stern and serious. “A Jedi Knight or a Lord of the Sith?” He takes this game very seriously. “An instrument of darkness or one of light?”

I’ve seen the films a million times. I could probably recite the original trilogy from beginning to end, failing only with character impersonations, but not the words they speak. I cheer for the good guys, sure, I guess it’s true. I root for young Skywalker as he whines his way across the galaxy. But there is one moment in the films where as a viewer I always falter, a moment I know I would fall to temptation if it were me in Luke’s position.

In The Empire Strikes Back, after losing a close duel with Darth Vader, i.e. Daddy, Luke hangs from a catwalk that drops down into an endless nothing, an infinity below him. Maimed, one hand severed in combat, he stares up into the masked, concealed eyes of his enemy, his father, who looks down upon him in total control. Yet in this dire moment, a dread enemy transforms into a tender father, extending his hand as well as his offer, to spare Luke’s life, proposing he and his son share dominion over the stars. Together, as one, they will rule the galaxy.

In this moment during the film, no matter how many years and decades transpire, dozens of repetitious viewings, I find myself feeling the same as I watch Darth Vader, father, extend his offer to Luke Skywalker, son. I know what I would do if I received this same offer. I wouldn’t let go, fall to a fate that almost certainly would lead to my death—though Luke survives, of course. I wouldn’t run away from family, from the love of a father. I’d take his hand, embrace his offer. Maybe I have unresolved daddy issues, or maybe I’m just not attached to being a moral man, a good guy. But I can tell you this: if it were my narrative, if I were Luke, I’d not have let go to fall from that catwalk. I would have fallen, instead, headlong into the seduction of the dark side. I’d have become a black knight, a lord of darkness. I’d have ruled the galaxy with my father. Together, we’d devour the stars to satiate our lust for dominion.

“Easy one, I know,” Joakim dismisses his own ultimate question. “I mean, who in their right mind wouldn’t choose to be a Jedi Knight? Only a weak-willed, evil fuck would allow the dark side to seduce them to walk the path of the dreaded Sith.” Spoken like a true nerd.

I do not share my thoughts as I willingly reach for my father’s hand. I look up at my dad, caped and clad in black, a red light saber—red, to denote evil. I’ve already taken my first step towards the dark side, dipped my toe into the surface of a black abyss that I prepare to jump into headlong. I feel the shadows swallow me up from the inside, and I’m aware that it feels good. It feels right.

“Way too easy,” Joakim repeats. “Next time, I’ll do better,” he says. “I’ll think of a harder question. One that has more than a single, obvious answer.”

I do not offer my opinion or reveal my musings. I know what I am, or what I am capable of becoming.

“Come on, fellow Jedi. Let’s go.”

Upon my shoulder, a luna month suddenly takes flight, as if sensing something—repelled, perhaps—by the shifting aura of the being it had perched upon. Leaving the butterfly house behind us, Joakim and I step back out into the cold where old man winter waits to steal our warmth. We walk together and ascend the hill, Jedi Knight and Lord of the Sith.