Jessica Harper Uncanceled

I was in Chapter and Voice, Truvy City’s wokest bookshop. You might have heard me mention it before.

The manager eyed me suspiciously as I sidled through the doors (I’m never really sure what ‘sidles’ means, it can’t mean to move to the side? Surely there doesn’t need to be a word for that?). 

“I’m Jessica Harper,” I said. “I’m here to cover the event for The Truvian.”

I actually mumbled the name of the mag because the forefathers of the forefathers of our owners, Montrose Media, made their millions with the help of slaves – and the local wokerati like to still bring this up every chance they get.

I was now in their favorite place in town, Chapter and Voice, which specializes in tedious books in which everyone has a grievance. 

Unfortunately, Chapter and Voice had been persuaded to place an advert in our mag, and part of the deal was that the editorial department (ie yours truly) would do a write-up of their latest event: a Q&A with seething black academic Deity “Educate yourself” Jones.

So here I was in this pit of misery, where no John Grisham had ever graced the shelves, no Nora Roberts ever seen the light of day.

I took a seat in a middle row. There must have been a hundred people here: this was surely the most activity the joint had ever seen. Usually it was quieter than Kamala Harris in a Mensa exam.

I was surrounded by the store’s dreaded themed tables, each one stacked with grim volumes: Microaggressions for Dummies; Manspreading: How to Spot it and How to Call it Out; Is My Cat Neurodiverse?; The Golden Era of Pronouns; New Ways to Take a Knee; How to Tell Your Grandparents They’re Racist, and 101 Statues to Pull Down Before You Die.

A very serious-looking Deity Jones was shown to her seat and placed her hands on her thighs while the lady manager introduced her.

“We are very honored to have Deity Jones, author of White People, Don’t Rain on My Parade: It’s My Parade And Only I Have The Power to Rain On It, which made me weep every minute I was reading. I want to thank you for putting it out into the world. I have much to learn as a white, privileged woman.”

Deity gave the tiniest of smiles, like yes, you’re right, so please get on with your self flagellation. People in the audience were nodding, too, and many of them already had copies of the dull book in their excited little paws. Deity’s expression on the cover was incredibly stern, like someone had just told her she’d be sitting next to Trump for a 24-hour plane flight and Melania hadn’t give him any for a month. Her look in the photo said: “I’m doing my bit, are you doing yours? Frankly, I doubt it.” She was crying and the solitary tear rolling down her face was white. Gettit?

She read a long chapter from her book, which for brevity’s sake I will call WPDROMPIMPAOIHTPTROI, which I somehow prefer. It was about some inspirational old dude who taught her and her sisters about self respect when they were growing up. He sounded sketchy to me but I said nada. You know me: mature and responsible.

However, there was a problem: I was starving. Luckily I had my lunch in my bag and it was home-made chicken sandwiches, my favorite. Yum.

My stomach growled and Deity’s eyes flicked up from her book. 

Oh golly. I know my stomach intimately and it was about to start a rumbling and complaining that only some serious chow would quell.

There was quite a loud crackling as I opened the tin foil, extricated a sarnie and bit in. I felt every pair of eyes on me. But it tasted so good. What is it about chicken that tastes so much better on white bread than brown? Maybe that could be my question to Deity, who was just finishing up her recital: “And he said you girls can come to my shack and strum my banjo any time.”

I sniggered. A great big snigger that was only prevented from propelling chicken out of my mouth by my clapping a hand over the aforementioned mouth. I raised a palm in apology. Lots of women were crying about the banjo story and by a change in the atmosphere I could tell that my chicken incident hadn’t gone down well.

“Thank you, Deity,” said the manager. “I won’t spoil the book for those who haven’t read it but the part where you finally get a note out of his trumpet was perhaps the most moving thing I’ve ever read.”

I stifled more laughter, unsuccessfully.

“Do we have any questions?” said the manager, raising an eyebrow at me. “I believe we have a member of the press here.”

Oh no, talk about being put on the spot.

“Yes,” I said, spotting an opportunity to make amends. “Deity, I just wondered if…” I looked down at my pad to make it look as if I’d been paying attention but all it said was “Spag bol? Buy onion”.

“Yes?” said Deity, all inner strength and composure.

“Er, my question iiiiiis…” I flipped over a page of the pad and there it was: a way out.

“Ah, yes. Jessica Harper, The Truvian magazine. Ms Jones, we run a monthly quiz and we ask prominent figures to answer it. Would you mind? It’s a bit of fun.”
“Fun?” said the manager, like I’d said “bomb threat”. “I’m not sure what fun has to do with.”

“It’s fine,” said Deity with a tight smile. She had to show she was human, even though it was clearly against her instincts to talk about anything other than racial injustice. It’s how she earned her dough, after all.

“This month’s quiz is called Unleash Your Inner Seductress: The Ultimate Sexy Lifestyle Quiz,” I said, to groans from the woke audience. How could they worship at the woke altar in front of Deity with me prattling on? 

“Remember, confidence is the sexiest accessory – embrace your unique style and let your inner seductress shine!” I said. “That’s just the introduction.” Deity looked at me like she was a waxwork: expression frozen, body stiff.

“Deity,” I said, “What is your favorite dance mode? a) Night out tearing up the dancefloor; b) Intimate slow dance in a dimly lit room; c) Both, depending on the mood?

“We don’t want to hear this,” said a white man in big specs and a nervous tic. “This isn’t meant to be a conversation framed by a white woman.”

“Sexist!” I said, but no one backed me up. “And racist!”

“Why don’t you just leave?” he said.

“Why don’t you stop silencing women’s voices?” I said. It was worth a go but again, nada.

“This isn’t really what Deity has been invited here for,” said the manager, looking for security but of course it was a leftie bookshop where there was nothing you’d want to steal and they didnt have any security.

“It’s fine,” said Deity. “My answer is: tearing up the dancefloor.” This earned applause. The manager began laughing and slapping her thighs. Not only did they have a serious woke commentator in the shop, but she was just a regular girl who liked to dance. What a time we were having!

“Excellent,” I said. “Next question: What is your signature seduction move? a) Whispering sweet nothings in their ear; b) A lingering touch or gentle caress; or c) The art of the smoldering gaze?”

“Enough already,” said someone behind me.

“Yes, enough,” said Deity.

A security man had obviously been summoned from a nearby store because lo, there he was among us. It was Big Marv! He was the grandad of one of my son’s friends. I loved that guy.

“Hey, Jess, what’s up?”

“Hi Marv, how’s tricks? Things have gone south during my sex quiz. I don’t think you’re needed though.”

“I will be the judge of that,” said Deity. “I will not be advocated for.” Oh God, here came the lingo.

“All good with me, Jess. I went in for the prostate op last month but the waterworks are up and running again now. Is this the problem lady over here?” he said, looking at Deity. Oh no, even I thought that was unconscious bias. The audience let out a collective gasp of outrage. Deity and the manager got to their feet.

“I am leaving,” said Deity. “I will not be discriminated against in this way. You will be hearing from my lawyer.”

The manager, her dream dead, was distraught: how had she gone from “white ally” to “white oppressor facing lawsuit” in a couple of minutes. I picked up my pad and hurried from the shop. Like Lot’s wife, I took one last look back and saw the security guard arguing with the manager, and Deity filming the chaos for her soon-to-be-outraged social media audience.

What can we take away from this unfortunate incident?

a) Don’t take yourself too seriously or people will love to burst that bubble.

b) Don’t try a sex quiz at a woke book event.

Happy Christmas.

Deity Jones will return in Jessica Harper and the Slave Trader’s Curse in late 2024.