Reading Chekhov

Earlier in the week I noted a small volume at home that I had neglected: The Stories of Anton Chekhov. Chekhov was a Russian writer of short stories, widely considered one of the masters of the form, and I decided to read his stories afresh this week.

I have.

But I prefer Mr. Chekov. Mr. Chekov is far more entertaining. He sits on the bridge of the Enterprise and says, "Warp factor one, Captain" or "I cannot reach Mr. Spock's landing party, Captain, I'm picking up interference from 101 FM!" Chekhov, on the other hand, says things like, "Mr. Maronavick died of dysentery and his body was thrown into a Siberian garbage heap."

Mr. Chekov is fun-loving and lovable--he's a Russian chipmunk. Chekhov is dark and foreboding, and even as a Christian, for the love of Mary, the guy actually lived in Russia and survived on Vodka.

Mr. Chekov has known pain. In The Wrath of Khan, an insidious earwig-type creature ate a path through his brain stem. But did he complain? Heck, no! He knew McCoy would drop by with his little blue box, would wave it over his head and he'd be fresh as a daisy in spring. Chekhov writes about pain. He revels in stories about TB, genocide, and the gulag. His characters all die horrendous deaths, their extremities frozen, their faces frostbitten into sneers. This is the way Russia should be. We've come to expect it.

Mr. Chekov smiles and lives happily in some future century where good always triumphs and Captain Kirk dyes his hair. He's a happy Russian with less brains, but he's a genius when it comes to pressing buttons. We fancy he's a hot lover. Chekhov is dour. His author photos, as they exist, betray his nationality. "Good God, he's a suffering Russian," we say when we see his portraits. Chekhov is frozen in a Stalingrad-expression of hopelessness and that's the way he writes.

Mr. Chekov is your pal. He never dates but that's all right with him. He is okay working alongside Mr. Sulu, who is gay. Relationships are much different light years from now. Chekhov is an anti-Semite. We fancy he hates gays. Heck, he hates everybody. It's what his Christian faith tells him to do. He drinks more Vodka to survive.

Mr. Chekov or Chekhov? I've known them both. What was Gene Roddenberry thinking? Had he actually read Chekhov? If he had, he would have probably changed his character's name. We might know him today as Mr. Dostoevsky.