(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)
The air was thin and swept along in folds across the street. Refuse danced along the cement after being liberated from trashcans by resurgent gusts. The western sky bubbled with bulging grey clouds spilling upon the humid atmosphere in front of it.
A solitary figure walked alongside the road in a tired town. Neither his pace nor expression were affected by the unfolding storm. The wind tousled his hair and cooled his scalp. On occasion, he passed scurrying figures frantically taking down umbrellas, rolling up windows, or bringing in pets.
Why are people frightened? We are on the verge of a merciful reprieve. Don’t they want to be witness to it?
He paid no mind to the dangerous sense of change around him. He zealously waited for the unleashing of a torrent. The oppressive summer heat would soon be vanquished, if only for a few hours. He pictured himself walking along the front lines of the elemental battle. Intermittent drops heralded like cavalry horns the marching regiments of rain and artillery of lightning.
He acknowledged to himself there was a trace of madness in the timing of his walk. There is energy in madness and madness in play, he thought. Energy and play constituted the greater parts of his soul.
The leaves on the elm trees near him fluttered and the branches floundered in the wind. Dust peppered his face, kicked up by the swirling air. Droplets struck his shoulders. One collided with his cheek and a cool streak trailed behind.
It is good to be playful sometimes. Without it, you may be deceived into thinking you retain more power than you do. Playfulness is the acknowledgment of radical freedom. It is a recognition that at times there is no greater end to our actions than the actions themselves. The border between playfulness and recklessness is the presence of harm. Art is harmless and debauchery is harmful and so art if playful and debauchery is reckless.
Minor vibrations sent from a thunder clap reverberated through his feet. On cue, rain started to fall with regularity. Soon, everything was distorted by a sheer curtain of water pouring past it or bouncing off of it. The man’s clothes darkened a shade upon absorption. His gait remained steady and his gaze transfixed. He was glad to be alive.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Correspondence 4
(For a newer draft of this letter within the completed series of letters, click here.)
Dear Alan,
I have been tricked, whether it was you or I who did the tricking, I do not know. I had previously understood that you contacted me to ease your conscience regarding your shameful past and the no doubt large part of that past our past makes up. However, I now see your agenda was not apologetic in nature, but pitiable. You spoke with near exclusivity about your own woes and said next next to nothing about those you inflicted upon me and presumably those other circle-goers.
You poor narcissist. Although you may have changed addresses, you still live in a house of mirrors. As much as I do not want to give you what you want, I cannot help it. You have my pity, but remember we are to take pity upon the wretched and the weak. I see nothing laudable in understanding yourself more at the expense of knowledge of others. You cannot hope to gain much of the one without the other. Where is your compassion? You are not as isolated as you take yourself to be. You are a part of the web of people and cannot be extricated from it by a few people giving your a few cold shoulders. You still have your family and, apparently, me to relate to. Please stop thinking so atomistically.
You do not prove to be remorseful by making momentary concern for others a springboard into concern for yourself. Is it not telling that the only time you look outside yourself is to heap scorn on the average person? Have you ever asked yourself why it is so odious to you to be average (whatever that means and however you measure it)? Plenty of average people are moderately happy and rightfully so. From the looks of it, you would rather be an unhappy genius. Let me clarify the option for you, since the dream has gotten out of hand. Genius is rarely respected. The rest of us cannot fathom it enough to be able to recognize it when we see it. Most of the people that are widely appreciated are so because they are relatable, not because they are ubermench. I am not suggesting we ought to live for the esteem of the common man. Esteem is nearly always misplaced, as you yourself can now attest to.
I did not speak clearly earlier when I referenced principles and details. Details are important, though we ought not rehash them incessant. Minutiae are the spring of dreadfully myopic emotional lives. That said, what is it exactly that you want? Be specific. Do you want critics in lofty magazines writing about how fantastic you secretly are? Would you like to be the protagonist in a modern tragedy? You poor honors-chaser! You are on an unhappy treadmill, busy making no progress. How many times need you be dissatisfied shortly after getting what you desired before you realize that you are fickle before anything else?
At least you have reached out, though you expect me to do the greater part by running to your assistance. If you have been mistaken in your own estimation, so be it. Be mistaken no longer and leave the cycle altogether.
Sophia
Dear Alan,
I have been tricked, whether it was you or I who did the tricking, I do not know. I had previously understood that you contacted me to ease your conscience regarding your shameful past and the no doubt large part of that past our past makes up. However, I now see your agenda was not apologetic in nature, but pitiable. You spoke with near exclusivity about your own woes and said next next to nothing about those you inflicted upon me and presumably those other circle-goers.
You poor narcissist. Although you may have changed addresses, you still live in a house of mirrors. As much as I do not want to give you what you want, I cannot help it. You have my pity, but remember we are to take pity upon the wretched and the weak. I see nothing laudable in understanding yourself more at the expense of knowledge of others. You cannot hope to gain much of the one without the other. Where is your compassion? You are not as isolated as you take yourself to be. You are a part of the web of people and cannot be extricated from it by a few people giving your a few cold shoulders. You still have your family and, apparently, me to relate to. Please stop thinking so atomistically.
You do not prove to be remorseful by making momentary concern for others a springboard into concern for yourself. Is it not telling that the only time you look outside yourself is to heap scorn on the average person? Have you ever asked yourself why it is so odious to you to be average (whatever that means and however you measure it)? Plenty of average people are moderately happy and rightfully so. From the looks of it, you would rather be an unhappy genius. Let me clarify the option for you, since the dream has gotten out of hand. Genius is rarely respected. The rest of us cannot fathom it enough to be able to recognize it when we see it. Most of the people that are widely appreciated are so because they are relatable, not because they are ubermench. I am not suggesting we ought to live for the esteem of the common man. Esteem is nearly always misplaced, as you yourself can now attest to.
I did not speak clearly earlier when I referenced principles and details. Details are important, though we ought not rehash them incessant. Minutiae are the spring of dreadfully myopic emotional lives. That said, what is it exactly that you want? Be specific. Do you want critics in lofty magazines writing about how fantastic you secretly are? Would you like to be the protagonist in a modern tragedy? You poor honors-chaser! You are on an unhappy treadmill, busy making no progress. How many times need you be dissatisfied shortly after getting what you desired before you realize that you are fickle before anything else?
At least you have reached out, though you expect me to do the greater part by running to your assistance. If you have been mistaken in your own estimation, so be it. Be mistaken no longer and leave the cycle altogether.
Sophia
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Correspondence 3
(For a newer draft of this letter within the completed series of letters, click here.)
Dear Sophia,
I knew the limitations of your forgiveness from the outset. I did not, however, presume it would be so easy to come by. For all of your kindness, I remember you could be quite stern. I suppose that is my last memory of you. You swore never to "grant succor to a louse" again, I believe. (Which I must say was an apt description of my behavior.) I am glad you decided to break that promise for me and I hope to make it evident that I have begun to change--though it really is just a beginning.
I have needed a priest or priestess for a while now, and am in such a fragile state that I must take the opportunity. I am a pariah now. All the circles I used to travel in have gotten tired of me. The loops opened long enough to cast me and and then closed back. Consequently, I have spent more time in solitude than I am accustomed to. I cannot discern whether my sadness if from loneliness or from learning for the first time what poor company I am. Either way, I spend as much time in my preoccupations as my occupation, the rest being lost to sleep or stupor.
As an upshot, I can at least articulate my greatest fear (or my most pervasive one, as the rest can somehow be translated into it): I am afraid that I am not the person I think I am. In the recesses of my mind, I am perpetually disappointed with myself. I have the gilded luxury of considering the nature of that disappointment in the confines of my quite apartment. I have concluded either (a) I always fail to perform at the utmost level I am capable of or (b) I am not capable of the utmost I think I am capable of, which is to say I am not the person I think I am.
This whole description is vague and though you may let the details fall away, I would be further guilty before the judge if I suppressed important information. A case in point: I sell high-end entertainment devices to people who probably won't know how to use them when they get home or won't have enough time to enjoy them because the very reason they can afford high-end entertainment devices is because they are scantly at home. Whatever the case, I do not like my job. I tell myself that it is good to have a job and good to make enough money to pay my bills. I consoled myself with the belief that, were I living in a different time or born into a different family, I would be doing something much more distinguished and attuned to my capacities.
If only that was where the story ended! There comes to mind a recurring suspicion like a dripping faucet in a quiet house: what if the period and my lineage were altered? Would I still be mired in mediocrity? What if I chronically overestimate my own worth and ability? What if this life I'm living really is the best I can do? And so I arrive at my fear of not being the person I think I am. When I was younger and let down by my performance, it was easy to say, "But what does it matter now? I am not there yet, but someday I will be." Such consolations are out of reach now. Vain people cannot long survive in the awareness of their vanity, you know. It requires constant self-deception, which I am having great difficulty in maintaining. I cannot endure the likelihood of my misplaced confidence much longer. To be vain is more pardonable than to be living in vain. At least vanity entails ignorance. To be knowingly living in vain--for that there's no excuse. I think I am simply a worthless man with a conception of worthy men. Worse still, I think it's too late to alter course. What can I, a non-entity, do? All of my actions amount to nil. All that nothing can do is nothing. To be average after so long considering yourself exceptional is to be a living privation. But enough.
I know your task as a priestess is not one of repair (that is for the confessor), so I have no illusions about what is to come of this. I bring it to your attention as much as mine. I am relieved to pour out these over-fermented thoughts and am further grateful for your lent ear.
Honestly,
Alan
Dear Sophia,
I knew the limitations of your forgiveness from the outset. I did not, however, presume it would be so easy to come by. For all of your kindness, I remember you could be quite stern. I suppose that is my last memory of you. You swore never to "grant succor to a louse" again, I believe. (Which I must say was an apt description of my behavior.) I am glad you decided to break that promise for me and I hope to make it evident that I have begun to change--though it really is just a beginning.
I have needed a priest or priestess for a while now, and am in such a fragile state that I must take the opportunity. I am a pariah now. All the circles I used to travel in have gotten tired of me. The loops opened long enough to cast me and and then closed back. Consequently, I have spent more time in solitude than I am accustomed to. I cannot discern whether my sadness if from loneliness or from learning for the first time what poor company I am. Either way, I spend as much time in my preoccupations as my occupation, the rest being lost to sleep or stupor.
As an upshot, I can at least articulate my greatest fear (or my most pervasive one, as the rest can somehow be translated into it): I am afraid that I am not the person I think I am. In the recesses of my mind, I am perpetually disappointed with myself. I have the gilded luxury of considering the nature of that disappointment in the confines of my quite apartment. I have concluded either (a) I always fail to perform at the utmost level I am capable of or (b) I am not capable of the utmost I think I am capable of, which is to say I am not the person I think I am.
This whole description is vague and though you may let the details fall away, I would be further guilty before the judge if I suppressed important information. A case in point: I sell high-end entertainment devices to people who probably won't know how to use them when they get home or won't have enough time to enjoy them because the very reason they can afford high-end entertainment devices is because they are scantly at home. Whatever the case, I do not like my job. I tell myself that it is good to have a job and good to make enough money to pay my bills. I consoled myself with the belief that, were I living in a different time or born into a different family, I would be doing something much more distinguished and attuned to my capacities.
If only that was where the story ended! There comes to mind a recurring suspicion like a dripping faucet in a quiet house: what if the period and my lineage were altered? Would I still be mired in mediocrity? What if I chronically overestimate my own worth and ability? What if this life I'm living really is the best I can do? And so I arrive at my fear of not being the person I think I am. When I was younger and let down by my performance, it was easy to say, "But what does it matter now? I am not there yet, but someday I will be." Such consolations are out of reach now. Vain people cannot long survive in the awareness of their vanity, you know. It requires constant self-deception, which I am having great difficulty in maintaining. I cannot endure the likelihood of my misplaced confidence much longer. To be vain is more pardonable than to be living in vain. At least vanity entails ignorance. To be knowingly living in vain--for that there's no excuse. I think I am simply a worthless man with a conception of worthy men. Worse still, I think it's too late to alter course. What can I, a non-entity, do? All of my actions amount to nil. All that nothing can do is nothing. To be average after so long considering yourself exceptional is to be a living privation. But enough.
I know your task as a priestess is not one of repair (that is for the confessor), so I have no illusions about what is to come of this. I bring it to your attention as much as mine. I am relieved to pour out these over-fermented thoughts and am further grateful for your lent ear.
Honestly,
Alan
Correspondence 2
(For a newer draft of this letter within the completed series of letters, click here.)
Dear Alan,
If there is a thorn that has stuck in your side for five years, then no other human has put it there. I can assure you that--whatever its origin--my forgiveness will not help the pain of it abate. All the same, you have what I can give you--though it has never been enough.
Rest assured, you have neither upset me nor been forgotten by me. I think fondly of you when I smell curry and otherwise do not think of you. Along the way, I have learned it is best to internalize general principals and universal truths and let the unseemly details fall away.
While I am saddened to hear you're haunted, I must admit I think it's fair. There is so little fairness here that to be graced by feelings befitting your past bodes well for you. As you suggested in your letter, few people have been so blessed as to have clarity on who they are and the painful truths of what they have done wrong. Although I can forgive you for what you've done, I cannot forgive you for what you are. You'll need to take that up with someone else.
In regards to interrupting me, you need not fret. I usually have the time to write letters and generally try to make the time to be of service.
Sophia
Dear Alan,
If there is a thorn that has stuck in your side for five years, then no other human has put it there. I can assure you that--whatever its origin--my forgiveness will not help the pain of it abate. All the same, you have what I can give you--though it has never been enough.
Rest assured, you have neither upset me nor been forgotten by me. I think fondly of you when I smell curry and otherwise do not think of you. Along the way, I have learned it is best to internalize general principals and universal truths and let the unseemly details fall away.
While I am saddened to hear you're haunted, I must admit I think it's fair. There is so little fairness here that to be graced by feelings befitting your past bodes well for you. As you suggested in your letter, few people have been so blessed as to have clarity on who they are and the painful truths of what they have done wrong. Although I can forgive you for what you've done, I cannot forgive you for what you are. You'll need to take that up with someone else.
In regards to interrupting me, you need not fret. I usually have the time to write letters and generally try to make the time to be of service.
Sophia
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Correspondence 1
(For a newer draft of this letter within the completed series of letters, click here.)
Dear Sophia,
I frequently wonder why it is we are the only creatures with the power of introspection. Humans, for all their aptitude for second-guessing and regret, are to be more pitied than all the other animals. While others my shriek and cry at the commencement of a torturous death, we contain volumes of woe so unspeakable as to never be uttered. Have you ever considered how much guilt we have put into the ground along with our ancestors and how the great majority of it never we breathed to a confidant?
Some of us know our own shortcomings and others never know them. Most are prone to only have presentiments of thorns in our side that never let us get comfortable. As I have gotten older and time has put a distance between myself and those events, I have gained a greater awareness of my own thorns. None sticks further than the one you placed there as a memorial to my misdeeds against you. It has not let me forget, though you, I pray, have long since forgotten me.
I cannot quit this remorse and though you have never known me to be anything but immature, I swear this apology is ripe within me. Forgive me, please, for what I did and forgive me too for conjuring up faded recollections. If I could rest, I would not take the risk of upsetting you now. I am glad to finally name my discontent and to make it publicly known, even though my audience is singular.
Whether or not it is possible for you to grant me clemency, I know not to interrupt you again.
Honestly,
Alan
Dear Sophia,
I frequently wonder why it is we are the only creatures with the power of introspection. Humans, for all their aptitude for second-guessing and regret, are to be more pitied than all the other animals. While others my shriek and cry at the commencement of a torturous death, we contain volumes of woe so unspeakable as to never be uttered. Have you ever considered how much guilt we have put into the ground along with our ancestors and how the great majority of it never we breathed to a confidant?
Some of us know our own shortcomings and others never know them. Most are prone to only have presentiments of thorns in our side that never let us get comfortable. As I have gotten older and time has put a distance between myself and those events, I have gained a greater awareness of my own thorns. None sticks further than the one you placed there as a memorial to my misdeeds against you. It has not let me forget, though you, I pray, have long since forgotten me.
I cannot quit this remorse and though you have never known me to be anything but immature, I swear this apology is ripe within me. Forgive me, please, for what I did and forgive me too for conjuring up faded recollections. If I could rest, I would not take the risk of upsetting you now. I am glad to finally name my discontent and to make it publicly known, even though my audience is singular.
Whether or not it is possible for you to grant me clemency, I know not to interrupt you again.
Honestly,
Alan
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Inanimate
(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)
Heat radiated from the pavement and hung on the sweaty skin of pedestrians. Edward Pitts and Mitchell Stevens were quickly walking to a modest eatery amidst downtown bustle for lunch. Edward spoke with excited breath and his pronunciation was staggered to the rhythm of their pace.
“The other day I was reading a book—from around the turn of the 20th century I think—and a passage was describing construction in New York City. Scaffolding and welding and the like. Anyways, the author described the sound of clanking hooves along the streets and I was completely thrown off. Hooves? I suppose I figured that cars and skyscrapers went together. For a while though, these big building and electricity were here and cars weren’t.”
“I guess.”
“Well isn’t that crazy? All of the sights and sounds of transportation was generated by living beings? Can you imagine? Most days the only animals you see besides human beings around here are house flies and the occasional robin. Back then, though, you would have seen horses all of the time.”
“So?”
“Wouldn’t that make you feel better?”
“How do you mean?”
“Life—living things—has increasingly been pushed to the periphery of our everyday experience. The common and inanimate go together. Computers, cars, phones, on and on—everything is dead, except for other people.”
“Not living, everything is not living except for other people, flies, and robins.”
“Right. Not living. So don’t you think that does something to people?”
A car horn interrupted their discussion. Both men saw a confused pedestrian crossing a street at a prohibited time. The oblivious man shuffled his feet more quickly while trying to gain his bearings by staring at a piece of paper in his hands.
“Being around inanimate objects?” Mitchell returned.
“Yeah.”
“I suppose so. Being around anything does something to people. Being around dogs makes me congested, for instance.”
Edward’s eyes widened at the first glimpse of interest shown by Mitchell.
“Good! Now, what does it do to you to be around electronic devices or combustion engines all the time?”
“Is this a discussion about smog? I told you I’m not interested in getting a different car.”
“No, not necessarily, although that applies indirectly I think.”
Outside of their destination, a woman with was livid on a cell phone. Edward and Mitchell stepped around her and entered. The chill of air conditioning and the faint citrus smell of floor cleaner were familiar and refreshing. Having both worked past the usual lunch hour, the two coworkers had their choice of stools at the counter. Edward reviewed the menu posted on the wall before him. Mitchell checked the time and thought he had 13 minutes to eat a double cheeseburger and regular order of French fries.
A disinterested young man with an amorphous mop of frazzled stood before the two and looked past them.
“Yeah, I’ll have a double cheeseburger with fries and a Coke.”
The server looked to Edward and said nothing.
“Um. Let’s try the chicken fingers and cole slaw. Water’s fine.”
The young man turned away and began the crackle of the deep fryer.
“You were saying something about being around cars and computers all day.”
“Right. So, can you imagine going to work in a carriage? Or, if you couldn’t afford the luxury—they were expensive I’m sure—just walking around and seeing horses standing around eating from their food bags or something? Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Probably wouldn’t smell so hot. You’d have to watch your step more.”
“True. But, I think it does us a lot of harm to only be having one-sided interactions all day long. You spend all day addressing these objects. It must be harder to then go into situations where there are subjects instead. Animals force you to be patient. We’ve made patience unnecessary. Back then though, you just had to be patient. If you push a horse too far, it will give up. You have to feed it and take care of it. You have to brush its hair and whatnot. Maybe sometimes you have to calm it down when there’s a loud noise. It has eyes to look at you and it has some sort of animal opinion of you—you know that. At least it registers your presence when you walk by. But now it’s all one-sided. It’s just you and the preprogrammed responses of your surroundings.”
“Or you and your coworkers.”
“Right.” Edward paused a moment to reflect upon Mitchell’s responses. “So I take it you don’t see a problem here?”
“Not really; it’s all the same. You use transportation, whether it’s breathing or not. You use it. So, it’s not like horses and buggies induce people to be more polite in society if that’s what you’re after.”
“But they have glossy eyes. Horses all have those dark glossy eyes. You’ve seen a horse up close before, haven’t you? Don’t you think you’d be different if you saw more glossy eyes every day?”
“I wouldn’t be searching them out like you seem to want to. I’d pass them by like I pass by all the suits and skirts around here.” Mitchell glanced at his watch again. He turned to Edward. “Cut to it. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I was just excited by the prospect of life being a little more natural.”
“Well, what can you do? You can’t go back to it.”
The clanking of ice in plastic cups drowned out the bubbling oil for a moment. The server brought them their drinks.
“Thanks,” said Mitchell.
“What can I do? Nothing as usual.”
“That’s the spirit.” Mitchell raised his cup towards Edward.
“I’m tired of these same old sounds. I would trade horseshoes for mufflers.”
"Get an Ipod."
"No. That won't fix anything."
"It'd give you some sound variety."
"That's not the issue and you know it." Edward sipped from his water. "This is what I'm talking about right here. We don't have the capacity to interact with one another. You are hardly paying attention. The only contributions you are making to this conversation are quick fixes because you're impatient with having to consider someone else. It's about humanizing. I want to be humanized and this day-to-day is not cutting it."
"And you think you'd be happier if the skies were filled with coal dust like at the start of the industrial revolution? No. You wouldn't. The only reason I'm impatient is because I have a low tolerance for dreamers. This funk you've been in is... annoying."
"Because I'm challenging you to empathize?"
"No, because you're filling my ears with feckless sob stories. From what I've gathered in the couple of months I’ve known you—although you are certainly nice—you go around looking for something to be unhappy about. You may not realize it, but that's what you do. And I am annoyed by it. You're a spokesperson for the word fickle because no matter how many things go right for you, or how many wishes you get, you won't pay attention long enough to enjoy it. It'll just be off to the next best utopia your discontented soul conjures up. Look, I'm sorry, but I've had a rough couple of weeks myself. Would you know that? No. Do you need to know that? No...because I have something you don't: perspective. I am resigned. I love resignation. It's my favorite color. You should try it on sometime."
"Resignation is lifeless."
"You aren't so full of vim and vigor yourself."
Mitchell sipped his soda through a straw. Water droplets cascaded over his fingers and onto the greying counter top.
"Well shit, Mitchell. You sure do know how to come down hard a person."
The server carelessly cast the plates before them. They rattled to a stop. The served started scraping the cook top. Mitchell pinched together a few fries and ate them with relish.
Still chewing, Mitchell talked as Edward poked at his cole slaw.
"I'm a bit punchy from not eating anything all day, but I've been trying the whole consolation thing with you and that never accomplished much. You are aware that most of the truths that suck are out of your control, yet you persist in being frustrated by it. Most people I would call weak only get weaker because they are the recipients of so much compassion. I have probably given you more than I should, but I'll stop now. You've got to quit coming to me with this stuff and start going somewhere else. Better still, don't go anywhere at all. Don't pick the stuff up. When you see yourself reaching for it, stop. Leave it be. Turn around and go in the opposite direction.” After taking his first bite of his cheeseburger, he asked Edward, “How's your slaw?"
"Pretty good," Edward said staring at it. He spun the contents of his bowl around with his fork.
"Good. Start with that. This food wouldn't have been so easy to come by at the turn of the twentieth century. Is it the best for us? No. But we enjoy it and that's something. You win some and you lose some. My advice would be to focus on what you win more often than on what you lose."
"I don't know about that. There are trade-off, sure. But, if you lose a lot and gain a little you'd crazy to just consider the little."
"No. You'd be smart."
"Not the kind of smart I'd want to be."
"Fine. Just hurry up and eat. We're almost late as it is." Edward licked the salt off his fingers.
Heat radiated from the pavement and hung on the sweaty skin of pedestrians. Edward Pitts and Mitchell Stevens were quickly walking to a modest eatery amidst downtown bustle for lunch. Edward spoke with excited breath and his pronunciation was staggered to the rhythm of their pace.
“The other day I was reading a book—from around the turn of the 20th century I think—and a passage was describing construction in New York City. Scaffolding and welding and the like. Anyways, the author described the sound of clanking hooves along the streets and I was completely thrown off. Hooves? I suppose I figured that cars and skyscrapers went together. For a while though, these big building and electricity were here and cars weren’t.”
“I guess.”
“Well isn’t that crazy? All of the sights and sounds of transportation was generated by living beings? Can you imagine? Most days the only animals you see besides human beings around here are house flies and the occasional robin. Back then, though, you would have seen horses all of the time.”
“So?”
“Wouldn’t that make you feel better?”
“How do you mean?”
“Life—living things—has increasingly been pushed to the periphery of our everyday experience. The common and inanimate go together. Computers, cars, phones, on and on—everything is dead, except for other people.”
“Not living, everything is not living except for other people, flies, and robins.”
“Right. Not living. So don’t you think that does something to people?”
A car horn interrupted their discussion. Both men saw a confused pedestrian crossing a street at a prohibited time. The oblivious man shuffled his feet more quickly while trying to gain his bearings by staring at a piece of paper in his hands.
“Being around inanimate objects?” Mitchell returned.
“Yeah.”
“I suppose so. Being around anything does something to people. Being around dogs makes me congested, for instance.”
Edward’s eyes widened at the first glimpse of interest shown by Mitchell.
“Good! Now, what does it do to you to be around electronic devices or combustion engines all the time?”
“Is this a discussion about smog? I told you I’m not interested in getting a different car.”
“No, not necessarily, although that applies indirectly I think.”
Outside of their destination, a woman with was livid on a cell phone. Edward and Mitchell stepped around her and entered. The chill of air conditioning and the faint citrus smell of floor cleaner were familiar and refreshing. Having both worked past the usual lunch hour, the two coworkers had their choice of stools at the counter. Edward reviewed the menu posted on the wall before him. Mitchell checked the time and thought he had 13 minutes to eat a double cheeseburger and regular order of French fries.
A disinterested young man with an amorphous mop of frazzled stood before the two and looked past them.
“Yeah, I’ll have a double cheeseburger with fries and a Coke.”
The server looked to Edward and said nothing.
“Um. Let’s try the chicken fingers and cole slaw. Water’s fine.”
The young man turned away and began the crackle of the deep fryer.
“You were saying something about being around cars and computers all day.”
“Right. So, can you imagine going to work in a carriage? Or, if you couldn’t afford the luxury—they were expensive I’m sure—just walking around and seeing horses standing around eating from their food bags or something? Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Probably wouldn’t smell so hot. You’d have to watch your step more.”
“True. But, I think it does us a lot of harm to only be having one-sided interactions all day long. You spend all day addressing these objects. It must be harder to then go into situations where there are subjects instead. Animals force you to be patient. We’ve made patience unnecessary. Back then though, you just had to be patient. If you push a horse too far, it will give up. You have to feed it and take care of it. You have to brush its hair and whatnot. Maybe sometimes you have to calm it down when there’s a loud noise. It has eyes to look at you and it has some sort of animal opinion of you—you know that. At least it registers your presence when you walk by. But now it’s all one-sided. It’s just you and the preprogrammed responses of your surroundings.”
“Or you and your coworkers.”
“Right.” Edward paused a moment to reflect upon Mitchell’s responses. “So I take it you don’t see a problem here?”
“Not really; it’s all the same. You use transportation, whether it’s breathing or not. You use it. So, it’s not like horses and buggies induce people to be more polite in society if that’s what you’re after.”
“But they have glossy eyes. Horses all have those dark glossy eyes. You’ve seen a horse up close before, haven’t you? Don’t you think you’d be different if you saw more glossy eyes every day?”
“I wouldn’t be searching them out like you seem to want to. I’d pass them by like I pass by all the suits and skirts around here.” Mitchell glanced at his watch again. He turned to Edward. “Cut to it. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I was just excited by the prospect of life being a little more natural.”
“Well, what can you do? You can’t go back to it.”
The clanking of ice in plastic cups drowned out the bubbling oil for a moment. The server brought them their drinks.
“Thanks,” said Mitchell.
“What can I do? Nothing as usual.”
“That’s the spirit.” Mitchell raised his cup towards Edward.
“I’m tired of these same old sounds. I would trade horseshoes for mufflers.”
"Get an Ipod."
"No. That won't fix anything."
"It'd give you some sound variety."
"That's not the issue and you know it." Edward sipped from his water. "This is what I'm talking about right here. We don't have the capacity to interact with one another. You are hardly paying attention. The only contributions you are making to this conversation are quick fixes because you're impatient with having to consider someone else. It's about humanizing. I want to be humanized and this day-to-day is not cutting it."
"And you think you'd be happier if the skies were filled with coal dust like at the start of the industrial revolution? No. You wouldn't. The only reason I'm impatient is because I have a low tolerance for dreamers. This funk you've been in is... annoying."
"Because I'm challenging you to empathize?"
"No, because you're filling my ears with feckless sob stories. From what I've gathered in the couple of months I’ve known you—although you are certainly nice—you go around looking for something to be unhappy about. You may not realize it, but that's what you do. And I am annoyed by it. You're a spokesperson for the word fickle because no matter how many things go right for you, or how many wishes you get, you won't pay attention long enough to enjoy it. It'll just be off to the next best utopia your discontented soul conjures up. Look, I'm sorry, but I've had a rough couple of weeks myself. Would you know that? No. Do you need to know that? No...because I have something you don't: perspective. I am resigned. I love resignation. It's my favorite color. You should try it on sometime."
"Resignation is lifeless."
"You aren't so full of vim and vigor yourself."
Mitchell sipped his soda through a straw. Water droplets cascaded over his fingers and onto the greying counter top.
"Well shit, Mitchell. You sure do know how to come down hard a person."
The server carelessly cast the plates before them. They rattled to a stop. The served started scraping the cook top. Mitchell pinched together a few fries and ate them with relish.
Still chewing, Mitchell talked as Edward poked at his cole slaw.
"I'm a bit punchy from not eating anything all day, but I've been trying the whole consolation thing with you and that never accomplished much. You are aware that most of the truths that suck are out of your control, yet you persist in being frustrated by it. Most people I would call weak only get weaker because they are the recipients of so much compassion. I have probably given you more than I should, but I'll stop now. You've got to quit coming to me with this stuff and start going somewhere else. Better still, don't go anywhere at all. Don't pick the stuff up. When you see yourself reaching for it, stop. Leave it be. Turn around and go in the opposite direction.” After taking his first bite of his cheeseburger, he asked Edward, “How's your slaw?"
"Pretty good," Edward said staring at it. He spun the contents of his bowl around with his fork.
"Good. Start with that. This food wouldn't have been so easy to come by at the turn of the twentieth century. Is it the best for us? No. But we enjoy it and that's something. You win some and you lose some. My advice would be to focus on what you win more often than on what you lose."
"I don't know about that. There are trade-off, sure. But, if you lose a lot and gain a little you'd crazy to just consider the little."
"No. You'd be smart."
"Not the kind of smart I'd want to be."
"Fine. Just hurry up and eat. We're almost late as it is." Edward licked the salt off his fingers.
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