the same old seven sins over and over again. You might think it would be interesting, but it’s not. Would someone please invent an eighth sin to keep things lively?”
Karen resisted her impulse to interrupt.
Luke continued, “I mean, why do people live so long? What could be the difference between death at fifty-five and death at sixty-five or seventy-five or eighty-five? Those extra years . . . what benefit could they possibly have? Why do we go on living even though nothing new happens, nothing new is learned, and nothing new is transmitted? At fifty-five, your story’s pretty much over.”
Luke polished off his drink. “You know, I think the people I feel saddest for are the ones who once knew what profoundness was, but who lost or became numb to the sensation of wonder, who felt their emotions floating away and just didn’t care. I guess that’s what’s scariest: not caring about the loss.”
Rachel said, “So you feel sad for, and frightened by, yourself.”
“Yes.”
There was a silence, then Rachel asked, “Rick, what have you learned from your job?”
“I’ve learned that I’m often my own worst enemy. I’ve learned that I’d rather be in pain than be wrong. I’ve learned that sometimes failure isn’t an opportunity in disguise: it’s just me. I’ve learned that I’ll never be rich, because I don’t like rich people. I’ve learned that you can be a total shithead, and yet your soul will still want to hang out with you. Souls ought to have some kind of legal right to bail once you cross certain behaviour thresholds.”
“Anything else you’ve learned from work specifically?” asks Rachel.
“I won’t go too much into my work history, except to say that I was actually making an okay go of my gardening business until someone who doesn’t deserve their soul swiped my truck and all my equipment, and that’s how I ended up working in this bar, hearing the same things you heard from your parishioners, Luke — except I probably get the opposite end of the bullshit spectrum: the wishful thinking and the grandiosity people launch into by beer number three. Do people — did people — ever tell you the good stuff? Or did they just dump on you with all their crap and baggage?”
“Just the crap. I think maybe I should have been a bartender.”
“You’re missing nothing. Aim low, brother. Sell roadside corn. There’s a lot to be said for having a small, manageable dream.” Rick looked at Karen. “What about you?”
“Me? I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t learn much. I work as a receptionist for three psychiatrists. I see a lot of crazy. But I think crazy people — okay, not crazy, but people at the extremes of normal behaviour — are more interesting than so-called normal people. I’ve learned that one of the biggest indicators for success in life is having a few crazy relatives. So long as you get only some of the crazy genes, you don’t end up crazy; you merely end up different. And it’s that difference that gives you an edge, that makes you successful.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” said Luke.
“I’ve also learned that if you’re on meds, it’s much better to stick to them. I mean, would you rather jump off a bridge because you couldn’t be bothered to take one lousy pill? Also, when agitated patients come in, I tell them some kind of story about my cat, Rusty. Listening to people tell stories is very soothing. When someone is telling you a story, they hijack the personal narrator that lives inside your head. It’s the closest we come to seeing through someone else’s eyes.”
Rick
In his early twenties, Rick worked at a Texaco gas station, and when he was pumping gas, he liked to watch the numbers rev higher and higher on the pumps. He pretended these speedily increasing numbers didn’t represent money at all; rather, one penny equalled one year. He watched Western history begin at Year Zero-Zero-Zero-One and clip upwards and upwards: the Dark
Karen resisted her impulse to interrupt.
Luke continued, “I mean, why do people live so long? What could be the difference between death at fifty-five and death at sixty-five or seventy-five or eighty-five? Those extra years . . . what benefit could they possibly have? Why do we go on living even though nothing new happens, nothing new is learned, and nothing new is transmitted? At fifty-five, your story’s pretty much over.”
Luke polished off his drink. “You know, I think the people I feel saddest for are the ones who once knew what profoundness was, but who lost or became numb to the sensation of wonder, who felt their emotions floating away and just didn’t care. I guess that’s what’s scariest: not caring about the loss.”
Rachel said, “So you feel sad for, and frightened by, yourself.”
“Yes.”
There was a silence, then Rachel asked, “Rick, what have you learned from your job?”
“I’ve learned that I’m often my own worst enemy. I’ve learned that I’d rather be in pain than be wrong. I’ve learned that sometimes failure isn’t an opportunity in disguise: it’s just me. I’ve learned that I’ll never be rich, because I don’t like rich people. I’ve learned that you can be a total shithead, and yet your soul will still want to hang out with you. Souls ought to have some kind of legal right to bail once you cross certain behaviour thresholds.”
“Anything else you’ve learned from work specifically?” asks Rachel.
“I won’t go too much into my work history, except to say that I was actually making an okay go of my gardening business until someone who doesn’t deserve their soul swiped my truck and all my equipment, and that’s how I ended up working in this bar, hearing the same things you heard from your parishioners, Luke — except I probably get the opposite end of the bullshit spectrum: the wishful thinking and the grandiosity people launch into by beer number three. Do people — did people — ever tell you the good stuff? Or did they just dump on you with all their crap and baggage?”
“Just the crap. I think maybe I should have been a bartender.”
“You’re missing nothing. Aim low, brother. Sell roadside corn. There’s a lot to be said for having a small, manageable dream.” Rick looked at Karen. “What about you?”
“Me? I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t learn much. I work as a receptionist for three psychiatrists. I see a lot of crazy. But I think crazy people — okay, not crazy, but people at the extremes of normal behaviour — are more interesting than so-called normal people. I’ve learned that one of the biggest indicators for success in life is having a few crazy relatives. So long as you get only some of the crazy genes, you don’t end up crazy; you merely end up different. And it’s that difference that gives you an edge, that makes you successful.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” said Luke.
“I’ve also learned that if you’re on meds, it’s much better to stick to them. I mean, would you rather jump off a bridge because you couldn’t be bothered to take one lousy pill? Also, when agitated patients come in, I tell them some kind of story about my cat, Rusty. Listening to people tell stories is very soothing. When someone is telling you a story, they hijack the personal narrator that lives inside your head. It’s the closest we come to seeing through someone else’s eyes.”
Rick
In his early twenties, Rick worked at a Texaco gas station, and when he was pumping gas, he liked to watch the numbers rev higher and higher on the pumps. He pretended these speedily increasing numbers didn’t represent money at all; rather, one penny equalled one year. He watched Western history begin at Year Zero-Zero-Zero-One and clip upwards and upwards: the Dark
Similar Books
