Functional Definition

Josh and Ryan felt their weight lessen as the elevator they shared descended. Both stared straight ahead at their golden reflections in the elevator doors. A barely audible hiss seeped overhead. Neither man was certain how to initiate conversation. After a final electronic tone, the doors opened onto the lobby. Both exited. Josh gazed at the maroon carpet slightly in front of his feet as he walked; Ryan watched the pedestrians passing beyond the glass front of the downtown building. 

"How can mornings be so long?" Josh asked. 

Ryan put his hand on the revolving door's handrail. It resisted, sending his elbow and shoulder back in succession. Ryan felt weak. He straightened his arm and added force from his legs. The door began to spin. Josh followed behind, awkwardly jumping into the next cross-section at the last possible moment. The cool fall air felt the same but smelled different than the air inside the building. "Didn't you have something to work on?" Ryan inquired in response. 

"You know. Data to enter, as always. Piles and piles. I haven't had to write up a report in a while, so its nothing but data. I'm frankly looking forward to taking the last cup of coffee so that I have to make a new pot." 

The two wove through the median of the foot-traffic, the pedestrian equivalent of a fast lane. Their anemic city provided them ample space to travel. 

"Eesh. Sounds rough." 

"Yeah. Real rough." 

Josh glanced at Ryan, whose stern mien emanated composure. "How do you go on?" 

"What? How do you mean?" 

"You do the same stuff as me, more or less. You've been at it for a few months longer than I have. It doesn't seem to phase you." 

"Oh. Like how do I keep from getting all depressed? I don't think about the alternatives. These are the jobs we could get. What other options are there?" 

Josh considered the question briefly. "None. That's part of the problem." 

"That you have to work?" 

"No, that you have to do crap monkey-work like what we were just doing ten minutes ago. I know. I know. We're both lucky to have jobs, but they could be done by computers... should be done by computers, really. It's completely mindless. Bodiless, too, for that matter. Just the fingers, wrists, and a little eye ball movement. It is a miserable existence and as far as I can see, I am pretty much stuck with it." 

"Exactly right. If you think about it, it's miserable." Ryan scanned the street for approaching cars and promptly jaywalked. He drew slight satisfaction from breaking the law. Josh intentionally stomped on a cigarette butt that leaked a ribbon of smoke. "What can you do?" Ryan added. 

"Didn't you hear me? There's nothing I can do. I said that was part of the problem." 

"Part of the solution, too." 

"What? How?" Josh squinted and shielded his eyes from a blade of sunlight that stabbed between the high-rises. 

"Well if there's nothing to do, don't give it another thought." 

"It's not like I'm trying to. I don't court these feelings. They just come. If you take a moment to consider what you've been up to for hours upon hours... the feelings come on their own. Type, type, type. Click, click, click. It wears on you. The clock moves so so slow and when the whistle blows, you feel like you haven't done a single significant thing all damn day." 

Ryan shrugged. "That's work for you." 

"Shit, Ryan. Some help you are." 

Ryan glanced over the light blue fabric covering his shoulder at Josh. "Who said I was your helper? We're co-workers, not soul mates. You've gotta stiffen your lip sometimes." 

Josh looked up to accuse Ryan with a stare. Ryan was eyeing the placard in front of their destination. He surveyed the happy-hour prices and thought he should return one evening. Josh was surprised by Ryan's response. He decided not to speak any further. Having reached the cafe, they entered and fell into line. The din from the lunch crowd careened off the walls. 

After deciding what he would order, Ryan thought he would put an end to Josh's complaints. He pointed to the menu. "You see that? There before you is approximately one quarter of the purpose of life. One part eating, one part sleeping, one part copulation, and one part... tending to miscellaneous necessities—shelter, clothes, and the like. In twenty minutes, you can check one of those boxes off your list. That's what we get up to do everyday, check off boxes. Doesn't that make you feel better?" 

"Are you serious?" 

"Yes. Of course. That's how I get by. I have a simple understanding of my life and what I am here for. Jobs don't matter, so long as they let you keep checking off those boxes everyday. Anyone who's looking for more than that is looking for trouble." 

Josh's mind hopped from objection to objection against Ryan's position. He was hesitant to respond and realized he had confided the wrong person. The two shuffled forward as the line advanced. Josh flinched at the sound of a plate dropping to his right. He turned towards the source of the noise. No one else paid attention to the accident besides another woman at the nearby table who was trying to console her clumsy companion. Josh resumed the discussion, unable to bear the offense of Ryan's version of simplicity. "Well, that's a bleak outlook." 

"Mine? Bleak? I'm as happy as a clam. I eat, punch in, punch out, eat, punch in, punch out, eat, if I'm lucky...copulate a little later, and sleep. So what if there's some typing in there. How I make my money doesn't matter. Nearly every day of the week for... twenty good years years... I have the opportunity to be complete. And, you know as luck would have it, the things we need to do are delightful. I enjoy all of them. I look forward to them everyday. So I've got to spend a few hours toiling to get there. That's a small price to pay for so much satisfaction." Ryan interrupted his speech to scratch behind his ear. "Have you tried the pad thai here? It's some of the best I've had." 

Josh thought he was living through his reason for not socializing with anyone else at his office. He resigned to silence and felt wholly alien. Now even the lunch hour, the solitary bastion of work-week relief, had been spoiled. 

Ryan spied a young woman in a pencil skirt getting up to discard her trash. They connected gazes while she tipped her tray. He smiled the half-smile he presumed women found charming. She blinked and Ryan faced forward in disgust. 

Josh had watched the scene play out. It occurred to him there was nothing keeping him tethered to this oaf. He could leave without any foreseeable negative consequences. Ryan likely would refrain from mentioning it later so as to retain his pride. In the short-run, interactions may be cold. In the long run, they probably would diminish. "I'm going to go," Josh muttered. Ryan turned to see him depart, said nothing, and began counting the money in his wallet. 

As Josh was exiting, a group of men in suits were entering. He slid past them and merged onto the familiar sidewalk. Instinctively he headed towards his office building and began to consider his options. 

Where to now? Not hungry. Still have...fourteen minutes. The bank's courtyard again? Might as well. 

The courtyard was one of the city's secrets. Josh inadvertently discovered it on one of his early expeditionary missions. Heading north on Broadway from his office, the pattern was: building, street, building, alley, building, building, trees and fountain, street, etc. Dropped in the midst of aging steel and glass structures was a dollop of soil and greenery. Presumably designed for the bank's employees, the public was granted access during normal lunch hours. 

To whittle the meaning of life down to four basic actions... that was tempting. But there's more than that. Ryan was way off. Simplifying is good. Reducing isn't. Simplifying leaves what matters. Life cannot be reduced to a few physical requirements because those don't matter enough. I'd trade a full stomach for a full heart. And still, I feel empty all over. I am empty.

Upon arrival, Josh fumbled with the latch on the wrought-iron gate. As he had the previous two times he stopped by, he hesitated for a moment. Push or pull? Josh wanted to pull, but felt anxious about making the same mistake for the third time. He bucked his intuition and opted to push. The gate did not move. Josh looked up to see if the woman on a bench eating a sandwich noticed his fumbling. Thankfully, she had not. He pulled and the gate squeaked. The woman continued chewing, unabated. He estimated he could sit for five minutes before needing to return. Josh selected the same molded concrete chair in the shade he had on his first visit.

I have always done what I was supposed to do—leapt through every hoop raised near me—and this is what I wound up with! My job is dehumanizing. It is a worthless way to pass my time. I am swapping half of my waking life for a paltry hourly wage. I'm practically getting paid to waste away.

The maintenance of the courtyard had been neglected. The bleached mulch was speckled with weeds. The tan husks of last year's annuals hunched in evenly-spaced piles along the building's facade. Rusty water gathered in a puddle at the bottom of the fountain. Only the garden's ginko trees retained their vitality. They undulated with the breeze. Josh looked through the branches as he pondered.

Why am I so upset? I shouldn't be. Ryan was partially right. What can I do? Nearly everybody has a less-than-grand job. That's the breaks. You can't hire yourself. Employers aren't concerned with the satisfaction possible within positions they create. They want efficiency and efficiency goes up as thinking goes down. Thinking takes time and time is money. That invisible hand punches most of us in the gut. Has it always been that way? What did people used to do? Most of them farmed. What if I were a farmer a few generations back? I bet an old farmer never despaired. All that sweat and toil and so little control over the end result—that required resilience. Maybe your fields produce so much it rots. Maybe it doesn't rain and all that work goes for nothing. They were kept from daydreaming by their dependence upon nature. They knew their vulnerability from the start. I spent an awful lot of my days dreaming of an important career. That's the culprit for all of this disappointment: the proposition that one's worth comes from what one does. One's subsistence, sure. But worth? Couldn't be. 

Josh interrupted himself to consult his watch. It was time to go. He stood up, tucked in his shirt, and went to the gate. He felt relieved as it swung open with the push of his hand. The one o'clock sun soaked the back of his navy blazer and for a moment Josh was happy. It may not be clean air, but it's moving. That's good enough. Soon, he was covered by the shadow of his building.

Josh tried to reassure himself once his feet were on the maroon carpet again. I need to stop expecting too much from my job. This is something I just have to endure. The Up arrow flashed by one elevator. He waited in front of it. The doors slid open and an empty space invited Josh to join. Moments later, his shoulders drooped from the ascent. 

The office receptionist did not raise her head when Josh came through the doors. He turned and traveled down a bank of cubicles and through a cloud of hushed rhythmic tapping until he reached his own pocket of space. 

Josh's desk was distinguished by its unusually tidy appearance. There were no personal accoutrements save for the stark-white coffee mug with a brown stain from where he drank. He spun his chair around and slunk into his seat. He flexed his fingers, stretched his wrists, and blinked his eyes. He was ready to work.

Breakfast Debate

Aggrieved birds were chirping invective at one another as two long-time companions sat at a table on a diner’s patio. A car, truck, or motorcycle drove by infrequently along the adjacent strip of road.

“Odd isn’t it? Most people would think this place doesn’t exist in the morning hours,” Tom observed.

Earl examined his friend’s countenance, trying to decipher any clues as to the sentiment behind the remark. “Yeah,” he eventually responded.

“Sad isn’t it?” Tom pressed before taking a sip of his black coffee. “What's become of our little town, I mean.”

“Oh, sure. I guess.” Earl paused to think the question over. “Well, maybe. I guess these places lose some of the aura they have about them when they aren't doing what they 're supposed to be doing, like theaters in between shows or uh… ball parks in the winter.”

“Exactly. Sad but good though. A good sad. It’s for the best.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean at least we aren’t deceived about it like the tourists are. I…” A diesel truck boomed past the eatery. “I mean what would change about us and how we, how we thought about theaters if we all saw them being cleaned up with the lights on? Like how employees sees them.”

“There’d be more disaffected children probably. They’re the ones who are usually duped. The tourists though, they just don’t think about it at all. They come here for the night life. But kids—places for children are more special because they don’t make the same assumptions as adults.” Earl rubbed his temples and raked his greasy morning hair with his fingers. “Kids don’t figure everywhere has a cleaning crew. They just figure theaters are automatically ready to play moves anytime.”

“But that’s not right. It’s a bad habit that starts young maybe, the acceptance of ignorance,” Tom lamented.

“That's a harsh way to put it. It’s not so bad. What’s wrong with a little make-believe.?”

“It’s make-believe that’s turning this place into a knock-off Las Vegas. People come down here to make-believe they’re in someplace where they, the travelers, are automatically impressive and important.” Tom looked out at the end of the strip. It was illuminated by streaks from the freshly rising sun. The dimples and cracks in the weathered pavement made the faded asphalt look like elephant skin. “A lot of places would probably shrivel up and die if people knew what they looked like when they weren’t being what you think of them as.”

“Maybe it depends on the sort of place. What places are you thinking of?”

“Take your pick of one of the places up and down here,” Tom said gesturing towards the street with his chin. “That place, for example.” Tom’s finger indicated a rectangular building up the way. It was covered with white siding that grew green from mold in spots. The two windows on the front were covered with alcohol advertisements from inside. Banners with speed boats, white sand beaches, and bottles of beer papered over much of the white siding. The washed out red awning trapped some of the morning rays. “It doesn’t look so great now without the neon signs. Nothing automatic about it, it changing a person. You’re as much of a dope walking in as walking out. More so even.”

“No. It doesn’t look so hot.” Earl raised his mug and smiled to try to get the attention of the waitress who was sitting inside talking with an old man wearing a khaki cap. She nodded to him in acknowledgement and began the process of breaking off the conversation. “But you have to admit unflattering light could ruin a lot of good reputations—of places and people.”

“Yeah.”

“So a bar at sunrise may burst a few bubbles, but so would showing kids what’s behind the puppet show set.”

“Right.” Tom and Earl watched the brown stream fill their mugs as the waitress tipped the coffee pot. Earl looked up at her and nodded with gratitude. She grinned meekly and left without saying a word.

“Knowledge doesn’t solve everything, Tom. I can tell you’re frustrated by this atmosphere, but some people walk off cliffs with eyes wide open, you know? Just adding information to this recipe won’t make it sweeter. People aren't always fooled. Some make mistakes on purpose if they think it's worthwhile.”

“Yeah. It just makes sad to think about what this town makes its money off of.”

“Most towns are no better.”

“I suppose.”

“If you closed down all the bars and strip joints and all the other ‘dens of inequity,’ there’d be a lot more hungry people out there—kid’s too. Some people make good livings bartending.”

“That doesn’t make it right, Earl.”

“No, of course not. It just makes it complicated.”

Tom took a swig of his hot coffee as Earl swirled the creamer into his. “I appreciate your frustration, though. It’s not easy for me coming back here either.” Earl added.

“Yeah,” Tom replied with a hollow voice. He rubbed away a drop of coffee that had dripped onto the wooden table. Almost on cue, the flow of traffic increased with the eight o’clock hour. 

“Do you think ignorance is bliss, Earl?”

“It can be.”

“No it can’t! It never can.”

“How do you figure?”

“A person can feel… undisturbed in a state of ignorance, but that’s not bliss. Bliss is more than that.”

“Sounds blissful to me.”

“Then blissful and bliss aren’t the same.”

“Adjectives and nouns aren’t the same, no, but they’re related.”

“Not identical.”

“Most of the time they’re indistinguishable. How are you going to tell the difference between a blissful person and a person in bliss? How would you know in your own case?”

Tom slightly wrinkled his nose. “Well, I guess there’s… Are you just being a contrarian here or do you really value stupidity this much?”

“Who said anything about stupidity? We’ve been talking about ignorance.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Ignorance is a lack of knowledge. Stupidity is an inability to acquire it.”

“Ah. So all stupid people are ignorant, but not all ignorant people are stupid.”

“That about right.”

“Hm. Well, that’s all fine and well—but it’s besides the point. Why are you defending ignorance so much?”

“Because you’re so offended by it.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like seeing my old friend so upset.”

“You’ve got an odd way of calming people down.”

“What? Setting them straight?”

“Straight? Hm. And I though you liked brokenness.”

“There you go confusing ignorance with stupidity again. You Tom, for instance, are not stupid. You’re so far away from it you’re in danger of being ignorant. Some things you know, some things you should know, some things you can’t know, and some things you shouldn’t know. Wisdom is putting the information in the right boxes.”

“And some things you don’t know.” Tom reminded.

“Right. Of course. But you know so many things that you’ve developed a skewed view of knowledge. Knowledge, in general, is not going to make this world a better place all by itself.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not. All knowledge is good because everything is related, if only distantly. It’s like…it’s like gravity, you know? Every body has a gravitational pull on every other body in the universe, no matter how small it is. It’s the same with learning. Learning is always going to make you a better person. It’ll keep you out of bars.”

“Buddy, knowing how to bake a cake doesn’t make you a better driver and knowing what’s a waste of time doesn’t make you any more industrious. That’s got more to do with emotions and motivations… personal history and the like. Character. It’s not as simple as just proving to people the vice is a vice.”

“You’re wearing me out, Earl.”

“Good. Maybe then you’ll give this preoccupation of yours a rest and you’ll try to have a nice weekend despite all the debauchery around you.”

“Hm. So if I just don’t think about what’s wrong with everything down here, I’ll have a better time.”

“Yep.”

“Sounds blissful.”

The waitress returned with a pen in her hand. Her faded brown hair twitched in the breeze.

Earl spoke into his menu. “I’ll have the uh…biscuits and gravy with sausage.” 

Tom looked into the waitress’s brown eyes. “Oatmeal, please. No raisins.”

The Apology of a Parking Meter Attendant

They say that sympathizing with the enemy is the surest way to lose the war. Allow me, then, to invite your sympathy. My name is Brian Zadich and I am, amongst other things, a meter attendant. I have been for five years. I am excellent at what I do. My feet are swift and my vision is keen. Flashing red half-moons excite me. Whenever I spot them atop park meters, I know I’ll soon have another notch in my belt. 

Probably like you, I do not care for my job in general. Still, I try to make the most of it since I have to work more than a third of my waking hours. I accomplish this in large part by making a game out of ticket writing. Every day I try to beat my all-time record of 42 tickets in eight hours. None of the others currently on staff have gotten above 30 in a day.

Two years ago, my fair city—due to widespread backlogs, decided to no longer observe Labor Day as a holiday. The campaign to inform the citizenry that all governmental offices would be open, including my own, was lethargic. After a coin-flipping tournament, I as the loser was the only attendant not permitted to call in sick or schedule a vacation day. This was a blessing in disguise as the people of my fair city overwhelmingly neglected to feed the meters under the presumption that we had shut down. The day proved to be a boon for revenue as well as governmental productivity. I was rewarded with an improved parking spot in the employee lot for my valiant effort. For the two days that followed, however, my numbers declined due to sore feet and a painful callus on my left hand.

To say mine is a thankless job would be overstating the case. I was once thanked by an irate significant-other of a baby blue sedan owner I had freshly ticketed. She called over to me while I was inspecting meters across the street. She excitedly explained that the owner was with “his other woman” again and had been in a nearby building for over an hour. She showered me with gratitude as she sat on the hood. She went so far as to invite me to return later in the day, referencing the car’s immanent inability to be driven. Not wanting to encourage rash behavior, I made no promise about returning. She accepted my declination with grace. I left wondering what she would do to the owner when he returned with his tie askew and hair tussled. 

Even if it was convenient for me to go through that part of town, I would not have. There is an unwritten code amongst attendants never to write a ticket for the same car twice in one day. It is the only exception I make regarding the writing of tickets. Some years ago, an attendant was walking away from a car he had ticketed in the morning in another part of town when he was shot in the back of the head without warning by the livid driver. I don’t know if the story is true or apocryphal, but it is frighteningly feasible. 

People feel liberated to act differently when they are dealing with an employee rather than a stranger they meet who’s off the clock. When you have a name tag, you have a role. When you have a role, you receive all the scorn aroused by the playwright. The relationship is regulated by different rules than those binding other social interactions. There’s no more need for decorum, tact, or politeness with an employee than there is with a coffee maker. If you met a person who yelled at you earlier in the day while you were wearing a uniform at a crosswalk later in the day and you called him on it, I suspect he’d say something like, “No hard feelings. That was just business.” I suspect he truly believed as much, too. Let me tell you, though, putting a dress on a doll doesn’t make it a different doll and putting a person in a different role doesn’t make her a different kind of being. 

What I loathe most about this circumstance is that, since you’re forced into being a player, you find yourself needed to play by different rules than those that are ethically legitimate. When I first started being threatened, cursed at, and (occasionally) spat upon—which is to say when I first started this job—I tried to talk with the angry people who came upon me writing a ticket or walking away from writing one. Regrettably, I was never able to talk them down. They’d just keep on threatening, cursing, an (occasionally) spitting. The only hope I had in being treated kindly was during the moment I was just beginning to take my pen out of my pocket. Then people were quite warm to me. I remember one such incident where a man came upon me flipping my book to a fresh page. He said, “Hey, boss man, hey, I like your shoes. You don’t have to do that do ya?” When I kept writing, he said in an unsettlingly frank matter, “I ought to break your mother-fucking neck.” I didn’t respond, though I did have to re-write the license number as I jerked the pen whilst writing. That seems to be the best strategy, though, not responding to people. Meaning is lost whenever I try to talk with them. If they can manage to listen, they look at me with frustration as though saying, “I don’t speak meter-maid.”

I would not go so far as to say my job is dehumanizing. Everyone has bills to pay and most of us have to pay them for ourselves. Being in need and attempting to get yourself out of it is very human. I suggest people—those people who insist upon playing this game—are the ones doing the dehumanizing, not occupations. I assume those same people are less than congenial in their private relationships too, but that is conjecture on my part.

I know that I am setting myself up for a charge of hypocrisy. I make a living making people remit major amounts of money for making minor transgressions. I initiate a process that could lead to less bread on the table. I am not in a position to validate the laws of this place. Let me defend myself instead by asserting I have never written someone up without seeing a flashing red half-moon next to his vehicle. I simply enforce the laws of my city. If you think them unfair, then please stop coming here. If you cannot stop coming here, then please drop in an extra quarter and save yourself the trouble. Though I may play a game with myself, I umpire the game you all play with the powers-that-be. You cannot justly blame the umpire for your poor pitching, as it were. Law enforcers, of whom I am one small member, must abide by the state rules, otherwise confusion and error would reign and chaos would trample order. It's that serious. I am sorry for the inconvenience, but that's the point of a disincentive. 

Storm

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 gray 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 unfurling storm. The wind tousled his hair and cooled his scalp. On occasion, he passed scurrying figures frantically taking down patio 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 ominous sense of change around him. He eagerly 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 swelling just behind.

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 pin oak 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 well to be playful, if only on occasion. Without it, you may be deceived into thinking you retain more power and control 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, so art is playful and debauchery is reckless.

Minor vibrations charging from a thunder clap reverberated through his feet. On cue, the deluge commenced. Soon, every exposed thing was distorted by a sheer curtain of water pouring past it or bouncing off of it. The man’s clothes darkened a shade upon the fiber's absorption. His gait remained steady and his gaze transfixed. He was glad to be alive.

Exchange between Exes

Dear Sophia,

I frequently wonder why it is we are the only creatures cursed with the power of introspection. Humans, for all their aptitude for second-guessing and regret, are more pitiable than all the other animals. While other sentient beings may shriek and cry at the commencement of a torturous injury or the onset of death throes, we are proficient in pain beyond immediate agony. In us are piled volumes of woe so unspeakable as to never be uttered, if they are fully utterable at all. Have you ever considered how much guilt we have buried into the Earth along with our ancestors? How the great majority of it never we breathed to a confidant amplifies the tragedies?

As to the source of our woes, we are often none the wiser. A scant few of us are keen to a portion of our shortcomings. Others, I have found, never seem to alight upon a one of them. Most are prone to only have presentiments of thorns in our side, a nagging splinter one never manages to extract. Yet it is these pesky facts that never allow us full comfort, even in repose. As I have aged, I have gained a greater awareness the thorns lodged in me. None gives me as much discomfort as the one you placed there as a testimony to my misdeeds against you. The affliction has not let me forget, although you, I assume, have long since forgotten me.

I cannot be rid of this remorse. I venture you have known me to be insincere in all weighty matters, but I swear this apology is ripe and earnest. Forgive me, please, for what I did—all of it—and for the state in which I left you. Please forgive me, as well, for conjuring up these faded recollections. If I could rest, I would not take the risk of upsetting you after so long. As it is, I am relieved 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 better than to disturb you once more.

Honestly,

Alan

***

Dear Alan,

What an uncanny sensation for my hand to once again write a salutation addressed to you. I cannot say I imagined having the opportunity since we went our separate ways. Upon reviewing your alarming introduction, I resolved to respond.

If there is a thorn that has been lodged in your side for five years, then no other human has put it there. Have you considered the pricking of your conscience may be a divine intervention, instead? I can assure you that—whatever its origin—my forgiveness will not help guilt's pain abate. All the same, you have what I can give you, though it has never proven to suffice.

Take heart. You flatter yourself to presume my wounds are so ill-healed as to be torn afresh by a single prompting to recall our past. You have neither upset me nor been forgotten by me. I think fondly of you when I catch a waft of Indian cuisine or hear a movement from the Slovanic Dances. Otherwise, I think of you not. Along the way, I have learned it is best to meditate on general principals and universal truths and allow the ungainly details to recede.

While I am saddened to hear you're haunted, I must add I think it fair. There is so little fairness in this world that to be graced by feelings befitting your past deeds bodes well for you. As you wrote in your letter, few people possess clarity about who they are. Fewer still comprehend the sobering truths of their sins and vices. Although I can forgive you for what you did to me, I cannot forgive you for what you are. You'll need to take that account up with someone higher up, as it were.

In regards to disturbing me, you need not fret. I customarily have the leisure to write letters and generally try to be of service, even to a sick pup such as yourself.

Sincerely,

Sophia

***

Dear Sophia,

I was aware of the limitations of your forgiveness from the outset. I did not, however, dare to dream it would be so easy to attain. For all of your characteristic kindness, I remember you could be quite stern and exacting if the moment warranted it. My condemnation was the words by which we parted. 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 humbled you decided to break that promise for my sake. I hope to provide evidence of my reformation—though the change is late in commencing.

I have needed the aid of a saint for some time now, someone who can reconnect me to life. I am a pariah. All the circles I used to travel in have spurned me. The social loops opened long enough to cast me out and then resealed. Consequently, I have been relegated to solitude more than I am accustomed. I cannot discern whether my melancholy is from loneliness or from discovering what poor company I provide. Regardless, I spend as much time in my preoccupations as my occupation, the rest being squandered in sleep or stupor.

I have the gilded luxury of considering at length the nature of that disappointment in the confines of my quiet apartment. As an upshot of my soul-searching, I can at least articulate my most pressing fear. I am afraid that I am not the person I thought I was. In the recesses of my mind, I am perpetually disappointed with myself. I have concluded either: (a) I always fail to perform at the utmost level I thought myself capable of or (b) I am not capable of the utmost I hitherto thought I was capable of. In sum, either I lack the will or the prowess to excel.

This whole description is vague and, though you may let the details fall away in your own approach to life, I would be still guiltier before the judge if I withheld relevant information. A case in point: to my consternation, I am nothing more than a lowly salesman. I sell luxury wares to people who, in all likelihood, haven’t the surplus of time to enjoy them because the very reason they can afford the wares we sell is because they are scantly at home. They buy the pricey items for the reassurance that comes from the knowledge of ownership, not the items themselves. I am daily in the company of the class I aspired membership to, yet this only serves to bring my relative pauperism into stark relief. It follows I disdain my job. I tell myself that it is well to be employed and well to earn enough commission to cover my expenses. I console 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 an otherwise silent house: what if the period and my lineage were altered? Would I nonetheless be mired in mediocrity? What if I chronically overestimated my own worth and ability? What if this life I'm muddling my way through is the best I can muster? And so I arrive at my fear of not being the person I thought I was. 

When I was younger and disappointed by my performance, it was natural to say, "But what does it matter now? I am not there yet, but someday I will be." Such excuses 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 struggling to maintain. 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 is no defense. I think I am simply a worthless man with a robust 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 walking privation.

But enough. Your patience must be wearing thin.

I know your task as a confessor is not one of atonement, 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. I am further grateful for your lent ear.

Honestly,

Alan

***

Dear Alan,

I have been tricked. Whether it was you or I who did the tricking, I cannot decide. I had previously been lead to believe you contacted me to make amends. You expressed a desire to ease your conscience regarding your shameful past and the no doubt large part of that past of which our past was made. However, I now see your agenda was not apologetic in intent but pathetic. You continued your narrative with near exclusive emphasis on your own woes and relayed next to nothing about those you inflicted upon me and, presumably, those other circle-goers.

You poor, poor narcissist. Although you may have changed addresses, you still live in a house of mirrors. As much as I do not wish to give you what you desire, I cannot help it. You have my pity. Recall, though, we are commanded to take pity upon the wretched and the weak. I see nothing laudable in understanding yourself more at the expense of knowing others. You cannot hope to gain much of the one without the other. Where is your fellow-feeling? Where is your altruism? You are not as isolated as you take yourself to be. You are a part of a community of people. You cannot be extricated from it by a few people giving you a few cold shoulders. You still have your family, peers, neighbors, and, apparently, me with whom to relate. Please stop thinking so atomistically.

Furthermore, you do not prove yourself remorseful by converting momentary concern for others into a springboard to lamentation. Is it not telling that the only concern you display for others is to heap scorn on the common person? Have you ever asked yourself why it is so odious to you to be average (whatever that means and however you measure it)? Scores of average people are happy enough and rightfully so. From the looks of it, you would rather be a tormented genius than a contended pleb. Let me clarify the option for you, since the dream has gotten out of hand.

Genius is rarely respected. The rest of us cannot properly fathom the trait when it makes an appearance. The brunt of the individuals who are widely appreciated are so because they are relatable, not because they are an unapproachable breed. (I am not arguing we ought to live for the esteem of the laity. Esteem is oft misplaced, as you yourself can now attest.) What is more, genius bears within itself the germ of its undoing. Barring an overdose of arrogance, the genius knows better than we normals the extent and whereabouts of his or her limitations. With greater acumen comes more acute grief.

I did not communicate clearly earlier when I referenced principles and details. Details are important, though we ought not rehash them incessantly. Minutiae are the font of dreadfully myopic emotional lives. That said, what is it exactly that you want? Be specific. Is it an income with more zeros before the decimal? Do you crave the esteem of your critics? Would you like to be the protagonist in a modern tragedy? You poor honors-chaser! You are on a forlorn treadmill, busy making no progress. How often need you be dissatisfied in short order upon gratifying your desires before you realize that you are fickle before anything else?

At least you have sought assistance, though you expect me to do the greater part by running to your assistance. If you have been mistaken in your own estimation of self, so be it. Be mistaken no longer and leave the cycle altogether.

Sincerely,

Sophia

***

Dear Sophia,

Please forgive the tardiness of my response. The delay is amply fathomable when you consider the extent of your criticisms. I am wounded, but I cannot say I did not deserve your lashes. You have me dead to rights. You still know me better than myself.

You asked what I wanted specifically out of life. I take your query as a response to my airing of grievances. If I were able to relay my demands to you, I would be the exceptional man I long to be. The details bewilder me. So many scenarios would be preferable to the one I am currently chained to. I can sense that frustration and despair follows from not being clear-headed on the topic, but what can I do? Do you presume to know what it is you want, specifically? My sense for what affronts me has always been keener than what I require. I can, for instance, assuredly assert that I do not want to be here in this apartment. I do not want to be forever relegated to my lowly position. I have tried and tried and tried to take care of myself, to maneuver and advance—for naught! I am mired in a pool of quicksand. I am sinking into the slop of false accusations and disrespect. The ignominy of it all! Have you ever been lambasted by a 'superior'? How can the world function with power so haphazardly bestowed upon blockheads!

Enough of these ravings. I do not want to court more reproaches.

I confess I feel frail and prone to rambling. I am exhausted by my inner-volleys. I was proud, am wretched, and dart between the two sides every minute. In the social sphere, I have fallen and rightfully so. I have been conniving. But in my livelihood: here I am an innocent victim. The shame of it all! I am spared from downcast introductions only because I'm not one new asks. Why is job title the first question out of everyone's mouths? "What do you do?" I perform various and sundry acts. This morning I awoke, made my bed, ate breakfast, watered my house plants, dressed, brushed my teeth, and shaved my face. I packed a lunch and drove my car—all before 8 a.m., mind you. "But what do you do?" Oh, you mean specifically. I am paid to squander my time, if you must know. Isn't that how it always is? How tired I am of all of it!

Am I so conceited, Sophia? I do not take myself to be. Should that concern me? Can self-loathing and hubris coincide in one person to such a fevered pitch? I fear the surest sign of a prideful heart is a lack of contrition. Memories of my callousness towards you shame me, but I may have confused my wealth of vexation for guilt. How is it that a man can try to do no wrong and yet transgress the boundaries of error at every turn? You do not hold my mistakes against me, merciful creature that you are, and yet I feel as though pinned. 

At the risk of decorum, I always wished I could love you. I never could see it through. I am a changed man, a child awakening. Like a child, I am cranky and irritable. I cannot carry on with this. I am as confounded by what I expected from this correspondence as what I expected from this life. I am sorry for dumping this refuse upon your doorstep.

Yours,

Alan

***

Dear Alan,

My tone was stern. I admit I turned the screw too far. For that, I apologize. Let us both calm down and take stock of the situation. You are somewhere between proud and miserable. I am somewhere between unnerved and concerned. Let's both commit to baring only the better side of our Janus-faced hearts. In order to do that, you need to stop thinking about deserts and I need to stop considering you my responsibility.

I think you are completely right in your dissatisfaction regarding the standard mode of personal identity. We are all much more than our titles suggest. Still, convention demands strata be swiftly revealed. Moreover, convention has a knack for simplifying what would otherwise be needlessly complicated. If we could not draw upon a set of stock questions to ask at dinner parties and church meetings, how much more awkward would first meetings be? Moreover, one can gain insight into a person from know how she spends a third of her waking hours. It would be ill-advised to conclude that her current station is her final destination, of course. To learn how she reconciles herself to the role would be informative. Granting a concession to propriety, I would applaud that original person who would ask what I did this morning instead of where I work or who's my spouse.

While on the topic of queries, I'd like to make you aware of a possibility. You could genuinely ask me about myself. That would be original, wouldn't it? You could ask me what I have done with myself the last five years. I would then tell you how, after we parted ways and I went through the requisite mourning process, I decided to pick up anchor and set sail for this metropolis. (I assume my mother was kind enough to forward you my address. She was incorrigibly fond of you.) My experience here has been, all in all, refreshing. It is simultaneously easier to lose yourself and to be found in a big city. I appreciate the anonymity dense populations provide, although being in close proximity to so many other people increases your chances of meeting a scoundrel. Everything here is faster. There is no time for pleasantries, yet there remains just enough for rudeness. Even then, the city proves ambivalent. Provided the offender is not a neighbor, the odds are against ever running across the same villain. It is safer to turn your cheek here as a result, since it is improbable to be struck twice. Wouldn't it be nice that I could say all this and it would appear we were interacting rather than alternately acting? But I am distracting myself, imagining as I do.

I hope you are better now. Do yourself a favor and search out someone to help in whatever small way you may.

Regards,

Sophia

***

Dear Sophia,

I apologize for not asking you sooner about your subsequent past. I intended to do so, but I admit I am not healthy enough to make good on good intentions. It is all but impossible for a person so adrift in his own past to maintain curiosity about another.

As usual, your critique it apt. Perhaps we can finagle a way for you to live my life for me. Ah, but that would not work either, would it? I suspect you are not immune to the commonplace form of ignorance that so easily afflicts us all. I will never understand how oblivious we can be about our own motivations. What does it say about self-absorption that, for all of the attention, we know less about who we are after a session of navel-gazing?

To continue the list, I will never understand how we can at once be so free and so out of control. What paths would we take were it not for the light other people cast on us? I think you're the only person I have every taken seriously. You actually prompt me to wonder about what's inside you.

Look at what I am doing. I am lying another trap for myself. Enough of all this. Forgive me for being so slow to right myself. Forgive me for all of the forgiveness I request. I'll stop.

I agree with your course. Let's move on. Let's be friends, ask questions, and tell stories of the city and chance encounters. We can rebuild our castle. We would both be benefited by that, right? 

The other day I was washing my hands in the lavatory at my workplace. As I was rubbing the soap on my fingers into a lather, the building custodian entered. I recognized him but could not greet him by name. I do not recall him ever uttering a word in my presence. He had a couple rolls of toilet paper tucked under his arms. He was surveying the bathroom's supplies. He was bashful. I watched him in the mirror dart from stall to stall. While he riffled through the keys on his large key ring, I said hello. He turned towards me with a surprised look. "Good afternoon," he replied with a little hesitation. Not knowing what to add and thinking it too obvious to compliment him on the cleanliness of the facility, I asked him instead about his plans for the weekend. He smiled and looked more at ease. His shoulders sagged to a less tense position. He told me he was taking his wife and child to the local amusement park to celebrate his son's high marks in school. I told him that sounded grand and wished him a good time. He smiled again and returned to his duties. I watched him grab an orphaned wad of paper from the ground and flick it into the trashcan. He told me to have a good evening. 

As I discarded my paper towels into the receptacle, I reviewed what had transpired. It seemed as though, in an unplanned moment, I involved myself in an exchange that featured two of the topics from your last letter. At once, I was a participant in a conventional conversation and was helping someone (albeit in a trifling manner). I know it helped me. Small, congenial human interactions disproportionally affect us. He and I managed to care for each other more than the sycophants who ask me what I do for a living while looking past me to see if someone else of greater stature has been freed up for fawning conversation.

This story above is a means to thank you and prove that a few of your seeds of wisdom have taken root in me. I am taking you seriously. For further proof, I close this letter with questions for the recipient. And so, what was on did you do this morning? Do you have any tales you'd like to tell? I'd be a liar if I assured you I was all ears, but I am not truly myself when I am being all mouth either.

Yours,

Alan

***

Dear Alan,

I am pleased and relieved to read of your kind act. May it be the first in a lengthy succession. To that end, refrain from the practice of self-commendation, lest it outstrip your merits or disorient you from forward movement. We ought to be charitable toward others for their sake, not for our own. Any fruit we reap from the good deeds we do are accidental and must not be part of our motivation.

But enough of that, as you say.

I have found that directness is the surest way to bear bad news. The preceding paragraph is exemplary of why I cannot indulge in correspondence with you any longer. I am not your caretaker, still less am I your confessor, or your priestess. Yet, even after years, we are swift to perform our familiar parts. They are the most comfortable. 

I will take a turn begging your pardon. I am sorry for beckoning your interest. We are not, as has been borne out previously, edifying for each other. I fear I would forestall you from fully realizing your independence were I to persist in offering correction.

For my justification, I cite no less an authority than Aristotle, who found parody to be at the core of the richest friendships. Suffice it to say, our souls haven't the requisite resemblance. I here make no judgment, let alone indictment, of character. I am merely stating the obvious. Our goals and are our aptitudes are too disparate to sustain a relationship, however innocently we come by it.

Lasting isolation does a man ill, but proper seclusion often yields wise perspective. We are both on that path, I take it. Let's not ruin our chances by drawing this out.

Sincerely,

Sophia

Inanimate

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 the 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 guess I figured that cars and skyscrapers went together. For a while at least 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 out of our everyday experiences. 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? Like has an influence that we don't even see?”
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 maybe. 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 and pollution? I told you I’m not interested in getting a different car. Ice caps be damned.”
“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 dark hair 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 or way less necessary. 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, devices saying hello and goodbye and are you sure?”
“And your coworkers and guys in the elevators and on the streets and what-have-you.”
“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 make people more polite in society if that’s what you’re after.”
“But they have glossy eyes. Horses all have those glossy brown 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 in time.”
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? Mm... 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 uh moaning. This funk you've been in is... annoying."
"Because I'm challenging you to empathize?"
"No, because you're filling my ears with whiny sob stories and silly dreams. 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 head 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 so drab."
"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 fading 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 tried 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. I'm your co-worker. 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 be 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.

Dejection

Desperate to say something, Benjamin grabbed a flyer that had been left on the grey cafeteria table. In haste, he flipped the paper over and riffled through his pocket for a pen. Feeling the plastic, he closed his fingers around it and brought it into the artificial light with the rest of him. With thoughts of his lover on his mind, he scrawled the following message:

I wish I could tell you something beautiful, like that every person has a single truth in his heart that he needs to tell the world. But I can't. I can't lie to you. Nothing beautiful stays. Whatever is beautiful—if anything is—is always breaking apart and being renewed. As soon as I would tell you, you'd start to forget it. Then it would die into nothingness, never to be remembered. That's our destiny—to become as much of a non-entity after death as we were before birth. I'd hate to tell you something beautiful because it would only go to nothing in the end. Everything is always dying because consciousness is fickle and fading. That's what I'm most afraid of—becoming nothing. I tried so hard in my youth to get the attention of others because it felt as though they kept me alive with their looks. I could never keep up though. I died too often, and now I'm too old and too tired to try. Writing you this letter is the only way I know how to keep myself around anymore. Since I have no intention of giving it to you, I've succumb to relying upon myself to keep my self alive. It's narcissistic, I know, but it's better than letting go of my grip on

Benjamin stopped writing. He grew frustrated and wanted to leave. He crumbled up the piece of paper, picked up his books, and left. On his way out into the setting sunlight, he dropped the note into a trashcan he passed by. He saw it land on top of a plastic cup full of ice before walking on. The wind was warmer than the surrounding air and felt to him like being breathed upon. 

He passed some of his peers. He did not recognize their faces, but overheard familiar discussions about recent parties. His level of dejection increased and he lowered his gaze to watch the sidewalk. He intended on visiting a copse of nearby trees, although he had no intention of stopping there. Benjamin was unsure about where to settle. He hated how his emotions revolted against him and how, in so doing, made light of themselves. Now he was in a frenzy. By this time tomorrow, he thought, he may be feeling fine and laughing with Aubrey. He was disgusted by the progression of time and its way of belittling the present. He felt himself insignificant and hopeless. 

A patch of tall grass at the intersection of the curb and sidewalk flicked in the breeze, its heavy crown of seeds bending the blades downward. Benjamin observed this and the sporadic piles of geese droppings along his way. He was approaching a man-made pond. The noise of crickets disturbed the ambient silence as his pace remained even. Sweat began bubbling on his forehead in reaction to the early summer evening. 

Benjamin was disappointed in what life had become. He had no clarity regarding what exactly it should be, but knew well enough that something was amiss. There was not enough grandeur, not enough wish-fulfillment, not enough love. There were instead games to be played, forms to fill out, and intricate dances to perform with the gatekeepers. When he was younger, he did not think extensively about the actual experiences of his adulthood, what it would be to live as an adult. He only imagined he would be important and well-liked. Somewhere in the midst of trying to become important, he realized he would not be. Ever after, living was difficult.

He abandoned the pavement and heard the slosh of the field beneath him. Four river elm trees grew on the north side of the pond. Benjamin watched the gentle jostling of their limbs. Their silver diamond leaves shimmered in waves. He thought of how foreign they looked against the expanse of flat land on the periphery of the campus. Someone planted them many years ago to make amends for the forest of previously felled trees. They made for a refuge. He would rest against them and wait for his dismay to pass like the clouds.

Deserting Deserts

Big-box stores flanked Jacob and Francis as they walked to rent a movie they had not yet determined. While waiting for cars to pull through the entrances and streets they crossed, the sun warmed their exposed skin. Upon resuming their stroll, the brisk early spring wind infiltrated their cotton clothes. Their tennis shoes struck softly on the worn asphalt, establishing a syncopated rhythm to the music of passing cars. 

"The other day I was reading Kant for a class. He said something interesting I wanted to float by you." 

"Uh huh."

"Well, I don't remember the whole discussion exactly. The point of the whole thing was that our—people's—purpose is not to be happy, but to be the sort of beings that deserve happiness."

"Mmhm."

"That's it. That's what I wanted to float by."

"Oh. Um. No. No, that's a load of shit."

"I figured you'd disagree. Now tell me why."

Francis exhaled loudly, as though explanation was a strain. "Ugh. No. I don't want to. I'm tired of this stuff. Ever since you started going to college, it's like you're a... a thought-mercenary vigilantly guarding this fair city against errors." Francis gestured towards the landscape with a sweep of his arm. "I just want to rent a movie, Jake. That's what we left the house for."

"Calm down. I'm just curious. You know that about me."

"Yes. Always just curious. But look, curiosity doesn't involve an agenda beyond learning the facts, you know. When you're just curious, you open that door in the attic, take a peek in, and shut the door knowing it has a bunch of cobwebs and old lamps and posters in it. This has more of an agenda to it. You're a moralist and you've come back to make moralists out of all of us."

"Oh, get off it. We used to have these kinds of conversations."

"Well, while you were off at college filling your head with dusty thoughts I've been here handing douche bags coffee they're disappointed in and mopping up old man piss in the men's room. I'm more worn out than I was in high school and I'm a helluva lot less curious. Shit wears on you. I've seen more of the world than you have, and it's not so great. We're not so great. I was hoping to have a little easy-going fun with an old buddy."

"What'd you call me for then? I've never been much of a fun lover."

"Because I was bored and heard or read or whatever that you were in town and figured I'd have to call you to snatch you away from your books. Because I knew you wouldn't call me on your own."

"And you were bored because everyone else was busy with their what?... jobs and drinks and the forced and way uncomfortable get-togethers that pass for parties now?"

"Something like that. Neither one of us fit that scene to a T. I thought we could both use the company to pass the time."

"And we are. We're talking."

"We're not passing time. You're trying to take us outside of time or something...to the wonderful world of ideas. But that doesn't work the same way. Time flies when you're having fun because you aren't thinking about yourself. Nothing is more tedious, more arduous than introspection. You philosophical types need to figure that out and lighten up a bit. Honestly, I don't know how you do it day-in and day-out."

Bunches of windblown hair settled out of place on the friends' heads as they entered the vestibule of the store. Past a bank of carts and through another set of sliding doors, they were greeted by a faint smell of spices. The brown tile featured a diminution of footprints from dirty parking lot water that had been tracked inside. The lights overhead cast an unnatural sterility onto the various goods. 

"It's over here." Francis pointed to a box tucked in between a green coin-counting machine and a row of automated miniature rockets, jeeps, and ponies. The two approached the automated kiosk and Francis began tapping upon the screen.

"I don't want to watch a movie," Jacob said.

"What? Why not?"

"It's too nice of a day outside."

"The sun's going down any minute."

"Let's just take a walk."

"And when we get tired?"

"Um. We'll sit down? I don't care."

Francis turned to face Jacob. "Okay, fine. Deserts, rights, whatever you want to call them—they're all made up. They're make-believe fabrications of politicians and people who have to find things to theorize about for a living. None of us deserve anything. The only obligations I can think of are legal, and we all agree those are made-up anyway. As in like, exist only on paper. The only reason why anyone obeys those obligations is because it's so damned expensive or otherwise shitty to violate them if you're caught. That or the person is scared. Either way, the choice what's-his-name gave you was between happiness and nothing otherwise known as being worth of happiness. That old coot chose the make-believe option and you're well on your way to choosing the same from the sounds of it. So, yeah, for my part, I'll try to scratch out a bit of happiness whether I should have it coming to me or not. So there. Now I've indulged you. Now would you please indulge me and watch a movie and drink a few beers and help me forget about this town and my life in it for a while."

"Well wow. Thanks for that, but I'd rather continue with this line of thinking. Nobody says we can't tip a few back in the process. Or later on. In vino veritas"

A tinny voice squawked above about a sale on paper towels.

"Ugh. Why'd you say you'd watch a movie then?"

"Because I knew you'd cave to persuasion. You like talking too much not to."

A shopping cart rattled nearby. The man pushing it was wearing black sweatpants and walking on the sides of his tattered sneakers. His large abdomen poured over the elastic waistband like a leavened dough over the rim of a mixing bowl. The pink hue of skin lightly contrasted against the heather grey of his t-shirt. "'Scuse me boys. I wanna pick something up."

The two moved back and walked out one after the other. The sun was at such an angle and orientation that its rays lodged in their eyes upon exiting. They squinted reflexively and sought temporary shelter underneath an awning that covered a cache of gardening equipment. They passed a series of smaller storefronts with fading posters and cracked paint exclaiming discounts.

"Right. So, make-believe you say. Hmmm. I don't think Kant was figuring for that. Coincidence and accident bear heavily on happiness, though, right?"

"Completely."

"And that's not fair."

"No. Look. There you go again. That's not not fair. Fair has nothing to do with it. There is no fair. Some people catch the breaks and some people are broken. It is what it is."

"And that doesn't upset you?"

"Sure it upsets me, but there's nothing I can do about it. It's not up to me so I leave it go."

"What's not?"

"Meting out justice."

A bell jangled nearby. A mother and her young daughter exited a cheap hair salon. Jacob heard the mother ask what the girl wanted for dinner as they walked past. "McDonald's!" he heard behind him.

"Not in a grand way, no. But in other ways you do. You give people back exact change for one thing."

"Because I don't want to get fired."

"And because you don't want to take some poor schlub's money."

"Not many poor schlub's come in where I work. Mostly business-people."

"You sure are difficult. You do need some lightening up."

"That's what the movie was for."

"Well, walks are nice too. Aren't you glad for spring?"

"Sure, sure."

"I think the greater point is that we ought not invest ourselves in something so transitory as happiness."

"As if nothing is more permanent than something."

Francis pulled the tab up on his zipper to close his jacket. His chest began the process of warming. "Why do you insist on calling deserts nothing? You really think a person never earns anything?"

"Oh, I suppose people earn all the time but not in the sense you're talking about. We're all earning paychecks, earning wrinkles, earning grey hairs, and ulcers. I don't think there's an earn beyond what we agree to like as a society or whatever and what nature gives us, though—some earn with a capital 'e'."

"Is that because you've not gotten what you think you should have, so you've ditched the notion of should altogether—called it nonsense?"

"Maybe."

"And if I were to tell you it was a shitty hand you were dealt and I think you deserved better, what would you say?"

"I'd say it is what it is and I don't care."

"Because you can't stand to care anymore."

Francis stopped. "Come again?!"

"You're just as guilty of imagining as you think Kant and all the politicians and the professional thinkers are. Rather than admit life currently sucks through no fault of your own and reserve some dignity for yourself by asserting that you deserve better, you'd rather deny the possibility and make light of the situation—which it is not. The situation is not light. Sticking your head in the sand in order not to see does not stop the predator from attacking. It just keeps you from feeling anxious and maybe becoming scared into doing something about it."

Francis looked into Jacob's eyes. The setting sun ducked behind a multi-tiered signpost for a shopping center. A passing car honked at the two of them, but neither were distracted from their gazes. "And what exactly do you expect me to do about it, Jake? I'm flat broke. I can't so much as afford brand-name cereal."

"Money's got nothing to do with this. Well, it hasn't much to do with this. If you can't buy generic cereal... Anyway, I'm talking about having a little righteous pride and thumbing your nose at injustice. I'm expecting you to do what you can—which is still a great deal. You're too smart to play dumb. You can't just loaf around here. It's not in you."

Francis started walking in the direction they had been headed previously. "Come on."
Jacob took his place aside his friend, who started to speak without looking at him. 

"Conversations with you still get blurry. Have you managed to make new, smart friends with that quirk of yours?"

"A few."

"A few more than me then. I'm bored. Really. I feel like I'm shriveling up."

"What've you been up to?"

"I don't know. Work. Watching my roommates watch television. I think I stare a lot."

"Hung it up already, huh? What're you... eighteen?"

"Nearly nineteen. Same as you."

"Besides recognition, what is it that you can get in college that you can't get here on your own?"

Prompted by the throbbing of his fingertips, Francis stuck his hands in his pockets to escape the air. "Vegetarian entrees?"

Both of the boys snickered.

"Seriously, though..."

"Recognition would be good for starters."

"Plenty of people are recognized that shouldn't be. You ought to know whether or not you've done something well without others patting you on the back for it."

"What am I going to do well out here? Latte art?" Francis smirked.

"Well, I wouldn't make that the only thing you try to do well, but sure... latte art can be beautiful and it would be a good thing to brighten another person's day with a nice leaf or some such."

"Yeah, yeah."

"See? You really need to pay attention to Kant's point. It's better to pursue the desert of recognition from one who is qualified to give it than to be recognized by those who may or may not be."

"Uh-huh. Whoever that someone is."

"Want to go swing on some swings?"

"Mmhm."

The two friends turned the corner and headed up the street to a local park with a patch of grass and four scrawny trees. Furry buds had begun poking their way out of branches.