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.