“Nonsense.”
“Cancer reimbursements have dropped by nearly eighty percent. The government has realized there’s no benefit to keeping old folks alive.”
“Who cares about the oldies?” Dr. Hines asks.
“Don’t you see the irony? You’ve been the tool’s biggest champion. Now you’re its victim.”
“They’re keeping you over me? Impossible.”
“Serena is my best friend.”
“You’ve got to help me, Henri, please!”
At that moment I’m struck by an unholy desire to do something I’m certain will one day warrant shame and regret—to suffer for another. In this life, I’ve had nothing but need. Without fail I have always pursued everything I wanted with resolute tenacity. Where, then, is this coming from, this craving to see my own ends melt away? What’s in a man’s mind is so much easier to fathom than what’s in his heart, even if that man is you.
“Maybe there is one thing I could do.”
“Don’t toy with me, Henri.”
I’ve never seen a man debase himself like this. Dr. Hines is now undeniably wallowing in despair. His face has no color, his breathing is heavy—it’s as if he’s fleeing a burning house. And now—it beggars belief, truly—not only is the man pulling out his hair, but he is actually eating it. This brings me no joy. The sadist in me has taken leave.
“I’ve been considering taking a sabbatical for some time now. Rachel and I think a bit of travel would be good for Julian’s development. I didn’t think it would be for a few years yet, but this seems like as good an opportunity as any.”
“You would do this for me?”
“Dr. Hines. You’re my friend, and friends help each other out.”
“Henri, you’re a saint!”
“There’s just one thing.”
“Anything!”
“A very close friend of the family needs a position in the second-year medical school cohort. Of course, she’s very qualified—only missed the cut by a single percentile due to circumstances completely outside of her control. You can guarantee this position, I’m correct in assuming?”
“This is the least I can do. I’ll put it in the system now.”
I give him Taylor’s pertinent details, and he completes the forms and sends a confirmation to my gram. She’s to begin the new semester in four weeks. Having drawn up my resignation letter, I extend my hand, but Dr. Hines throws his arms around me and weeps. “No one,” he cries, “has ever done something so kind for me before. I’m ashamed that I once felt you were my nemesis, when in reality you have been my guardian angel.”
I tender my letter to Serena, who, flabbergasted, tries to convince me it’s not too late to renege. But nothing she says matters. The more she tries to persuade me, in fact, the more adamant I become. Finally, in disgust, she throws me out.
I call Taylor as I drive home and deliver the good news. She responds with shrieks of gratitude and joy. “You are a sex god,” she cries, “a humanitarian, gourmet chef, visionary, nurturer, and so on.” Then she begs me to meet her immediately at a hotel to make love. I assure her there’s nothing in the world I’d rather do but that I have business to attend to.
“What could be more important than a celebration? You must know how grateful I am!”
Of course, I don’t tell Taylor what I had to sacrifice for her. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that it’s bad to be understood. Transparency amounts to death. Far better to be obscured by the mists of intrigue and mystery. Taylor should think nothing of me but that I wield great power and influence.
It’s amazing how unpredictably we as humans respond to adversity. Had someone told me yesterday that I would lose my job today, I would’ve foretold a monumental psychic collapse. My whole world turned upside down, yanked up by its roots—what could be worse? There is no fear as awful as the fear of losing the advantages one has worked so hard to gain.
And yet I feel numb, as if none of this is happening to me. What we do in this life means so little. Humanity won’t suffer in my absence. I’m free, I realize, to do anything I choose. Tomorrow I could set out to climb a mountain or dedicate my life to the study of Lepidoptera. I can sit on my couch in my underwear and watch my gram all day, if that’s my desire, rising only to shit and piss and answer the door when the delivery drone brings my pizza.
At home, I tell Rachel I’ve lost my job.
“You were let go, just like that?” she questions. “Serena allowed for this to happen?”
I say nothing of swapping my job for Taylor’s benefit. Rather than bash Rachel over the head with the truth, I spoon-feed her bits of optimism.
“Now I can spend more time with you and Julian,” I say, “and resume my interests in the fine arts. There are so many wonderful and varied opportunities to pursue in this world. Now’s my chance to discover them all!”
But Rachel can only harp on the practical. For nearly thirty minutes she babbles about how I’ve placed us in a precarious financial position and diminished our social standing. As she goes on, I’m consumed by dread. What a fool I am! We’re doomed! Never has a stupider man walked the earth! Yet no matter how much self-hatred I feel, I know Rachel would eat me alive if I let her see it. I remain, therefore, all smiles. I kiss and hug her passionately and yap about my excitement for our future.
My fickleness—this back and forth between ecstasy and loathing—has led me to one conclusion: my place in the world is most precarious. I may have once believed in my security, and I may have even managed to attain some happiness, but it was all tenuous. Here I am again, open to life’s slings and arrows, as if I were twenty years old and just starting out in the world.
32
I haven’t left the house for more than a combined total of two hours in the week since I lost my job. I’ve walked the dog, once, and gone to the market, once, the first time in years, at that. Meantime, I’ve watched twenty-two Oscar winning films. Paul Newman has got more charm and wit in his little finger than all of today’s actors together. I watched Cool Hand Luke twice yesterday. Then I began watching movies in chronological order, up to 2023, after which American film for all intents and purposes expired. Last week, for example, Paramount released Iron Man XXV, in which Robert Downey Jr’s grandson, Robert Downey IV, plays the lead. The film did very well on Direct-to-Hologram, which is the only metric nowadays that counts. The big screen is dead. It’s unheard of for anyone under fifty to sit continuously through a film. Studies show that the average nineteen-year-old pauses their gram every thirty-two seconds during a film to do something else: snacks, VR porn, shop, and so on.
Rachel says I stink. I don’t argue. I haven’t bathed or even changed my clothes. Somehow I’ve developed a fear of the shower. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to wash off all of the soap. No matter how many times I rinse, I can’t help but think that I’m still slippery. The last time I showered, it took me an hour to convince myself I’d gotten all the soap off my back, and as I was dressing I still felt the suds. Rachel now makes me sleep in a bag on the floor beside the bed.
Julian, too, is showing concern. This morning he asks me if I want him to wash my sweatshirt.
“What’s wrong with my sweatshirt?” I ask.
He points to the barbeque sauce stains. “Have you noticed, Dad, the flies buzzing all around you?”
I think he’s made a joke, but then I see I really am surrounded by flies. I let him show me how to use the washing machine. It really is a complicated piece of machinery. Over fifteen different cycles and an infinite number of water temperatures to choose from. Perhaps Julian has received some formal training that I’ve not been made privy to. He expertly runs through a series of buttons. As I toss my pants into the machine, Mr. Toczauer’s suicide pill falls from my pocket and bounces off Julian’s shoe. Before I can reach it, he’s picked it up.
“What’s Euthasol?” he asks.
“That’s not for you,” I say.
“It’s pink and it looks like candy,” he says, raising it to
his lips.
At this, Emma interrupts. “Julian,” she says, “Euthasol is a drug administered to patients who wish to end their lives in a humane and pain free manner.”
“Jesus Christ, Emma,” I mutter.
“Is that true, Dad?”
“It was for a patient of mine, but he already died. I forgot I had it in my pocket.”
Julian stares at me, believing, I’m convinced, that I intend to kill myself. He hands me the pill, and I tuck it away.
33
For years, as different professions became obsolete, I always said that being freed from the burden of work would be a blessing. It would allow people to pursue more noble ambitions than mere life-sustaining employment. Every person has some unique quality and aptitude that can bloom like a desert rose if given the right attention. I once knew a lawyer who late in life developed a passion for magic. After a twelve-hour day, he would have dinner with his wife and then retire to his study to practice his tricks. It was unbelievable what he had accomplished in just six months of practicing, an hour per day. When I told him how impressed I was, he scoffed.
“I’m nothing but a rank amateur,” he said. “A real magician is a thousand times better. I would need to practice all day, every day to get really good.”
Not long after that conversation he lost his job, displaced by a new software program, and for a few months he did practice every day. But then he began to plateau, and new tricks became harder and harder to learn. Soon he grew bored and quit. When I said it was a shame, he told me that without his day-job as a lawyer, the magic became a chore and lost its appeal. In its place, he found a new hobby: consuming copious amounts of food. All day long he would loaf about the house eating all varieties of regional and exotic cuisines. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have Thai, Chinese, BBQ, Italian, and hamburgers all delivered in the same day. Within a year, he had gained a whopping one hundred and twenty pounds. Almost unfathomable, considering in his youth he’d been a long-distance runner. Shortly after, he died of a heart attack. He was only fifty-nine.
I use this cautionary tale as motivation. It’s important my activities and goals meet all of the following criteria: challenging, rewarding, attainable, sustainable, impressive.
It’s not long before I’m convinced I should build a rocking chair. I search my gram for books on the craft and then pour through them for hours. I see what tools I have. Of everything I need, I own just a hammer and a tape measure. No matter. Within the hour, I have a circular saw, two hand saws, a jigsaw, a set of chisels, a wood mallet, and a work bench delivered to my house. I examine each of my new tools. I pick them up, I feel their heft, I study their instructions. By sundown, I have sketched over thirty iterations of designs for my chair. Each has its flaws, of course, but there is something unique in all.
In my sleeping bag that night, I dream of the wonderful chairs I’ll make. At 6:00 a.m., I rise with the sun and return to my garage. It seems impossible as I scrutinize yesterday’s work that these are the drawings I created. Then, I saw in them genius. Now, I see but the flailing of a neophyte.
I work for the next three days on my first chair. This isn’t work, but obsession. Endless amounts of measuring, sawing, hammering, screwing, and sanding. It takes me two to three times longer than it would a skilled craftsman to accomplish the simplest tasks. But what I lack in aptitude, I compensate with passion. More than once I cause myself injury in pursuit of glory. A handsaw cuts my arm, so badly that blood sprays me in the face. My garage looks like the scene of a heinous crime. Another time, while operating the circular saw, I take a piece of wood to the eye. For an hour, I’m nearly blind. But I press on!
Rachel visits to check on my progress. She can’t understand why I’m doing this. The implication is that I’m irresponsible and derelict in my familial duty. Over the hum of my belt-sander, I’m almost certain I hear her say I should be out looking for a job. I tell her that I’m teaching Julian a valuable lesson, leading by example, rather than simply paying lip-service to following one’s heart.
“Tell me,” she says. “In today’s society, what benefit is there to such a pursuit?”
After hours of toil and strain, I’ve learned several things. First, constructing a rocking chair is infinitely harder than one might imagine. The craftsmanship required is unparalleled, in the same category as brain surgery. One simple miscalculation or slip of the hand leads to certain catastrophe. Second, humanity has lost a great deal from its abandonment of physical work. Even in today’s factories, workers no longer build anything. They only service the machines and software that do. Yet there is dignity in making things with your hands that will never be found in more cerebral work.
As I finish sanding the chair’s rockers, I think about the Bradford campaign. Perhaps this loud-mouthed demagogue is right. We have all been denying the reality of our situation, which doesn’t make it any less real. What have we gained by increasing the scope of machines and efficiency at the expense of ourselves, the great Homo sapiens? Who does this really benefit? Isn’t it time to reconsider? A step back after a step in the wrong direction is a step in the right direction!
I put the finishing touches on my work and am nearly ready for a test rock. But first, I want to pay reverence to my accomplishment. This is, perhaps, the most satisfying thing I’ve done since I quit making music. This project has helped me to regain some semblance of my self-esteem. Because that’s exactly what making art requires—ego! A man must work for his brilliance. It’s a journey unfit for the faint of heart—the possibility of failure lurks at every step.
Ego is the exact opposite of what it takes to be a good doctor. Being a good doctor means subjecting oneself to the laws of science, as they’ve been presented to you by the universities, the textbooks, and the journals. It means understanding the literature, knowing the protocols, and following them to the letter. It’s taking the good work of others and applying it in a way that has been systematically created so that you cannot in good conscience impose your own ideas upon it. None of this leaves any room for creativity or self-expression.
My heart is racing. My palms are sweating. My mouth is dry. I can’t stop twitching. This must be that long-forgotten feeling of anticipation and excitement that I vaguely remember from my youth. Looking at my chair, I have to admit, it’s not a masterpiece. It lacks the majesty and refinement of a rocker worthy of Mark Twain’s sitting room. However, it does emit a certain stateliness. It possesses gravitas, a level of elevated rank. I throw a sheet over the chair and summon the wife and son for its unveiling. Apparently, they fail to share the same level of elation.
“Why would anyone spend days making a chair,” Julian says, “when you can have one delivered in thirty minutes?”
I rant about the sanctity of labor and remind him of his day stacking wood, and how fulfilling he found it. He counters by stating that at school this week they taught him that every task should be accomplished with the least amount of time and effort. He asks me if I want to make a “plebeian” out of him.
“What I want,” I say, “is to make a man out of you, my boy.”
“A man,” he says, “knows how best to allocate his resources and energies.”
Determined to prove him wrong, I yank the sheet from the chair.
“Ta-da!”
Rachel shrugs. Julian sighs. I’m underwhelmed by their lack of enthusiasm.
“But just wait until you see this baby rock!” I say as I sit down.
The seat is a bit too flat and will require a cushion. The chair’s arms, as well, are too high, and moreover the backrest is too bowed. Finally, when I actually rock the chair, all of my weight shifts left, and the chair tips and sends me to the floor. The stitches in my hand open up, and Rachel jumps back at the sight of my blood, afraid to get it on her shoes. As for my son, he breaks into squealing laughter. Embarrassed by my humiliation, Rachel flees with the boy in hand.
34
I return to my life of idleness.
I watc
h every Oscar winner and then go through the losing nominees. I hate looking at Ben Affleck’s big head. It exhausts me to think how tired his neck must be from carrying it. I become so agitated by the thought that I have to stop watching.
As a child, I loved making lists. I made them of everything—not because I was pragmatic but because they served as a memory game. It’s amazing what you can recall from the vast recesses of your brain when trained to do so.
For the rest of the day, I list off each of my teachers’ names all the way back to pre-school. I recall a time when I am four years old, punished with a “timeout” because I’ve thrown a fit when the teacher tried to make me eat celery slathered in peanut butter and raisins. I snuck away from the timeout chair and took from the refrigerator as much celery as I could, then stuffed it into the toilet. The bathroom floor flooded, yet I jammed more and more celery into the toilet. Soon the water rushed into the hallway and ruined a slew of backpacks, lunches, and jackets.
“You’re an awful little boy, Henri,” my teacher said.
“I hate celery, Ms. Joanne,” I told her, “and I refuse to eat it ever again!”
And there I have it, my nursery school teacher’s name, Ms. Joanne. Six hours later, I have a complete list: sixty-seven teachers in all!
The next few days I spend making lists of every variety, so many in fact I must purchase more storage in the Cloud to make room for them all. Rachel is in hysterics. She says I’m “letting myself go to pot” while coming at me with insults about my appearance.
“You’re virtually unrecognizable,” she says. “What has become of my husband?”
My beard is nearly an inch in length, mostly dark brown, like on my head, but with patches of silver. Rachel refers to it as “slovenly,” but I think it’s regal and distinguished. The hair on my head, however, is greasy and bodiless, and appears much thinner than it is. She’s right about this at least: it’s unbecoming for a man my age.
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