I suppose that calling it early is
strange, too. It certainly did feel early. When you work
nights...or worked nights...nine in the morning seems early. Anyway,
it was very light out. It was painful for a while, and then after a
while, I adjusted, and I decided to go outside.
I sat on the hood of my car, just
looking around at outside. It was not long before I realized that I
had nothing to do. I had no more job, no dates lined up, no more
regular drinking buddies. Life takes attendance, and when a person
quits doing things like going outside and answering the phone for
seventeen days, that will lead to a lot of unexcused absences.
Unexcused absences tend to result in the loss of certain privileges.
Jobs, dating, and regular drinking buddies are probably at the top of
that particular list. Nevertheless, I had not gone outside for
seventeen days, and now, outside seemed the place to be. So I sat
out on the hood of my car and watched people.
I stayed out there for about
forty-eight hours. I think it might have rained.
That's a long time to stay out, just
sitting on the hood of a car. If I'm being generous, it's eccentric.
If I'm being paranoid, it's creepy. It's longer than most people
would spend. In most circumstances, it's longer than I would have
spent. Having just spent the last seventeen days inside, though, I
didn't feel like going back yet, and so I didn't. During the summer,
the nights are warm. At one point, it got a little chilly, but it
was nothing I couldn't handle.
At first, as I watched people coming
and going, I marveled at how different they were, all the shades of
humanity and the different colors they wore. They drove off in
different directions and came back with different things.
Eventually, I decided their difference
was mundane, and their sameness was fascinating. For one thing,
shading is completely meaningless. I went to high school with a
black kid who ended up being an economics professor at Harvard. He
hated basketball. A white kid who graduated a year before him almost
made it to the NBA, though, and one of my best friends in high school
was a little Korean kid who fixes motorcycles for a living now. And
two of them I figured would end up about where they did, back when we
were all fifteen or sixteen.
I also noticed that clothes of
different colors are still mostly the same. They're decorated
differently, but all built on the same few basic plans. No
loincloths or saris or suits of armor. The clothes had another thing
in common: they were built on the same few plans–by somebody else.
Nobody went out and came back with a bolt of cloth and a bag of
spools. When they wanted new clothes, they drove away and came back
with clothes that have tags.
Not just clothes, of course. People
drive out and buy everything. They almost always drive, too. Very
few of them walk. I could have walked from my car to WalMart in
fifteen minutes, but I didn't. So they drive, and they buy. They
don't make their stuff, they rarely trade it, and they don't go
without it if they can find any way not to, even if it would be
perfectly healthy and much easier to do so.
In between the driving and the buying,
there's the working. They go in shifts. They also all go for about
the same amount of time, even though they don't really have to. One
of them could walk out of the building casually, spend four hours as
a plumber, and come back with a case of ramen noodles and the
satisfied smile of a person who had just solved a real, physical
problem with his hands, and then stopped before it got too tedious.
I actually did the math. I know what I pay in rent here, and I know
what a plumber makes. He could choose to work half-days. Another
one could go out and work a couple of double shifts and then have a
five-day weekend after a two-day week. I don't see anyone do that
either. Why didn't any of them move to the middle of nowhere and
start tribes? I had read once in high school that the
hunter-gatherer lifestyle was, surprisingly, less work-intensive than
what everyone practices today. But nobody did that, either.
Instead, they all leave bleary, and eight to twelve hours later, come
back bedraggled. Out apprehensive, in exhausted, with hands full of
products of work not their own. It seemed strange to me that people,
who make so much of their diverse personalities, would all choose
lives that are foundationally the same.
It was my parents who taught me the
facts of life. I decided to call them, and ask them why everyone
would choose to live the same way.
“Because that's how people act,” my
dad said.
“But they didn't always.”
“Not in primitive times,” my dad
conceded. “But we've moved past that. We know better now.”
“How do we know it's better?” I
wondered.
“Because it is. It's just obvious.
Everyone knows it.”
“I don't know it,” I offered. “I
never tried anything else.”
“Who would? People don't act that
way. Not if they want to fit in.” My dad paused. “Wait, kid,
shouldn't you be working right now?”
My mom wasn't much more help.
“People work more hours because it's
in their best economic interest. If they worked less, that wouldn't
be in their best economic interest–speaking of which, shouldn't you
be working right now?”
“But what if they went out in the
woods and had tribes or something?” I asked. “Then they
wouldn't need an economy.”
“That lifestyle was much more
strenuous,” she said, “and even in ancient times, there was trade
between tribes.”
“Actually, hunter-gatherers had
eighteen-hour work weeks,” I corrected her. “I looked it up on
the internet, and that's the consensus between anthropologists.
Wouldn't you like an eighteen-hour work week?”
“Of course not,” she countered. “It
wouldn't be in my best interest to do so. It wouldn't be in anyone's
best economic interest to be a hunter-gather anymore. They didn't
know everything we know, back then.”
“But what about the pursuit of
happiness?” I pressed. “Surely money isn't the thing that makes
everyone happy. Maybe this society makes some people happier, and
other people would be happier having more time, even if they didn't
have as much stuff.”
“Pat, honey,” my mom said, “that's
just silly. I know for a fact that they taught you in history class
about how the phrase 'pursuit of happiness' was just standing in for
'pursuit of property' in the Declaration of Independence. I saw it
in the book.”
Knowing off the top of my head that two
different women had divorced Donald Trump, I was not satisfied with
any explanation that demanded I assume “happiness” and “property”
were the same thing.
Thinking about the way I live–and in
such close quarters, at that–with all these people who work
themselves to exhaustion, making things they don't consume
themselves, I started to get the impression that I live in a beehive.
That's what bees do. It seems strange that a human would, too.
I've never heard of any kind of higher mammal with giant brains and
strong personalities living like that, humans aside, but I'm not a
mammal biologist either.
The only element of a hive I found to
be missing was a queen. There wasn't anyone in the apartment who
spent all day not going outside, not working, being fed, and
commanding the other tenants. I guess for seventeen days, I didn't
go outside or work, but the others who did weren't working for my
benefit. I still fed myself, if only in the most minimal sense of
the term, and it's hard to give commands when you don't speak to
anybody.
Then I remembered that I had seen the
building supervisor go out only once during those two days, and that
he came back with a new baseball cap on his head and a foam finger on
his hand. Maybe in a human hive, the queen human is somewhat more
active than a queen bee would be, owing either to the prominence of
personality in humans or the inability of bees to play baseball.
I knew where the super lived in the
basement, so I went down and knocked on his door.
“What is it?” he answered.
“I just wondered how you get them all
to work,” I said somewhat timidly, aware that I was speaking to
royalty.
“I have no idea what you're talking
about,” he said, voice gruff with dismissal.
“They all go out, drive away, work
the same hours, buy the same things from the same places. They don't
come back 'til they're exhausted. How do you get them do to it?”
“I don't,” the super said. “Hell,
I wouldn't even notice if they skipped the damn rent. I just put all
the envelopes into a bag and take them down to the landlady at her
office.”
“Thanks,” I said, now coming to my
senses with the realization that he wasn't royalty, but that I had
still wasted his time. “I guess I'll go see her.”
“Better you didn't,” he told me,
“asking weird questions like that.
I went anyway.
Why hadn't I thought of the landlady
before? She was the logical queen of the building. She was a
landlady, a lady, after all, and the position of a queen is always
filled by a female. She didn't come in and leave like the tenants or
the super, either, separating her from her charges. Of course, she
never came into the building at all, but if it turned out that the
human hive operated a little bit differently than the beehive, that
would not be the weirdest thing I discovered this week. I was
certain I would find my answer, and I wanted my answer.
The landlady's office was not a long
drive. She was in when I got there. It looked like she was just
settling into some light work after a session of light coffee
drinking. I asked her the same thing I asked the super.
“I don't tell them to do that stuff,”
the landlady answered. “They do it on their own.”
“Really?” I asked. “It seems
strange that they would all live the exact same way, right? I mean,
unless someone was making them.”
“I don't know,” she said.
“Personally, I only care if they pay their rent. Other than that,
I wouldn't really know if they worked half-days plumbing, or two
months out of the year harvesting weed in the National Forest, or a
few frantic nights drawing comic books. I am running a business, of
course, but as long as my tenants are paid up, they're free to live
their lives however they please. I'm not their boss, just their
landlady.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said.
I was stumped. I went back home. I
sat on the hood of my car for a while, but it was uncomfortable. I
moved to the back bumper, and it didn't help. People-watching wasn't
the same with this problem on my mind.
Defeated, I went inside. With nothing
else to do, I turned on the TV and pressed on the remote control
until I found baseball. The afternoon game melted into the evening
game, and the evening into the night. Then, between innings, the TV
showed me something.
The screen was filled with a time
lapsed, aerial film of Washington, DC. The labyrinthine structure of
the place, and the way the cars moved in one direction at one time,
and then back in the other direction, were clearly evident. Perhaps
a whole city is a human hive, divided into apartment buildings, and
perhaps a town like mine is just a smaller version of an enormous
hive like Washington DC. In some ways, this made more sense than my
original theory. Neighboring hives would have no reason to
cooperate, staffing the same stores and restaurants. Parts of the
same hive would be obligated to cooperate. I resolved to go see the
mayor in the morning.
The next day, I got moving early.
Real-person early, not just my early. I arrived just as the mayor
did. She was still at the reception desk when I got there, talking
to her assistant about a campaign fundraiser, confirming that the
turkey and all-beef hotdogs for the barbecue would be kosher. I
politely tried not to eavesdrop. I like hotdogs just fine as a food.
They are filling enough. As conversation, they lack flavor and
substance. The assistant shot me a private smile while her boss was
looking at the clock on the wall. I smiled back. Then the mayor
turned to me, and I asked her, all in one sentence this time, the
same things I had asked the super and the landlady.
“My work really interferes very
little with the everyday lives of people in this town,” she told
me. “Mostly, I approve new buildings or other structures and try
to raise enough money to keep the plumbing in order. It's the county
sheriff’s job to keep the populace in order.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said.
“It was an honor to meet the woman responsible for the new park
just off downtown.”
“Actually, that was really the
state's parks divis....” she began, and then trailed off. “Do
you think people would be more likely to vote for me if they thought
that park was my idea?”
“I know I would have been,” I said.
“In that case, thank you for your
time,” she said, more warmly than before. I couldn't tell if she
was faking it–politicians are good like that. Then she turned back
to her assistant to start another conversation about something else.
I politely tried not to eavesdrop, by leaving for the sheriff's
office, and succeeded quite admirably.
When I got to the sheriff's office, he
looked like he had just finished something a little more strenuous
than coffee drinking or conversations about hot dogs. He also looked
like he was a few minutes from leaving to do something else,
presumably with similar strain. I tried to keep it short.
“I've noticed that all the people in
this town live almost exactly the same way,” I said, “they all
leave for work looking tired, they all drive, they're all away for
similar numbers of hours, they all come back tired, and they do not
come back with the product they created in their day's work. They
all buy things, all the time, and more than they need. I was
wondering how you got them to do that.”
“Are you one of them protesters from
New York?” he asked.
“What? No,” I answered with
surprise. I recovered and tried a joke.
“I auditioned,” I said, “but they
told me that my accent was all wrong for the part.”
The sheriff looked at me for a minute,
looking unsure if I was joking, deflecting, or just that stupid.
“Well, kid,” he finally said, “this town was mostly good
working folk already back when I got this job. When I was elected, I
swore that I would uphold state law, and I'm still responsible to
answer to that promise. And if someone 'round here breaks the
federal law, I ultimately have to cede jurisdiction to them. Mostly,
I try to keep the bad apples from stealin' and murderin' each other.
The rest is up to someone else.”
“Thank you,” said absently,
drifting out the door. My mind was racing. Federal law.
Perhaps the only way to answer my question would be sending the most
awkward letter ever written to a President of the United States.
I worried. I
hesitated, hemming and hawing. Perhaps that's the kind of awkward
letter that gets people put on the lists of suspected terrorists.
Somebody has to be making one. Ultimately, though, I decided to
write the letter. I couldn't not know.
Dear Mr. President,
I wrote.
It has come to my attention that
people in our great nation behave very strangely, in that they seem
to behave very similarly. There are very few eccentricities in most
daily lives and habits. This is not what the wide variety of people
and personalities in this country would have led me to suspect.
Instead, in all but a very small percentage of the population (a
population which is a constant target of endless derision,) people in
this country all leave for work looking tired, they all drive,
they're all away for similar numbers of hours, they all come back
tired, and they do not come back with the product they created in
their day's work. They all buy things, all the time, and more than
they need. I was wondering how the federal government managed to
implement such a fascinating system with such a high degree of
efficiency. It must have been a massive undertaking indeed.
Respectfully,
Pat Brown
I waited almost
three weeks for the President's reply. I was beginning to think I
wouldn't get one. I thought I might have to drive to Washington, DC,
to ask the man himself. I was more than a little concerned with the
fact that the door to his office is widely known not to be as open as
the mayor's. When the envelope finally arrived, I decided to go for
a walk while I read it. It did not take long.
Dear Mr./Ms. Brown,
The American work ethic is a wonder
to see, isn't it? The ingenuity of so many people, who find new ways
to contribute to the economy, is fascinating indeed. Who wouldn't
want to be a part of something so magnificent? As the highest office
in the Federal Government, the president is ultimately responsible
for facilitating commerce in America. By promoting fair markets and
safe workplaces, the Federal Government ensures that everything
continues to run smoothly.
The government also provides
assistance to those who find themselves displaced from the workforce,
so that they might find new employment and new ways to contribute to
this fine nation. However, it is ultimately the choice of
individuals to participate in commerce and in our government
programs. The Federal Government does not interfere with the
constitutional rights of its citizens.
Thank you for your interest in the
role of the Federal Government and the office of the presidency in
preserving, protecting, and promoting our great nation.
Upon first reading,
I didn't seen any definitive answers in the letter I had just
received. The answer must have been there, though. There was nobody
in the country with a higher rank than President of the United
States. The United Nations claimed international authority, but if
push came to shove, the president of the United States could surely
oust the president of the United Nations if it suited his interests.
The only question was whether or not he would break a sweat in the
act. I cast my gaze to the heavens, as if looking for an answer in
the stars, but of course it was light out. Mail had just been
delivered, after all. The sky was clear and the sun washed all the
color out of my vision. I looked down to get the glare out of my
eyes, and noticed a billboard in front of me. It had a picture of a
burger on it that looked absolutely delicious. My stomach growled–I
had run out of granola bars a couple days back. The sign said the
burger joint was new in town, and only ten blocks away. I was even
headed in the right direction. I kept walking, fishing through my
pockets and coming up empty.
“I
guess it's about time I find a job,” I said to nobody. The
sidewalk was empty.
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