by Greg Fields
“Drink a toast with me, Conor,” he said, extending his bottle of beer. “For luck. I’ve got an interview with Columbia Law this week.”
Finnegan clinked bottles. “Here’s to good luck, then. I didn’t know you were looking to law school. When did you decide that?”
“Last summer. A bolt of reality shot down on me and I realized that eventually I would have to do something to earn my daily bread, besides being philosopher-king. The law holds a certain interest.”
“Why?”
“Why do you ask? I thought you were interested in law school yourself. At least, you were the last time I talked to you.”
“Those plans got waylaid by a better deal. You’re right, though. My question is rhetorical. I’ve always seen some value in a legal career, but I’m a little surprised that you would. I’m curious as to your thinking.”
“Like I said, it interests me. A philosophical conception put into very flawed practical use. That’s a rare thing. I’d like to understand how something devised so nobly, then perverted by centuries of manipulation, works up close in a pluralistic society. Let me retract that,” he added quickly. “I know how it works. It doesn’t, certainly not as it’s conceived. It’s the translation of ideas into action that intrigues me, and how those ideas are compromised so that they can be acted upon at all. I want to see how we got to the point where winning trumps justice.”
“That’s pretty pragmatic, Ted. You’re coming around.”
“More pragmatic than you can imagine. Don’t overlook the fact that a lawyer can be paid awfully well. Particularly a good one, with a rich combination of ruthlessness and arrogance, and I plan to be good. I plan to be good enough to make myself extremely comfortable.”
“Any thought to playing a role in changing the way things work? In reversing a part of those centuries of manipulation, as you put it, and making the law come closer to its ideal?”
Rosenbloom drank his beer. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “What chance is there of that?”
“No chance if no one tries. But you’re willing to play along with it all, something you see already as seriously flawed, if it provides you with some material comforts. Which, by the way, never seemed to hold your interest before.”
“You make it sound so base,” replied Rosenbloom. “But I am an American, after all, and I’d be following in one of our greatest and least publicized traditions. The system is less than perfect, Conor, that’s obvious. Hell, it’s more than seriously flawed—it’s totally fucked up. No one knows how to apply the law anymore. You’ve got rapists and murderers walking the streets with suspended sentences while reporters who’ve spent their whole lives defending the system are locked away because they protect their sources. Where’s the logic in that? Is the law deterrent or retributive? I don’t have any answers, Conor. I’m not sure anyone does. So how do we go about changing things? You mentioned making the law responsive to a pluralistic society. How do you do that, for Christ’s sake? A pluralistic society invites contradictions. Hell, it demands them. I’m not going to change anything. No one is, because the system is based on counterbalancing tensions that won’t allow any movement forward.”
“So you’ll just go along with things the way they are and collect the rewards.”
“Absolutely. The rewards are very seductive. When it comes right down to it, why would those people who might have some vague power to alter the way things work ever consider doing so? The system works perfectly well for those who know how to ride it.”
“Ted, you’re starting to depress me. You’ve gone way beyond pragmatism. You’re well on the way to cynicism.”
“Maybe so. In fact, that may be one of the highest compliments you’ve ever paid me. Put faith in nothing. Listen, after three and a half years of being a poor and humble student, I have no desire to keep making sacrifices for the sake of some unrealistic ideals. What’s the point of that? I’m no martyr, Conor. It’s not my place to divert the course of human history, even if I could. My interpretation of the absolute is just as subjective as anyone else’s.”
“You didn’t use to think that way, Ted. You were always subject to the ’tyranny of the ideal,’ as you put it.”
“I take it you disagree with my cavalier attitude. You have designs to leave your personal mark on our small planet?”
Finnegan chuckled silently, then drank from his beer. “You know, Bobby Kennedy made a speech in South Africa once when he said that each time a man stands up for an ideal or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and that those ripples can build a current that will strike down the mightiest walls of oppression. I take a fair amount of comfort in that. We each have the power to affect what’s around us. The stronger we are and the harder we work, the wider our ripples might be.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” rejoined Rosenbloom. “Don’t you think that if you find a satisfying job and work at it, you’ll be playing your part as fully as can be expected? Society as a whole is going to move in its own direction no matter what you do. The most logical reaction is to find something that makes you comfortable, however you define it, and accept your role as a tiny, replaceable sprocket in a gigantic machine.”
“But some roles carry greater influence, Ted. You can be a bigger sprocket. Influence a broader segment of that mechanism, and make a wider ripple.”
“What are your plans, Conor? How are you going to put these grand ideals into motion?”
“Government,” said Finnegan. “I’ve got a spot on a senate staff. I’m moving down to Washington after graduation and get back to it then.”
Rosenbloom laughed. “And that’s how you’re going to change the world? Well, I wish you luck with that,” and he raised his bottle. “It’s not social work, per se, but I suppose it’ll do. But tell me, Conor, how are you going to change a system while you yourself are part of it, and not a very big part at that? Especially a system that resists all reforms and lies at the heart of whatever injustices you perceive?”
“Who said I want to change the system? I want to have a positive impact. That doesn’t imply revolution, for God’s sake.”
“Ah, but it does imply service in some form. Service to humanity, am I right?”
“To a degree. I don’t want to sound naïve about it, though.”
“You already have, Finnegan.” Rosenbloom’s voice took on an ugly, pointed tone, and Finnegan was startled. He realized at once that Rosenbloom had been leading him into some semantic trap which he was now about to spring.
“So, what it all comes down to for you is working for some nebulous, vague concept of ’The Good.’ A positive impact with yourself as arbiter of what’s positive and what’s not. Aside from the arrogance in that attitude, there’s a great deal of naiveté. You seem to imply that humanity is salvageable and that the magnanimity of your career will somehow contribute to that salvation.”
“And you seem to imply that humanity is lost,” shot back Finnegan. “Whether it is or not, we’ve got to make some attempt at the improvement of the species sometime. Maybe it’s all futile, but that can’t preclude the effort.”
“’Improvement of the species.’ God, Finnegan, you should have been a priest. It’s not too late, you know. Although you’d have to give up that gorgeous piece of femininity that’s been hanging on your arm all night, and I don’t suppose that would be an easy thing to do. But if you’re truly interested in reaching your potential for human service you might consider it. I’d hate to think you’ve been seduced by some creature comforts like the rest of us mortals.”
For an instant Finnegan considered standing up and walking away entirely, leaving Rosenbloom to wallow in his inexplicable bitterness alone. But no, he was engaged now, and he felt challenged to defend his motivations. He fought to calm a rising anger.
“What’s your point, Ted?” he asked, biting off the words.
“The species isn’t worth saving, Finnegan. You’re deluding yourself into seeing some good i
n it at all. And if humanity is, as I propose, inherently brutal, self-interested and corrupt, then all your best efforts to make a ’positive impact’ will be transitory at best and pathetically naïve at worst. You’ll be wasting your time. You’ll be living your life for all the wrong reasons. At the root of our existence is survival. Nothing more. And those Romantic notions of yours make you look like a God damn fool, like some schoolboy who hasn’t grown up yet. You want to live some fairy tale—Sir Conor of Finnegan riding around and whacking dragons. What makes you think anyone gives a damn what you accomplish or who you ’serve’? You can’t make a ’positive impact’ unless other people allow you to, and they’re so busy with their own concerns that that won’t happen. You’ll stand out so God damn much that you’ll invite suspicion, because saints these days are so hard to find. We’re a society with blinders, and we place our egos and our comforts above everything else. Ego and gratification. It’s taken me a while to figure that out, but it’s true. And if you think you can alter that even the slightest bit, then you’re a complete fool.”
“So then, in your view we’re a contemptible species unworthy of any improvement in how we live, how we think, or what we believe? What the hell’s been the point of 10,000 years of civilization, then? Why do we agonize over our imperfections? Why have men and women died in pursuit of justice? Why Socrates and Aquinas, why Gandhi, Mohammed and Jesus Himself? Were they fools, too? You can’t condemn man’s finer instincts because in the end, they are all we have. And if we have yet to perfect ourselves, to sweep out and tame our most brutal instincts, then the effort becomes all the more critical. That’s our last best hope for continued existence as a species, flawed as it might be.”
“I’m intrigued,” replied Rosenbloom, “by your comparison of yourself to Mohammed and Jesus. Maybe you’re more delusional than I thought. But for every Socrates, there’s been a Richard Speck, and for every Gandhi there’s been a William Calley. I daresay the ratio is well beyond one to one. I daresay it’s out of sight. You mention these great men, but they’re exceptions. They stand out precisely because they’ve placed their emphases outside themselves. And what happened to them? It didn’t end well for any of those you mentioned. That you bring them up at all merely proves my point. Mankind as a whole is beyond salvation. These men dedicated their lives to your ’positive impact’, to softening man’s inherent savagery, to ushering in a more humane approach. And they were viciously attacked and most of them were killed by a society that didn’t want to become more humane.
“The collective will of man,” continued Rosenbloom, “overpowers any effort to change it. We’re born in blood, Finnegan. That’s a fact of nature. What other species kills its own kind just for sport? What other species tortures its own kind, or practices slavery? What other species could conjure up something like the Holocaust, which is much closer to me than to you? What more graphic example of man’s savagery do you need than the systematic extermination of millions due solely to the accident of their birth?
“We do it nationally, and we do it individually. We do it whenever we fail to suppress our most basic instincts. It’s easy to be brutal in the name of one’s country. Hell, that makes for heroes. We give awards to those who kill the most, and kill most efficiently. But we don’t need the excuse of nationalism to kill. We don’t need political reasons. Remember reading about Charles Whitman, the guy who climbed the tower at the University of Texas and had a grand old time shooting passersby? We called him crazy, but what does that mean? It means we lose our control and allow instinct to take over.
“We’ve even refined our capacities to the point where we can brutalize one another anonymously. The corporate structure allows us to do that. While we sit here drinking beer, farm workers in California are being harassed and beaten by growers who object to their ’outrageous’ request for a living wage. ’Can’t do that, you know. Might cut into the profit margin, so you poor slobs have to continue to live below the poverty line so that I can afford my winter home in Barbados.’ And the labor strikes of the nineteenth century when strikers were clubbed down, with full governmental approval, because they had the audacity to request enough salary to feed themselves. And our wonderful tobacco companies that produce goods that they know will kill you. All of this for the sake of profit.
“Where the hell does it all end, Conor, and what in God’s name do you have the power to do about it? How broad is your arrogance that you think you can make a dent in the brutal way we live? Even the purest of intentions are meaningless, and even the best works are only temporary. Mankind will never be able to escape its own condemnation.”
Rosenbloom paused and took a long draught of his beer. When he was done he slapped the bottle down on his knee and smirked cynically. For some reason Finnegan focused on Rosenbloom’s scraggly beard. The ends looked like jagged spikes of tiny wire.
“It goes well beyond the collective level,” resumed Rosenbloom, more quietly than before, his voice more even. “Each individual carries the potential for destruction and he’ll never rid himself of it. Let me ask you, what did it feel like when I started in on you? Be honest with yourself. My guess is that you wanted to throw me against a wall. At the very least, you probably wanted to come back at me verbally, as harshly as you could, maybe humiliate me in front of our common friends. Maybe you wanted to break a beer bottle over my head. I wouldn’t blame you for any of it. And you, Conor Finnegan, are an educated individual striving for refinement and motivated by simplistic, sanitized notions of man’s higher nature. You’re near the top of the species. Consider what the average undereducated, unimaginative American might have done.”
“But that’s just it, Ted. I controlled it,” replied Finnegan. “That’s the battle. I can’t deny man’s brutality, but the cases you mentioned are aberrations. You can make any argument you want using extremes. But it’s the mass of society that constitutes the norm. The struggle is to control man’s brutality, day by day.”
“So it’s the mass of society that constitutes the norm? “ said Rosenbloom. “Then God help us all. Then we’re not only condemned to eternal brutality, we’re condemned to mediocrity as well.”
“What would you have us do then, God damn it? You’re leaving yourself no options.”
“No, Conor. The alternative is just to be aware of what’s out there, and that you can do nothing—absolutely nothing—about any of it. So you consign yourself to a personally gratifying lifestyle and you realize that the only true satisfaction for anyone who views society as it is must be based in isolation, not involvement. Involvement, your ’positive impact’, is necessarily futile. All we can do is gird ourselves against the prevailing influences and find meaning through our own comforts.”
“And to hell with the rest of society.”
“Yes. To hell with it, and with all mankind itself. We’re a lost species, Finnegan. And we’ll continue to eat ourselves away, bit by bit, until we ultimately destroy ourselves and our planet and everything that’s had the misfortune to creep or crawl into our space. In blackness and blood we were born, and to blackness shall we return.”
Finnegan shook his head slowly. There was no point in continuing this. Where had Rosenbloom’s Protean cynicism come from, and when did it begin?
“You’re wrong, Ted. Tragically wrong, and I’m sorry for you. If that’s really what you believe, then you’re gearing yourself for a stark and sterile life. I hope something comes along to change your outlook.”
“Finnegan, you self-righteous condescending bastard, everything that’s ever come along has only deepened my ’tragic’ convictions. Now, play the good host and bring me another beer.”
“Get it yourself, asshole,” replied Finnegan. He rose and turned away, a wellspring of bruised anger percolating up from his base. He did not want to see Ted Rosenbloom for the rest of the evening. Drunk, he could not be responsible for what he might do.
Finnegan went to the bathroom, found it empty, and pulled another beer from the iced b
athtub. He drank it quickly as he rejoined Glynnis standing by the entry to his bedroom and speaking with two girls he did not recognize. Finnegan drew into their conversation and composed himself through the mundane small talk that carried back and forth.
He returned for another beer, then another, then several more. The night swirled on and the apartment grew less crowded as people left for other parties, to clear their heads in the night air, or to pair up with newfound partners. Those who remained continued to drink until the beer lost all taste and became nothing more than a pointed texture on their tongues and throats.
Someone turned up the music in the living room. Finnegan, who had been down the hall for a long time (how long he was not able to judge) talking alternately with Glynnis, with O’Hanlon, with the girls drawn to O’Hanlon, and with the various present acquaintances, walked unsteadily into the now loud room. He was surprised to find it emptier than it had been all night. Ted Rosenbloom had disappeared, his chair now occupied by a grinning Dan Rosselli. Tom and Anne still sat on the couch, not speaking but looking with glassy, tired eyes to the center of the room where two couples danced to the music’s virile rhythm. Finnegan saw a glum resignation in Tom McIlweath’s eyes. Perhaps he just wanted to go to sleep, he thought.
He returned down the hallway for another beer and for Glynnis. She was speaking with two swimmers in the kitchen. Finnegan knew one of them well, at least by his rakish reputation. He might have tried to interrupt their conversation under any circumstances but now the driving music from the living room compelled him to dance. He grabbed Glynnis gently by the wrist.
“C’mon, lady, let’s dance,” and he guided her back into the hall.
“Conor, I was talking,” she scolded, but she came along willingly. Finnegan held onto her wrist. God, it was great to touch her, to feel her there with him. He bumped into one wall, then back into the other as he hurried down the narrow corridor.
