“Yes, but when you teach, sometimes you learn more than the student. Be a teacher, Johnny.”
There was a long pause. “I think those days are over, uncle. Listen, what I did was really meaningless.”
“Meaningless? Nonsense, my boy! I don’t think you can calculate how many lives you influenced for the good. Just do your best. You can’t do better than that.”
“Thanks, uncle,” was all he could manage.
He very slowly hung up the phone.
CHAPTER 19
A Short Course in Philosophy: Part II
The truck pulled into the yard at a dangerous speed. It made a hard right hand turn kicking up rocks and dirt in John’s face. After making a sliding halt, a rotund, unkempt man emerged from the driver’s seat.
“Ok. Where are the college boys that are going to make our lives easier this summer,” he said, evoking laughter from his co-workers. “Now, if I were a nice college boy with smarts,” he continued, looking John over, “I wouldn’t have to work so hard in a dump like this. But ya know somethin’, it’s good to see college boys do some work for a livin’ before they go to their plush offices in the city.” He held his head back in mock effrontery.
John stood with a group of other young men, all trying to look cool and collected amidst the mocking eyes of their new bosses.
Presently, a muscular, blonde haired man emerged from the work shack behind the men. “Alright. What have we got here? Well, the college boys have arrived! So, Big Town Construction has its summer helpers. As you know, each year we hire a small number of college kids to help out on road projects. This year is no exception. So we will be assigning these boys to your crews. Ok, here we go...”
With that, he began barking out what college boys would go with what work crew. John was assigned to a crew led by “Joe”; a slender, mustachioed man that John guessed was in his mid to late thirties. Joe seemed pleased with the selection. He looked over at his new crew.
“Ok, intellects,” he yelled, “load up!”
They boarded the dumpster of the aging truck. This would be their mode of transportation for the summer; and Joe would be their fearless leader.
After a half hour’s travel, they arrived at their destination. Their first assignment would be simple: clear all the rocks that the construction crews had left in the road, and be quick about it.
John watched Joe climb down out of the truck cab and assess the situation. He didn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry, or display any enthusiasm for the job.
“Ok, boys, let’s do it,” but he remained stationary, preferring to watch his younger servants scurry down the dumpster and into the street.
The college boys went to work with only slightly more enthusiasm than Joe. These were not tiny rocks. Indeed, they were extremely large rocks that the bulldozers and excavators had dug up from their earthly grave. And now John and his mates would be beasts of burden.
Joe watched John struggle with a particularly huge rock. He was going to let the drama unfold by itself for a good laugh, but pity intervened and he ran over to help.
“Here, intellect, let me help.”
“Thanks.”
Joe examined John; he was different than the others. He detected that maybe John had some common sense, something he felt was lacking in these would-be university types.
“So, what are you studying?”
“Don’t really know yet. I think perhaps English, though.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “English? Don’t you speak that already?”
John was unruffled. “Yeah. I mean English literature.”
“Oh? Now, that will really put money in your pocket!”
“I’m not necessarily looking for money.”
“No?” Joe said skeptically. “What then are you looking for, to ‘find yourself ’?”
“Not really. I just want a college education. I’m happy that I got into my school. Maybe I will learn something. I guess that is what I’m looking for. But in any event, it is more important that the journey is enjoyed.”
Joe had a real live intellect on his hands, and at this point, he didn’t know what to do with him. He feigned disgust but deep down he envied John. Joe had taken the path of least resistance; smart enough for college, but unwilling to do the work. He had fallen into a life of avoidance, whether it be work or dealing with people. He had taken the job at Big Town Construction because his uncle had connections and, well, it was a job—with good benefits. Put your time in, he thought, and get out with a pension. Simple. That was what life was all about. All this stuff about “being fulfilled” and “taking a journey” was nonsense. Making a living was all that mattered. Of course, having fun along the way was also important, and he had determined not to let morals or sobriety get in the way.
The weeks went by and some things became a ritual, Fridays being one of them. It was a day that centered on receiving one’s paycheck. John was happy to be making some money to contribute to his tuition. The other college boys seemed thrilled to have money, but they were more of the Joe variety, preferring partying to saving.
John had the knack of handing out nicknames, and all received one according to a physical trait or mannerism: Atlas: this was the other John, a star high school football player who had gotten a full scholarship to a Pack 10 college. His strength seemed to be super human—his intellect certainly was not. Wirehead: a small but would-be body builder who also fancied himself a great intellectual. And then there was Phil—better known as Spaceman.
To John, Spaceman was the epitome of the period. Extremely smart, but somehow “out there” and disconnected from mundane things like shaving or tying one’s shoes. But John struck up a growing friendship with him. He enjoyed their daily mental gymnastics, complete with Joe’s sarcastic commentary. Once while discussing the nature of reality for two hours, Joe, who could bear it no more, piped up: “I’ve been listening to you two guys talk about reality for two hours. Enough! Hey, reality is…well…reality!”
And thus was solved one of the great philosophical questions of all time.
There can be many defining moments in our life. For John, one of them was on a typical Friday afternoon. The men had been paid and Joe, as was his custom, had purchased some cheap vodka from the liquor store next to the bank. It was a day when Joe’s inebriation would reach new heights.
The assignment was typical. Joe was to take his crew to the large baseball fields on the outskirts of town where the stands and clubhouse had been worked on and clean the place up. Simple enough. But Joe had been imbibing a bit too much for a bit too long that day. For some unexplained reason he began shouting orders. He then proceeded to climb on top of the truck and, in a style that would rival Mussolini, launched into a rambling and semi-coherent speech about life, death—and the meaning of work. It was bizarre in its content and hilarious in its delivery.
John saw through the whole guise: this was Joe’s way of letting it all out; he was a frustrated and angry man looking for who he really was, and this was going to be his outlet. It had all come to a head. And while John’s cohorts were laughing it up, he was close enough to see the tears in Joe’s eyes.
For John, this was the encapsulation of the common man. He wondered if anybody was truly happy, or died with the knowledge that they had done what was their true assignment in life.
Unnoticed by Joe was his supervisor’s truck coming down the dirt road that led to the playing fields. John could see the cloud of dust the truck was kicking up; a dark omen descending on Joe’s blind side. John made the attempt to run to warn him, but he had been working on the other side of the field and the distance was too great.
He watched as the truck stopped. The supervisor jumped out, his face red with anger. Like a silent movie, John could not hear a thing, but watched as the supervisor ripped into Joe, his jaw moving in staccatos of accusations. Joe raised his arms as if to defend himself, but the flood of words overcame him.
The supervisor jumped back into his truck and
sped off. Joe was left standing alone as a cloud of dust engulfed him, devouring whatever dignity he had left.
From then on, Joe was subdued and sullen. There were moments when he would be his old self, but whatever was said that day was certainly a dagger in his brain. Wirehead and Atlas chatted him up. Occasionally they would get him to play along and smile. Other times Joe would simply walk away.
“Is this all it takes to kill a man?” John wondered.
Then there were those who took advantage of Joe’s weakened state. Bobby was a man whom Joe tried his best to avoid. He was a swaggering tree trunk of a man who never missed an occasion to harass him. There was obviously some bad blood between them. John had watched Bobby fire barb after barb, with Joe not returning the volley. One afternoon, as the men stood in a line at the work shack to sign out, Bobby was in a particularly vicious mood. His attacks on Joe were becoming more and more aggressive, and this day they had reached new heights. At first his barrage was low key, but as more men filed into the shack, he became emboldened and got louder. Every topic was hit: the time Joe was suspended for sleeping on the job; the time Joe’s wife came in to work to yell at him for something of little import—and, of course, the baseball field incident.
John could take no more. He calmly walked over in Bobby’s direction. Joe, who was doing his best to ignore the taunts, immediately knew what John was up to and stepped in front of him.
“Hey, don’t even think about it. This guy will eat you for dinner tonight.”
“No, Joe. I will not let this go on. Someone has to put an end to it.”
“It ain’t gonna be you, kid. Now get back on line with the others.”
“Hey, what are you guys talkin’ about,” Bobby yelled, so that all could hear.
The room became silent. Everybody knew this could be the final showdown.
“Nothin’, Bobby, mind your own business,” Joe said, making sure he didn’t make eye contact.
“We’re talking about you!” John yelled, in a most uncharacteristic tone.
Bobby got up, his huge frame forming a shadow over the whole scene.
“Yeah? And what might you be talkin’ about in particular?”
“About the way you are treating Joe. It’s time to stop, right now. Grow up!”
“Grow up?” Bobby now moved in close to John. “Grow up, you say? For a little squirt you have some nerve! Come outside, boy, I want to show you something in my truck.”
The other workers were shaking their heads, trying to warn off John, but he naively followed Bobby outside and around the side of the shack to an old, beaten up pick up.
“You know, kid, there are times when words fail, right? You’re a college boy. You know that, right?”
John started to get nervous; he kicked at the dirt with his sneaker. “Guess so.”
“Well, here’s something I think you’re really going to like.” Bobby had an unearthly smile on his face. His hand had been moving slowly, reaching behind to the truck flatbed.
Suddenly, he pulled out a large axe. Joe had just come up behind John.
“Run!” he screamed.
At first, John stood frozen, not knowing if this were a big joke or a true matter of concern. But as Bobby lifted the axe above his head, a flash of terror seized him.
“Run!” Joe screamed again. “Run for your life, man!”
In a moment, John was running across the yard. He looked back with one eye and saw Bobby gaining on him; axe in the striking position with the eyes of one possessed. The men poured out of the shack, some laughing, and some shouting with true concern. The two participants made a loop around the parking lot and then darted in between the trucks. They were again almost back at the shack.
Suddenly, Bobby stopped, his chest heaving and saliva running down his cheek. He threw the axe down. “Nuts!” he said, turning and walking back to his truck. He got in, started the engine, and slowly drove out of the yard.
John collapsed in exhaustion against the work shack while Joe and the others consoled him. He then stood up and watched Bobby’s truck drive down the road, make a left hand turn, and disappear out of sight.
Spaceman had been watching with his usual cold stare. Then a sly smile crept across his face. He walked up to John and embraced him like a king welcoming a returning warrior. “Great job, man. Great job.” He shook his head in amazement. “Man, you survived. You survived!”
It was indeed a unique day in the yard. Here, a college kid of seemingly little significance faced off with Bobby and survived. But there was still a mystery to unravel: why had Bobby given up so easily? This was not a man to take an insult from anybody. So why had he allowed this slight, seemingly non-threatening lad to get the best of him?
The days that followed added to the mystery; Bobby was quiet and withdrawn, leading the other men to wonder, now that they had two misanthropes on their hands. The entire company was now percolating with rumors about what exactly was going on. Did this young college kid have something on Bobby? Would Joe ever be the same? Were they planning on firing both, which would explain their subdued behavior?
What became more stunning was that over the next two weeks Bobby and John started to act in a friendly manner toward each other. Not that they were friends, mind you; but there was some sort of understanding struck between them. John had obviously worked his magic again. When asked directly what brought this on he would simply shrug and say, “We communicated.” It was all very vague, but that was in keeping with everything John seemed to be involved with. There was never any clear delineation as to how or why things were done. They simply happened—and everybody eventually seemed content with it.
The summer was just about over and John was starting to think about what classes he was going to register for. He had given some thought to taking more philosophy—but then again, he had been provided with so much on his summer job that it just seemed a shame to actually pay for instruction. It was indeed a unique summer, and he was sorry that it was coming to a close.
On the last week of his tour, he and the crew were headed for a typical clean up job. They had been told that the new park had been fitted with top notch drainage pipes, and, of course, there were scraps of metal and chunks of cement that needed to be removed.
The crew seemed to be in a particularly good mood that day. Wirehead was babbling about the latest archeological finds that he had read about that claimed man could have had been much more advanced in his historical development than previously thought. John quickly pointed out that the Bible talked about how civilizations actually came about, and that great cities existed where many scientists thought we were simply scratching drawings on cave walls. It provided great entertainment for Joe. Atlas simply listened and laughed at the banter while trying to shift the conversation to the latest sports scores.
Suddenly up ahead they saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. A policeman was waving traffic off to the side of the road. Joe slowed his truck and maneuvered it close to the cop in question.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?”
The cop seemed annoyed and distracted. “Some fool is on the ledge of the bridge trying to kill himself. As far as I’m concerned, let him do it. He’s making my life difficult. Just hold it here.”
John craned his neck to try to get a good look. Sure enough, there was a man maybe a little older than John, on the ledge of the bridge. He had obviously climbed the metal barrier when traffic was light so he wouldn’t be seen. Now, fire trucks and police cars surrounded him. He looked confused and frightened.
Shortly, a policewoman made her way out onto the ledge with him; an obvious negotiator to coax him down. But he would have none of it, and moved farther out toward the middle of the bridge. At this point, things became tenser. Other police moved in, backed up by fireman who were trying to figure out what to do if he attempted the worst.
By now, John had made his way out of the truck and toward the situation.
“Hey, get back in the truck!” Joe scream
ed.
But John was laser locked on the events going on. Joe, having had insights into John’s personality, hopped out of the truck in a frail attempt to temper John’s curiosity.
“Kid, just stay in the truck. Alright?”
“Do you see what going on?” John said, wiping some sweat from his brow and nervously adjusting his glasses.
“Yeah, yeah. I see it. Let the police take care of this nut job. You stay in the truck.”
“I think he is going to do it, Joe.”
“So what! That’s his business. If he wants to end his life, let him do it. Maybe he has good reason to do it.”
“But maybe not!” John shot back, sounding panicked. He hurried over toward the bridge, but was stopped by a fireman before he got too close.
Now Joe was worried. John was in his rescue mode and would not be deterred. After being confronted by the firemen, John feigned walking quietly back to the truck, but then suddenly bolted toward the bridge.
“Hey, you…” a policeman barked, but John was a speeding missile homing in on his target.
He arrived at the metal gate, and with the agility of an Olympic gymnast, climbed up and over in a flash. All of this was seen by the would-be suicide. He seemed more amazed then those trying to stop John.
Now John was on the ledge of the bridge making his way toward his subject. The man starred down John and seemed truly astonished.
“Wha…What are you doing?” he said, his voice quavering.
“No, what are you doing?” John fired back. The two eyed each other, ignoring the shouts from the authorities above.
The man looked down. It was at least a seventy five foot drop into the water that was exiting the inlet and running into the river. “I’m going to do it. I’ve had it. Get off now! Get lost!”
John looked down also, perhaps a hint of regret now in his mind, but he had no intention of backing off. “I’m not leaving this ledge without you. I don’t care what happened in your life, you should not be doing this!”
“Really? Get lost….get off this bridge now or I’ll jump… and they’ll blame you!”
Unnecessary Noises Page 10
