The trip was coming to a close. He had thought that driving across the country with his friend would change the way that he thought about the world. There was a romance that had grown up around traveling on the road. He'd probably have associated with Kerouac, but it had started eons ago, The Arabian Knights, The Canterbury Tales, hell, Socrates was always walking around when he was correcting the errors of others. The road was romantic. In the morning, they had a conversation about the middle east.
"I don't see how anyone can say that they definitively knew that we shouldn't have invaded Iraq. It's hindsight right? It's like watching old practices like the subjugation of women and claiming that you can't imagine that people ever thought that way. We find it nearly impossible to admit that we exist merely in this moment, that our views may be flawed and contingent and circumstantial. We always like to feel like we've temporarily discovered Paradise," Paul said, ashing a cigarette out the driver's side window .
H considered the low flat plains of Nevada before answering. He could not imagine anyone wanting to live here. He supposed that's why they had legalized prostitution and gambling. Perhaps vices would suffice to keep people interested. "I don't think we had any business in Iraq."
"But did you think it at the time of the invasion?"
"I don't remember."
"No one effing remembers. It's incredibly typical human behavior. You just know that the day after Mount Vesuvius erupted some assho-e in Rome was saying to his friend how he thought the volcano looked ominous the last time he was there. Why is it so hard for us to admit that we know next to nothing?"
"It's easier for some people than others. I'm quite comfortable admitting that other people know nothing. I'm constantly willing to grant that to them. The tough part is finding someone who will agree with you. I knew that we shouldn't go into Iraq because we didn't really know how to pronounce it."
"Are you honestly positing that as a viable reason for not invading?"
"Yes. And put out that damn cigarette. It's like driving in a toxic London fog."
"Stop trampling on my rights."
"Hear me out. If we had gone to war with Russia in the eighties, or I don't know, China in a decade or so. Fine, whatever. Of course, by fine whatever I mean end of life as we know it kind of fine, but at least we know we have an antagonist. Despite the previous war, we still didn't pronounce Iraq correctly. You can't just invade someone's homeland and kick the shi- out of them without at least knowing something about them. It would be like walking into your neighbor's house and reprogramming his DVR for the shows that you like, when he couldn't give a shi- about top chef."
"Top Chef is a good show."
"I'm not denying that."
"So, to continue the analogy, maybe you're bringing him some small portion of enlightenment, a quality tv program, democracy, what have you."
"What democracy was ever effectively implemented by invading a country, killing a bunch of people and then starting up a new election process?"
"Ours?"
"Not true." And so on for an hour or so.
They stopped in the early evening. Cacti lined the road, and they'd threatened one another for a while that they were going to stop at a whorehouse. They were never going to stop at a whorehouse. The desert was cold at night and unforgivingly hot during the day. They couldn't wait to be home. They stopped at a cheap hotel, though before going to bed H sneaked downstairs to write his family.
He wound up writing Lauren instead.
Hello. I hope all is well on the other side of this fine country. I should confess that all is not well out here. I fear this trip has been a failure. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. It was something more. You can add that as the postscript for my life if you happen to be at my funeral, and this has already taken quite the turn towards the ominous. I wrote a story, and I wanted you to be the first one to read it because in some strange way you know me better than anyone in the world.
On Monday it rained laughter. And all the fathers in the street took off their hats and gathered every last bit of it inside them until they were overflowing. They put their overcoats on top and carried them home as quickly as they could. And on that particular day, all those strange, silent, men, sat down with their wives and children and told them they had a surprise. And then they took away the overcoats and all the houses in the city were filled with laughter. The lights stayed on until ten, and the children stayed up late as well, hugging their fathers, running their hands across their rough faces and marveling at the change they could see in their father's eyes.
After the children had gone to bed the parents shared the last bit of laughter in bed, cupping it between their fingers to keep it quiet. They giggled as if they were young again, still in the process of discovering their bodies. And late into the night you could hear the creaking of bed frames and the cries of very lonely women.
I don't know what this particular story is supposed to mean. In fact, I'm a little confused about meaning ever since the accident. As a religious person I should believe that had we died in that crash I'd at least have gone to a better place. So why am I so happy that I'm still alive, still smelling flowers in bloom, and diesel smoke, and driving just over the speed limit? Why is it still such a thrill to be alive? Do you feel that way?
"I don't see how anyone can say that they definitively knew that we shouldn't have invaded Iraq. It's hindsight right? It's like watching old practices like the subjugation of women and claiming that you can't imagine that people ever thought that way. We find it nearly impossible to admit that we exist merely in this moment, that our views may be flawed and contingent and circumstantial. We always like to feel like we've temporarily discovered Paradise," Paul said, ashing a cigarette out the driver's side window .
H considered the low flat plains of Nevada before answering. He could not imagine anyone wanting to live here. He supposed that's why they had legalized prostitution and gambling. Perhaps vices would suffice to keep people interested. "I don't think we had any business in Iraq."
"But did you think it at the time of the invasion?"
"I don't remember."
"No one effing remembers. It's incredibly typical human behavior. You just know that the day after Mount Vesuvius erupted some assho-e in Rome was saying to his friend how he thought the volcano looked ominous the last time he was there. Why is it so hard for us to admit that we know next to nothing?"
"It's easier for some people than others. I'm quite comfortable admitting that other people know nothing. I'm constantly willing to grant that to them. The tough part is finding someone who will agree with you. I knew that we shouldn't go into Iraq because we didn't really know how to pronounce it."
"Are you honestly positing that as a viable reason for not invading?"
"Yes. And put out that damn cigarette. It's like driving in a toxic London fog."
"Stop trampling on my rights."
"Hear me out. If we had gone to war with Russia in the eighties, or I don't know, China in a decade or so. Fine, whatever. Of course, by fine whatever I mean end of life as we know it kind of fine, but at least we know we have an antagonist. Despite the previous war, we still didn't pronounce Iraq correctly. You can't just invade someone's homeland and kick the shi- out of them without at least knowing something about them. It would be like walking into your neighbor's house and reprogramming his DVR for the shows that you like, when he couldn't give a shi- about top chef."
"Top Chef is a good show."
"I'm not denying that."
"So, to continue the analogy, maybe you're bringing him some small portion of enlightenment, a quality tv program, democracy, what have you."
"What democracy was ever effectively implemented by invading a country, killing a bunch of people and then starting up a new election process?"
"Ours?"
"Not true." And so on for an hour or so.
They stopped in the early evening. Cacti lined the road, and they'd threatened one another for a while that they were going to stop at a whorehouse. They were never going to stop at a whorehouse. The desert was cold at night and unforgivingly hot during the day. They couldn't wait to be home. They stopped at a cheap hotel, though before going to bed H sneaked downstairs to write his family.
He wound up writing Lauren instead.
Hello. I hope all is well on the other side of this fine country. I should confess that all is not well out here. I fear this trip has been a failure. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. It was something more. You can add that as the postscript for my life if you happen to be at my funeral, and this has already taken quite the turn towards the ominous. I wrote a story, and I wanted you to be the first one to read it because in some strange way you know me better than anyone in the world.
On Monday it rained laughter. And all the fathers in the street took off their hats and gathered every last bit of it inside them until they were overflowing. They put their overcoats on top and carried them home as quickly as they could. And on that particular day, all those strange, silent, men, sat down with their wives and children and told them they had a surprise. And then they took away the overcoats and all the houses in the city were filled with laughter. The lights stayed on until ten, and the children stayed up late as well, hugging their fathers, running their hands across their rough faces and marveling at the change they could see in their father's eyes.
After the children had gone to bed the parents shared the last bit of laughter in bed, cupping it between their fingers to keep it quiet. They giggled as if they were young again, still in the process of discovering their bodies. And late into the night you could hear the creaking of bed frames and the cries of very lonely women.
I don't know what this particular story is supposed to mean. In fact, I'm a little confused about meaning ever since the accident. As a religious person I should believe that had we died in that crash I'd at least have gone to a better place. So why am I so happy that I'm still alive, still smelling flowers in bloom, and diesel smoke, and driving just over the speed limit? Why is it still such a thrill to be alive? Do you feel that way?
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