“Shall I tell you a story?” Asked the impoverished man, whose stated motivation to speak was a two-dollar coin, but whose obvious delusions revealed clearly to me his desperation for human contact on that hour of that day when hundreds had passed by and cast their eyes beyond his transparent, ragged sillouette. “It is the story of the compression of your happiness, Hugh Trenchard, to a single point and its implosion such that it encompasses the universe.”
For my selfishness, of charity I do not profess a single strand in my stony body, although, perhaps to impress company, I have been witnessed to press gently a token now and again into the hand or cap of those whose lives litter or adorn the streets, the description for which depends on the perspective I choose that day and the particular proportions of harmones and glucose coursing my veins, the relative concentrations of which may be determined by many things: the color of the sky, the intensity of the sun, the last minute office visit from the director who kept me late, the absence or overabundance of telephone or electronic messages that day.
Indeed it is well known that charity impresses others, and perhaps capably counting myself among the best and shrewdest of sociopaths, I have determined that a nod and smile and a coin in the hand of the needy appears to others as compassion, and such an appearance entails a vast panoply of potential benefits, of which it is not currently my intention to enumerate.
To be sure, this day was one when I perceived there to be no benefit derived from my stopping to engage the impoverished man: I was in no company, and there were no fine looking women or well-suited men nearby to witness the event and for whom I may have fantasized their thoughts to be, “my, how considerate and compassionate is that young man to engage that unfortunate destitute.” And the benefit to the man himself was negligible, if not enabling an entirely self-destructive trajectory, I long ago convinced myself.
But that he knew my name was more than startling. It is of course acceptable social engagement to acknowledge the greetings of others who know your name. But for those whose lives are not known publicly, it is rare for strangers to know your name, and so when such a stranger identifies you by your given names with clearest conviction, it is generally difficult to ignore, even for the least sanguine among us.
And so I stopped. “You know my name?” I asked the man.
“As surely as you know yourself.” He replied. “And I will, for a two-dollar coin, tell you that you also know me, and that when I begin to speak, you will be the one to tell me the story of my happiness, how it compresses to a point and implodes such that it encompasses the universe.”
“I will tell you the story?” I asked. “Why would I do such a thing? I do not know that story. It sounds utterly nonsensical. If you knew me so well, you would know that I am a skeptical man of science.” I said. “And this is a charade. There are ways for you to determine my name, who I am. I pass by this way frequently, it cannot be difficult for you to learn about me. And so I defy your story and leave you here to accost another victim of your fraud. But if you must, I will give you a five dollar bill if you promise to save your breath and let me on my way.”
“All right,” he replied. “But you know it will haunt you. My words will vibrate all the neural strands of your brain, and you will wonder about the story which you know well and that only you can tell me.”
“Oh please,” I said. “I have no more time for this game. I have no stories for you. I must go.” I turned my heals and began to stride away.
The impoverished man yelled after me. “I know the books on your shelf, Hugh Trenchard! I know that you have read Jorge Luis Borges this very afternoon, that you read The Book of Sand, and The Other; how Borges met himself and how they dreamed of each other! I know too that as you lay reading, you began to fashion a story in your mind that began this way: “Shall I tell you a story?” Asked the impoverished man”".
I stopped again, and turned. I was beyond surprise. If whom you thought was a stranger tells you so much, he who was a stranger can no longer properly be described that way, and there can be nothing less than infinite understanding. “Then how would you have me begin this story?” I asked.
“I do not need to tell you,” he said. “I am waiting for you to begin,” he said, returning the five-dollar bill to me. I nodded and thanked him. “Will you get coffee with that?” he asked.
“No.” I replied. “Today I am hungry, and there is a burger at McDonalds with my name on it. But I must wait for another stranger to come along to tell them this story, for I will need more money for supper tonight.”
“Then I will leave you here.” He said. “Take care of yourself and I will talk again with you another day.”
“Will you tell me the story, then?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “You will return the five-dollar bill to me, and every synapse will be a microcosm of the universe. There is no loneliness to be achieved when all the connections of the cosmos lies compressed within us. Go, Hugh Trenchard, engage the universe and return to me when you are impoverished again.”
Entries (RSS)
January 3rd, 2010 at 8:00 am
Such a fascinating theme Hugh. Interesting that you’ve adopted a Dickensian tone and style to your prose here, as, of course, charity, the poor, the disenfranchised, self and selflessness, and altruism were perhaps foremost in his topoi. I have to applaud this story, it is really well written and tight. And that’s no altruistic back-pat! lol. REmember though when you think scientifically about a piece of art, that art requires no validation other than life, and itself (other art). Or so I believe! Even if scientists may have something to say about altruism, it is always paltry in comparison with what Dickens or Shakespeare might say about it. Or so I believe. lol.