Socrates, Can You Give Me a Break?

I was in need of another party fix. Not drugs, per se, just the kind of boozing and singing that The Village is especially good for. I needed to get back into the swing. Forget about Eliza. Live life in the moment. Meg was busy organizing the referendum to decide whether the island should be Canadian or American. So I found a bottle of gin under my bed — I’d been wondering where that was — and drove south.

Ah, The Village. Guaranteed good time. I was forcing myself to grin even before I could hear the bongos playing.

I found a group of people hanging out on the western beach. Summer was there, with Wiry Guy, although I’d come to understand over time that his presence or absence didn’t affect her willingness to tumble with other people. Mitch was there, too, slapping a guitar and trying his best to sing. He said they were celebrating the life of Jack Kerouac by gathering for a party on the day of his death. I don’t think the actual calendar had much to do with the decision-making. Mitch was doing the old Molly Makepeace tunes, the songs I’ve really grown to love on this beach.

I’m singing my favorite song,

but all wrong, friends,

I’m singing my favorite song,

but all wrong.

I’ve lost the words and I’ve wrecked the tune

and the rhythm won’t come out right.

Singing my favorite song,

but all wrong.

The big crescendo—the part we all sang the loudest, with the greatest rebel fervor, was the next verse:

I’m singing my favorite song,

but all wrong, friends,

I’m singing my favorite song,

but all wrong.

This world is such a messed-up place

that it don’t deserve my song, right.

Singing my favorite song,

but all wrong.

And then bring the house down a little:

Maybe I’ll find some way

to sing it right, friends,

Maybe I’ll find some way

to sing it right.

But until the people can find some love

to make it worth my song, right.

I’m singing my favorite song,

but all wrong.

Just thinking about that music brings back sweet and potent memories of good times this summer, sitting on the beach, drinking beer in the strong sunshine and the chilly night wind, burning driftwood and kissing strangers and singing great Molly Makepeace songs. Mitch was banging his guitar and we all sang the words, slurred and out of tune. I grinned and swigged some gin and belted out the words as loud as anyone. I’m singing my favorite song, but all wrong, friends. When I ran out of gin I switched to beer.

Have you ever noticed that American beer tastes like piss when it’s warm? After my third can, I began to think seriously about getting a fridge. Of course, that would mean bringing electricity to The Stump, which would mean the creation of some kind of major power grid for the entire island — but hey, it’d be worth it for cold beer.

On the other hand, I had already launched a plan that would solve that problem in another way. It was an odd and amusing plan, and it definitely required more beer for me to think about it. Damn Catch-22s. To think about my plan for a fridge and cold beer, I first had to suck down some more warm beer.

While I was sitting and sucking down beer, I got to thinking about this offer I got by email a few days ago. There’s a new online magazine called Hypo, and they want me to work for them as a permanent freelancer. This gig with The Sun will be over soon, and this bit with Hypo sounds pretty good. I’ll be free to write whatever stories I want, and they’ll give me a salary and a small travel budget. It sounds like the right idea for me — maybe not crashing through the jungles of Borneo just yet, but I’ll be able to drive around Iceland’s Ring Road, or hike the interior of Newfoundland, or ride with the Navy when they do their iceberg hunt each spring. All pretty much in this region, but adventures just the same. Still, it would be nice to have a home to come home to when an adventure ends, and it would be great to have someone who wants to do some of those adventures with me. I thought for a brief moment there that Eliza might provide both those things — a spectacular companion to share the world with, and a great person to greet me at the door when I stomp back up the driveway — but it’s pretty clear she had a lot of dreams and fears and terrors, none of which involved me. I’ve arranged for the home —

My thoughts were interrupted when Bo and Celia wandered up the beach. They sat down near me. Celia actually smiled in my direction.

“Nice day,” I offered.

Bo flashed me one of his Mr. T glares, his oily black beard glistening in the evening sun. “What does it mean when we say a day is nice?”

Oh, hell — it’s Professor Bo and his highly capable Associate Instructor, Celia. But this time, I felt like playing a different game.

“What does it mean when we say a day is awful?” I shot back.

“Is nice the opposite of awful?” Bo countered with a strong forehand. “Can’t a day be nice — blue sky, warm breeze, and all that — and simultaneously awful because your puppy got hit by a train? Just because days can be awful, it does not follow that days can be nice.”

“I didn’t say that nice and awful were opposites,” I rallied with a weak but competent cross-court backhand. “I was merely suggesting that days can take on characteristics, and nice is a characteristic.”

“Which doesn’t answer the question,” Bo slammed a two-hand shot low over the net. “What do we mean when we say it’s a nice day?”

“You know, nice,” I replied. Evidently, I was tying my shoelace at the baseline. “Pleasant. Blue sky and warm breeze, like you said.”

“So a nice day means a day that is comfortable? Comfortable enough to go outside and sit on a beach without heavy clothing or shelter?”

Wiff. The sun’s in my eyes, and I have a pebble in my shoe, and my racquet is strung all wrong. I can see where this is headed. He assaults the position that nice is the same as comfortable, on the grounds that we as thinking, spiritual beings should hold much higher standards for each of our days than merely the ability to get through one without putting on a coat. I counter by pointing out that it was merely a social greeting, devoid of any meaning other than “it’s a pleasure to see you today.” He comes back with a challenge about the need for meaningless greetings when we are all human beings on equal footing in a vast and bizarre universe.

I swing my wobbly racquet for one last, desperate shot.

“A nice day,” I reply, “is one in which I can sit on a beach, drink beer, and greet people without anyone doing the Socrates thing on me.”

Bo huffed. He actually huffed, like a bison that thinks you’ve wandered too close to its favorite tree. But in this case, the huff carried a great deal of meaning, probably even more than “nice day.” In this case, the huff meant the conversation had gotten too normal and earthbound and shallow for Bo to continue.

He pulled Celia to her feet. She brushed off her shorts, looked at me in the same way you’d look at a seagull who just broke its neck flying into your plate-glass window, and walked off down the beach with Bo.

And I sat there wondering how this counter-culture welder who has been to far-off and exotic places can still be something like a jerk.

— Donovan Graham, “The Shadowless Writer”

Comments:

Comment — SunTanDude: Hey, Van, man. No beach is perfect all the time. Ebbs and flows, man. Ebbs and flows.

Comment — Amber4295: I think Irish beer is much better than American beer.

Comment — BobbyBoy886314: You’ll feel better soon, Van. You just have to work it out.

Comment — BenchPress999: Just suck it up, wimp. Crap happens. Get over it.

Comment — Gemstone: You never have to do anything alone, Van. Find a good friend and talk things over. You’ll feel better. I promise.

Comment — Orson Van Dyke: Jack Kerouac died on October 21, for the record. And also for the record, he died at the age of 47 from an internal hemorrhage, probably the result of his excessive use of alcohol and Benzedrine. He might have been a revolutionary writer, but he wasn’t the smartest person in the world.

Comment — SunTanDude: Ebbs and flows, man. Ebbs and flows.

Read previous blog entries in the Island Wars story by clicking here [1].