The Recruit
“Hey Billy, let’s walk together. Do you know what I see when I look at you, Billy?”
“William.”
“Pardon?”
“My name is William.”
“Right. I see potential. I saw your warrior pose in class. You’re strong. I’m too rickety to do yoga well anymore. I was thinking, you might have as much talent as I do at things that make a difference.”
“At what?”
“At making an impact in the world, at helping kids grow up and adults calm down. Crazy times now, and I think you have the patience to pull a thick thread through the thin eye of a needle.”
“What?”
“Your comments, Billy. The other day you commented online about that dangerous intersection, about how cars ignore the red light. Your idea to fix it was brilliant. Move the traffic light lower down the pole, paint an extra line in the street, problem’s fixed. That kind of quality thinking makes our world better. Hey, slow down. I’m sore after that workout.”
“William. I don’t go online. Setting an example for my kids.”
“I’d like to hear your thoughts on so many issues. What do you think of banning fruit vendors from cluttering our sidewalks? Or, getting rid of cashiers? Those self-checkout kiosks are fantastic. We’d get lower prices if we don’t have to pay cashiers. Save us some on our social security. Cashiers can get other jobs.”
“I never write comments.”
“Are you at all interested in going beyond comment writing, Bill? I know, it’s a nice hobby. I used to write comments. I had some terrific conversations online. Someone even convinced me that I was wrong once. I see you all the time. You get a lot of responses, and people like your point of view. But Billy, I notice you abandon your comments. You shouldn’t. They need care and tending, defending. Let’s wait for the light here.”
“William. No.”
“Yeah, I always used to tend mine. Take movies. I used to comment about lousy superhero movies, about people getting on their phones even before the credits roll. But I always knew how it worked. People would like a comment, maybe they’d reply. But then they’d go grocery shopping or to work or take a nap. I didn’t have a lasting impact where it mattered, out here in the world. Comments are a one-trick pony, Will. Even when tended, they’re posted and done. I knew I needed to get out here on the street, but I needed a push.”
“A push?”
“One day my wife was carrying a bag of grapefruit. A kid stopped dead on the sidewalk looking at his phone and she walked into him. The bag broke and the grapefruits went all over the place. One rolled into the street. She stepped off the curb to fetch it and tripped in a pothole and fell. A truck stopped short before it hit her. The kid passed her on the street, still texting.”
“Wow. Close call.”
“So now I hit the streets. Say there’s a delivery guy on his electric bike coming my way on the sidewalk. I refuse to get out of his way. I make him swerve or stop short. Two of them fell off their bikes. They glare at me. Sometimes other people are jostled, but that’s the risk I take.”
“Jerk.”
“Billy, you get it! Yes, the guys on their bikes are jerks, but those other people aren’t innocent. They should be alert if they’re out in the world. People need to be aware. I tell little kids to hold onto their toys, don’t drop them. I tell them, you’ll learn when you lose that doll down a sewer. Then I tell them not to cry. People pay attention when your face is right up in theirs.”
“Rude.”
“People are rude. If it wasn’t for my wife’s experience I’d be happy just writing online. I used to go for long walks strolling and humming, composing my comments in my head. I was sorry to give up that simple life. But I had to. And it’s paying off. The other day I was in the library asking after a meditation guide I had reserved. I know, I know, I can see online if it’s in yet, but I like to go face to face with the librarian. Where’s my book? ‘Still out,’ she said. Why? I didn’t need her to tell me. There are no late fees anymore, no reason to return a borrowed book. She asked if I still have the copy of Mindfulness I borrowed. I tell her hell yes, and I’m taking my time. What’s the rush, right? There are no late fees anymore.”
“You are a jerk.”
“I’m not trying to be a jerk. No consequences leads to bad behavior. The librarian understands that now. I worry about the social contract. It’s shredding, Billy, it’s shredding and fraying. I’m afraid of what that means. Social disintegration. So think about it, will you? I can’t do it alone, not at my age. You don’t have to give up writing comments completely like I did. You can do both, you’re young and you have more energy, even raising kids. I need to be on the streets full time. But you can write and be out here. You’re alert and vigilant. Be a hero for your kids!”
“My name is William. You are a jerk. I don’t want to put anything to good use. I don’t write comments online. Online is toxic. I’ll raise my kids my way. I’m sorry your wife’s grapefruit landed in the street and she fell in a pothole. I don’t care about the library or some kid’s doll. I’m not taking anything to the streets. Except my dog. And if I forget a plastic bag, I’m leaving his shit right there on the sidewalk.”
“Well, Billy, that’s just fine. See you at the mindfulness workshop on Thursday. We can continue this conversation on our walk home.”