The Optimist
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger. He was pulled over, his car hood open and a hint of smoke was coming from the open engine. He seemed to be talking with someone on the phone with major agitation on his face, and his hands were gesturing wildly in anger. All I heard of the conversation as I got out of the car was “I’ve had enough! It doesn’t get easier! It never gets easier! It’s the same every damn time,” he emphasized the last three words and punctuated each by slicing his hand through the open air, “How long can you expect me to continue? How long does it go before I get to quit?”
As he saw me approaching he ended the call abruptly and slid his phone into his back pocket.
“Car trouble, friend?” I asked.
“Yeah, something under the hood,” he seemed to have calmed down suddenly, and he spoke concisely and deliberately, as if he was rehearsing a part in a play. “It started making this noise and smoking and all of a sudden the car just won’t move.”
“Well I’m no mechanic, that was my old man, but I think I picked up a few things, you mind if I take a look,” I extended my hand to him and he took it and let go of it with hardly a shake as I introduced myself, “The name’s Abe.”
“Short for Abraham?” he asked as I walked to the already open hood, the disinterest obvious in his tone like he already knew the answer.
“Nope,” I said as I started to look around.
“I’m Seth,” he said not moving from his spot by the drivers side door.
I asked him to start the car up as I couldn’t see exactly what the problem was and figured that if my eyes weren’t getting it done maybe my ears would.
The car started and I asked him to pat the gas, pump the brake, and so on. I thought I knew what the problem was and asked him if he could open up the trunk of my car and get the small toolbox I keep for emergencies.
He did and I fixed the problem pretty quickly, as he stood behind me watching me work.
“Alright, try it out now,” I said as I finished up, but got no answer. “Seth?” I asked as I turned around.
I wasn’t greeted by a familiar face, but by the barrel of semi-automatic pistol.
Bang.
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger. He was pulled over, his car hood open and a hint of smoke was coming from the open engine. He seemed to be talking with someone on the phone with major agitation on his face, and his hands were gesturing wildly in anger. All I heard of the conversation as I got out of the car was “None of it changes, he keeps doing it, in the exact same way. He doesn’t change a thing. I don’t even know what the point is. What’s the point of any of it?”
As he saw me approaching he ended the call abruptly and slid his phone into his back pocket.
“Car trouble, friend?” I asked.
“Yeah, something under the hood,” he seemed to have calmed down suddenly, and he spoke concisely and deliberately, as if he was rehearsing a part in a play. “It started making this noise and smoking and all of a sudden the car just won’t move.”
“Well I’m no mechanic, that was my old man, but I think I picked up a few things, you mind if I take a look,” I extended my hand to him and he took it and let go of it with hardly a shake as I introduced myself, “The name’s Abe...”
Bang.
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger. He was pulled over, his car hood open and a hint of smoke was coming from the open engine. He seemed to be talking with someone on the phone with major agitation on his face, and his hands were gesturing wildly in anger. All I heard of the conversation as I got out of the car was “Because I have to do this too! I have to deal with it too. We already know what will happen so why in the hell would we keep on going?”
As he saw me approaching he ended the call abruptly and slid his phone into his back pocket.
“Car trouble, friend?” I asked...
Bang.
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger. He was pulled over, his car hood open and a hint of smoke was coming from the open engine. He seemed to be talking with someone on the phone with major agitation on his face, and his hands were gesturing wildly in anger. All I heard of the conversation as I got out of the car was “I already know how it’s going to happen. I have it mapped out to the millisecond. I even know that this is the exact moment that I have to stop talking.”
Bang.
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
I pulled over and got out of the car to see if I could help. As he saw me approaching he ended the call abruptly and slid his phone into his back pocket. And as he brought his hand back up he was clutching a semi-automatic pistol, his hand seeming to shake from holding it so tight.
“Woah! Holy-- Why don’t we calm down there, friend,” I said as I raised my hands up in a reflex, for some reason thinking they could stop the bullet. “I haven’t got much money but if that’s what your after, I’m going to have to ask you to let me reach into my jacket pocket to get my wallet.”
“Why?” he said quietly, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him.
“‘Why’ what?” I asked nervously.
“Why won’t you just keep driving?”
“I’m afraid I’m not understanding you,” I said, thinking that maybe I could disarm him or make a mad dash back to my car if I could distract him by keeping him talking.
“Of course you don’t,” he sighed, almost in defeat, “Well maybe you should.”
And then, like a fog lifting from my brain, I knew.
My hands came down slowly as my life, like a sped up film reel, ran across my eyes.
“I’m going to ask you again: why don’t you just keep driving? Why do you stop every time?”
“What other choice do I have?”
“Every choice! You know what will happen! Some primal part of you has to know.”
“Yeah, I guess I do, but I still have to stop.”
“You have a choice!”
“I do, and I choose to stop, every time.”
“Why!” he just about roared.
“Because someday things might change.”
“It won’t! It happens the same way every damn time,” he emphasized the last three words and punctuated each by slicing his hand through the open air.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’ll happen the same way every time after that. You don’t know. I don’t know. All we can do is wait and see. I won’t just stop, because while I don’t know what’s going to happen, I do know one thing: no condition is permanent. Everything is always changing, maybe slowly but changing nonetheless. Now let’s see about that car,” I said as I walked past him to the already open hood.
I was met with silence.
“You see? It’s all different this time.”
Bang.
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger. He was pulled over, his car hood open and a hint of smoke was coming from the open engine. He seemed to be talking with someone on the phone with major agitation on his face, and his hands were gesturing wildly in anger. All I heard of the conversation as I got out of the car was “I’ve had enough! It doesn’t get easier! It never gets easier! It’s the same every damn time,” he emphasized the last three words and punctuated each by slicing his hand through the open air, “How long can you expect me to continue? How long does it go before I get to quit?”
As he saw me approaching he ended the call abruptly and slid his phone into his back pocket.
“Car trouble, friend?” I asked.
“Yeah, something under the hood,” he seemed to have calmed down suddenly, and he spoke concisely and deliberately, as if he was rehearsing a part in a play. “It started making this noise and smoking and all of a sudden the car just won’t move.”
“Well I’m no mechanic, that was my old man, but I think I picked up a few things, you mind if I take a look,” I extended my hand to him and he took it and let go of it with hardly a shake as I introduced myself, “The name’s Abe.”
“Short for Abraham?” he asked as I walked to the already open hood, the disinterest obvious in his tone like he already knew the answer.
“Nope,” I said as I started to look around.
“I’m Seth,” he said not moving from his spot by the drivers side door.
I asked him to start the car up as I couldn’t see exactly what the problem was and figured that if my eyes weren’t getting it done maybe my ears would.
The car started and I asked him to pat the gas, pump the brake, and so on. I thought I knew what the problem was and asked him if he could open up the trunk of my car and get the small toolbox I keep for emergencies.
He did and I fixed the problem pretty quickly, as he stood behind me watching me work.
“Alright, try it out now,” I said as I finished up, but got no answer. “Seth?” I asked as I turned around.
I wasn’t greeted by a familiar face, but by the barrel of semi-automatic pistol.
Bang.
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger. He was pulled over, his car hood open and a hint of smoke was coming from the open engine. He seemed to be talking with someone on the phone with major agitation on his face, and his hands were gesturing wildly in anger. All I heard of the conversation as I got out of the car was “None of it changes, he keeps doing it, in the exact same way. He doesn’t change a thing. I don’t even know what the point is. What’s the point of any of it?”
As he saw me approaching he ended the call abruptly and slid his phone into his back pocket.
“Car trouble, friend?” I asked.
“Yeah, something under the hood,” he seemed to have calmed down suddenly, and he spoke concisely and deliberately, as if he was rehearsing a part in a play. “It started making this noise and smoking and all of a sudden the car just won’t move.”
“Well I’m no mechanic, that was my old man, but I think I picked up a few things, you mind if I take a look,” I extended my hand to him and he took it and let go of it with hardly a shake as I introduced myself, “The name’s Abe...”
Bang.
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger. He was pulled over, his car hood open and a hint of smoke was coming from the open engine. He seemed to be talking with someone on the phone with major agitation on his face, and his hands were gesturing wildly in anger. All I heard of the conversation as I got out of the car was “Because I have to do this too! I have to deal with it too. We already know what will happen so why in the hell would we keep on going?”
As he saw me approaching he ended the call abruptly and slid his phone into his back pocket.
“Car trouble, friend?” I asked...
Bang.
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger. He was pulled over, his car hood open and a hint of smoke was coming from the open engine. He seemed to be talking with someone on the phone with major agitation on his face, and his hands were gesturing wildly in anger. All I heard of the conversation as I got out of the car was “I already know how it’s going to happen. I have it mapped out to the millisecond. I even know that this is the exact moment that I have to stop talking.”
Bang.
I was feeling nauseous when I stopped by the side of the road to help a stranger.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
I pulled over and got out of the car to see if I could help. As he saw me approaching he ended the call abruptly and slid his phone into his back pocket. And as he brought his hand back up he was clutching a semi-automatic pistol, his hand seeming to shake from holding it so tight.
“Woah! Holy-- Why don’t we calm down there, friend,” I said as I raised my hands up in a reflex, for some reason thinking they could stop the bullet. “I haven’t got much money but if that’s what your after, I’m going to have to ask you to let me reach into my jacket pocket to get my wallet.”
“Why?” he said quietly, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him.
“‘Why’ what?” I asked nervously.
“Why won’t you just keep driving?”
“I’m afraid I’m not understanding you,” I said, thinking that maybe I could disarm him or make a mad dash back to my car if I could distract him by keeping him talking.
“Of course you don’t,” he sighed, almost in defeat, “Well maybe you should.”
And then, like a fog lifting from my brain, I knew.
My hands came down slowly as my life, like a sped up film reel, ran across my eyes.
“I’m going to ask you again: why don’t you just keep driving? Why do you stop every time?”
“What other choice do I have?”
“Every choice! You know what will happen! Some primal part of you has to know.”
“Yeah, I guess I do, but I still have to stop.”
“You have a choice!”
“I do, and I choose to stop, every time.”
“Why!” he just about roared.
“Because someday things might change.”
“It won’t! It happens the same way every damn time,” he emphasized the last three words and punctuated each by slicing his hand through the open air.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’ll happen the same way every time after that. You don’t know. I don’t know. All we can do is wait and see. I won’t just stop, because while I don’t know what’s going to happen, I do know one thing: no condition is permanent. Everything is always changing, maybe slowly but changing nonetheless. Now let’s see about that car,” I said as I walked past him to the already open hood.
I was met with silence.
“You see? It’s all different this time.”
Bang.
