THE GOD WHO SEES - Chapter 6

Ruminating on the character of the man I’d just heard interviewed led me to contemplate the nature of humanity in general.  I had to admit that nobody’s personality was entirely cut and dried.  Guess we’re all a bit of obnoxious jerk and all sorts of other things, I thought, it’s just some of us hide the obnoxious parts better than others.  I snorted out a laugh.  Yeah, and then there’s those that are virtuosos at hiding the truth from everyone, including themselves.

I shook my head in an attempt to corral the thoughts that were galloping through my brain.  They didn’t have a place in this room that seemed dedicated to the memory of other people not the now of my pain.  Pressing the button on the device felt almost triumphant, like an act of defiance.

“I like that question,” a man said in a soft, gentle voice.  “I would say it depends on the day.  But if I had to choose...” his voice trailed off for a moment before he continued, “...probably purple to indigo.  Mostly purple, though.”

Melody asked another question.

“Oh, I suppose because of the creativity aspect of it, and I can be quite immature at times.  Sorta goes with the territory.”  He laughed quietly.  It was an airy and cheerful sound.

It sounded like Melody had joined him, albeit even more quietly.  Then she continued with her next question.

“Ah, that would be Macbeth.  Tortured soul or ambitious madman?”

I looked at the device with a modicum of surprise at his words.  How far was the distance between obnoxious jerk and ambitious madman?

Another question was asked.

“No, I’ve acted, but never that role.  I stick mostly to the production aspect of theatre, nowadays.  I’ve got a pretty grand set design for Macbeth.  In my head, anyway.”  Another cheery laugh.  “One of these days.”

Melody’s next question came across as more of a statement.

“Ha!  How did you know?  You’re very good, my dear.”  The man had such a kind disposition and friendly manner.  I wondered how old he was because he acted like a kindly grandfather but he didn’t sound anywhere near old enough.  “It is indeed from Macbeth.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.

Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”

Said by the man himself.  I know it sounds pretty dark, but there’s so much truth in it.  More than we care to recognize, I think.”

Full of sound and fury, indeed, I thought.  Some of us recognize that truth all too well.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought Melody sounded a little sober when she asked her next question.

“Man, your questions are great!”  The man’s enthusiasm was infectious and quite welcome after the less than courteous parts of the last interview.  “Yeah, let me think for a minute...mmm...yeah.  Yeah, ‘Drift Away’ by Dobie Gray.  I think mostly because of the bridge. So many artists I could sing that to for all they’ve done to keep me going.  And I’d hope that maybe I could be that for someone, someday, too.”

There was a wistfulness in the man’s voice that gripped my heart.

That sober tone was gone from Melody’s voice and she sounded, instead, like she was trying to be encouraging.

“Thanks.  Thanks for saying that.”

She moved on to her next question.

The man was silent for a few moments.  “She is an Oriental poppy.  Delicate but hardy.  Gorgeous but mysterious.  She may bloom only briefly, yet you feel that darkness doesn’t exist in her presence.”

I could only imagine that Melody’s comment was mirroring my thoughts.

“Well, that’s flattering.  No, not Byron or Keats or Shelley.  Just me.  When you’re married to a woman like my wife, you find that the poetry sort of drips off your tongue.”

Melody let out what sounded like a nervous giggle.

“Sorry.  I hope I’m not embarrassing you.  She’s just, yeah, she’s just the best.”  He laughed again.  “That’s not very poetic, is it?”

This time they both laughed.

“Do you have more questions?” the man asked on the tail end of the laughter.

Melody continued on.

“Wow.  How would I describe it?  A wildfire is the best I can come up with.  Infernal heat, faster than a cheetah, impossible to outrun.  But wait, all that has kinda negative connotations, doesn’t it?  Yeah.  All I can say is that it was all that but in a good way.  If that makes any sense.”

Melody acknowledged his response and he said with a small chuckle, “I’m glad you understand because I’m not sure I could do any better at explaining.”

The next question, as with the other interviewees, elicited a hearty laugh.

“My favorite so far, and you’ve had some good ones.  Well.  How about banana pudding?  Layers and layers of tastiness that might seem all bad for you but there’s actually an element of goodness in there.”

Their laughter was so loud that the mic distorted the sound.

“Hey, I assume you want creative answers based on those questions,” the man said when they could breathe.

Melody made a sound of agreement and then asked the last question.

“Ah, getting down to the nitty gritty, huh?  Makes sense to end with that.  So, there’s an awful lot I could say, but in an effort not to make you sit here listening to me pontificate for the next five hours, I will say that a little compassion and understanding goes a long way.  I know a lot of people don’t like to talk about things they’re going through, but it doesn’t really matter, you know?  That checkout clerk at the grocery store who scowled at you might have just had a death in the family but she has to be at work because they’d dock her pay if she took time off for the funeral.  That waiter who chucked your food on the table without a glance might have just flunked an exam and he can’t retake it.  You just never know.”  He paused.  “And then, some people are just nasty and ill-tempered.  But unless you talk to them, you can’t really know what’s in their heads, and I guess I’m sorta hardwired to give people the benefit of the doubt.  I know not everyone is like me.  Just some thoughts off the top of my head.”

The device clicked off suddenly.  No parting comments, no thank you at the end.  At least not that I got to hear.  His last words stuck with me, though, and I considered them while I walked around the room again just to keep my feet moving.  Does everyone deserve compassion and the benefit of the doubt?  Were this man’s words wisdom or were they a sort of Pollyanna way of looking at people?  My footsteps brought me no closer to a conclusion.