Toughguy Paradox

One of the classic problems of religion is that of humility, since it involves at least one paradox, if not more. It is hard to aspire to just about anything while at the same time laying claim to inability and an awareness of your own relative lack of knowledge, grace, charm, or virtue. We can see how the paradox works in operation: it weeds outs would-be prophets and lengthens the necessary time to come to know someone else's qualities. It is a buffer against snap judgments.

I thought of toughguys in the movies. They never complain, but there's a camera there, so we know.

The noncomplaining toughguy is a mere archetype. It's too hard for mere mortals to be able to disavow pain while at the same time making clear to everyone that it is almost unbearable.

*

Personal pain is interesting in the warehouse, the "w" for short, because of the various ways it works itself out. For instance, if you do happen to injure yourself, if you tell everyone, then you're considered a pussy, but if you don't, and a single person sees you lagging, or limping, or not jumping on some task prohibited by the injury, then they'll complain about you to anyone who'll listen.

W culture is anti-union. Corporate perks are seen as a sign of weakness. Why anyone would take vacation when other people have to work those days is seen as selfish laziness. In a sense, Big Bill is like a nun. He works seven days a week, for long hours. Because of his debt, he practically owns nothing.

He is, of course, not a nun. Despite the simplicity of his needs (sex, meatloaf, and cherry wheat ale, these days) he is usually penniless. He doesn't even seem to want to get out of debt. It's a nuisance, but since it was impossed on him so ruthlessly by a combination of all-too-human ignorance and fate, he takes it as his lot and can't imagine how life would be otherwise. When someone is kind enough to give him a donut, it seems so unusual to him that it tweaks his sentimental soul and tears come to his eyes.

Suffering, in that world, occurs on a different register than in other arenas I'm familiar with. It is routine for people who work hard, for years, to be fired for being overqualified. If you work for the company long enough, your age will be a liability, and the company will transfer you to increasingly distant branches until the commute and the lowliness of the work finally do you in mentally. After that, it's just a matter of paperwork.

*

I've lived in cities now for a long time, and I realized how far back in time I travelled by moving to Townsend because of the many trick or treaters out tonight. I would go so far as to say hundreds. The center of town was filled with shifting shadows. Lots of elves. Stormtroopers, unintentionally hilarious. Weird nameless things: neon glowing people in funny hats.

I tried to explain to Dufflebag why an eleven year old going as Freddy Krueger wasn't appropriate. No, not because he is a character in R-rated films, although that should be taken into consideration. But because an eleven year old is too old to look cute and too young to look scary. So they just look odd. Like a human face on a dog's body. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't register.

Speaking of Dufflebag, we spent forty-five minutes working on his exploded eyeball make-up and it was a hit, although it confused a number of people who wanted to know what he was. Since when did you have to be a recognizable entity? I mean, he's a kid with an eyeball hanging out of its socket. Doesn't that seem Halloween enough? Does he then have to have some context. Some back history?

Jess stayed at home watching the house while I did the rounds. One homeowner told Dufflebag, "Why don't you grab an extra piece of candy for your Dad."

"He's not my Dad." he said.

"Oh," she said, surprised.

"He's . . . um . . . " he realized he didn't have a label for me, either.

"I'm his agent," I told her.

And we walked off into the Townsend night.