Advice

I met a couple at an art event who were absolutely filled with hatred for one another. I was in a booth offering free advice to anyone who had questions about anything, especially those related to facing fears. The couple sat down and started bitching about how awful the other person was. They went into detail, horrifying detail, about indiscretions, betrayals, and cruelties. They created a lingering presence of menace, an entity that formed as a third party separate from either one of them, a hate-child born of despairing rage.

I couldn’t take it any longer so I said to them, “I am offering advice for people who want to try to overcome their fears. I have been offering mostly humorous advice about fairly trivial concerns. A few people came to me with authentic problems openly seeking to explore possible decisions that might lead to the most advantageous resolution. The two of you, however, have done nothing but spew putrid, diseased nastiness toward me. The content is related to each or the other of you, but the venom is being projected, quite furiously, at me. I won’t sit here and take this any longer. If you still want my advice I will give it to you, though.”

A pause. Wide-eyed silence. I spoke. “Okay. I suggest the two of you get divorced. Each of you should seek intensive psychotherapy along with heavy doses of anti-depressant medications. Your rage is so intense that it’s made me nauseous. Never, ever speak to one another again. Never speak of one another again. Each of you is evil. The Devil had sex with Medusa and conceived twins, a son and a daughter, and they are you. You are predators of vampires; you feed off of emptiness. Void is your natural environment. You are the anti-life yang to life’s yin. Nothing can grow in your presence. Life that encounters your presence in a space such as this, days later, will decay, wither, and die. Thus, I am doomed. All others who are here are doomed. The combination of the two of you together, in the same vicinity, has unleashed a virus of revulsion, brutality, and darkness. Be gone. Leave these premises immediately and never bother anyone else with your troubles ever again. Do not poison anyone else. Wear muzzles. Sterilize yourselves; do not procreate no matter what! Just, please, don’t do that.”

I stopped speaking, took a drink from a flask of whiskey, and smiled at each of them. They sat in front of me, dumbfounded. They looked at one another, shame-faced, then got up and walked, arm in arm, toward the door. At the door, they turned to one another and talked. They spoke calmly for about a minute until the man became heated and the woman made wild gestures. Finally, she slapped his face and stomped out the door. He stood still for a few moments, his hand on his face. He turned his head toward the door and looked for a few more moments. He hung his head low and his shoulders sagged as he made his way to the door. He looked like he wished for death.

A small crowd had formed as I had gotten into my rant. Most were still milling around even after the couple exited. One young man dressed in a fluid-plastic electric-blue coat and a shimmering purple scarf asked me if he could schedule an interview for an article he was writing. I said okay. He sat down and as he did most of the crowd dispersed. Some newcomers walked up and stood in line as the flamboyantly dressed young journalist, with a swashbuckling air, blustered through a long monologue about his amoral character. He said he didn't understand the principles of any ethical system and thought being a sociopath was the only way to be truly free of external influences.

I thanked him for his time, told him I needed to stop so that I could have a cigarette break, and then I left. I didn’t come back. I was done, there was no reason to encourage the youngster. He was beyond repair, like everyone else. I wanted no part of him, none of the rancid innards he had bubbling up from his deformed conscience.

I ambled down the street on Portland’s near east side, made my way to a bar not far from Morrison. I walked inside and asked the bartender for whiskey. She poured a glass and I started a tab. The place was almost empty, an old dive, just a couple old-timers at the end of the bar watching a muted TV screen, some middle-aged guy golfing. The bartender was young, though, maybe 25. Brunette. Fit. Attractive.

She walked back to the old guys with a tray of drinks. I turned and stared ahead at the bottles on the wall. I took a drink. I thought about nothing in particular. I felt relaxed, like there was no reason to hope but plenty of reasons to live.