Thursday, August 03, 2006
Two in the Bush
First off, I'd like to issue an apology: I am sorry about the way the italics run into whatever comes after them. I really am. I don't know why it does it. It is really interfering with Employee #8's whole episodic post thing, which I'm kinda diggin', and it upsets me as much as I'm sure it upsets you. If I could fix it, I would. I guess just trying to space a few extra spaces after any italics might do the trick, but who can stop to think about that kind of thing? Especially after italics. No dice Blogger.com; you can't break our fluidity like that. Anyway, yea. I just wanted to apologize, because (and this is the crux the matter, the part that she'll never get and the reason why just couldn't ever work out) when it comes right down to it, it doesn't matter if it's my fault--I'm still sorry about it.
For today's lesson, I'd like to step back from geo-political disaster and take a look at the very personal disaster of being the sucker. More specifically, being the sucker onstage. We've all seen this "sucker on stage." We see him on stage--Othello, who just can't sack up and trust Desdemona. We see him in real life--the friend who just can't sack up and make a play at the ball when it's as good as tee'd up for him. And we see her on the tube--when Lauren, despite Miss Sarcastro's judicious reprimands (speaking of Castro, am I alone in being a touch melancholy at the thought of Cuba being Fidel's no more?) heads off to spend the summer with that ass-hat Jason character who--as every other beating heart in America can see clear as day--is a loser and a half.
The question for the day, then, is why do they do it? Why, when everyone watching can see that Igor is a manipulative man-servant and that sometimes all a guy's gotta do to get on first is take a fucking swing, and that the only reason Lauren should stay in SoCal with Jasshole is...well...nothing, then why can't these seemingly normal, seemingly bright folks see it themselves?
The answer comes in the guise of a street game.
In
eins...zwei...drei...
one...two...three...
where is the ball?
where is the ball?
As he repeats his bi-lingual chorus, his fingers fly--as do the fingers of most street-gamesmen. The ball sails from one box to another, then to another. It is quick, very quick. But not so quick that you can't keep track of it. If you concentrate, and can keep a good view, you can follow it's path, and when he stops, where is the ball? you know. Or, you think you know. At the beginning, you're not sure, so you stand around and wait for someone to step up and, with a 50 of his own, say, "Yes, I know where the ball is, it is there-" You watch the new player--you watch as he takes out his wallet, finds his 50, hands it to the gamesman, and then flips up the box which he, and you, knows conceals the ball. Empty. He is crushed. You are impressed. But, with cocky arrogance, the gamesman is ready to continue. Now, only 2 boxes left, still where is the ball?. The chances are good now. Unfortunately, you don't have a clue. For all you know, the ball is in his hand, with the 50's, or under his shoe. But then, someone boldly steps up, hands the man a 50 and lifts a box. Ball. 2 50's back into the hand of the man who just gave up one. He's rich. And so easy.
Now you are intrigued. You could see it in the man's eyes, he really knew. Not like you and the first schmuck knew. He knew the trick. So you watch more. And before too long, discouraged that you are always in agreement with the first player who strides up and takes out his 50 and always proven wrong by the ball and the boxes, you dedicate yourself more fully to the task. You stop caring about the guy coming up to lose his 50--he clearly doesn't know the trick anyway--and all of a sudden, you are an all-star. You know where it is every time. And yet somehow, the guy playing never does. He is always wrong. You watch him shuffle the ball. eins...zwei...drei... you watch him stop, where is the ball? and you watch him then, after he stops, shuffle the ball once more, clear as day, right before everyone's eyes, just moving it from one box from the other, as if he were doing nothing more secretive than passing the butter-dish. And yet, incomprehensibly, the loser of the game--the one who steps up to give away his 50, never seems to see this. Each time, he chooses the box that hid the ball before this final, obvious, switch. The crowd knows, you know. You all grown in collective agony each time a poor sole reaches for the box you know is wrong. Yes, every now and then, someone gets it right. But more often than not, the center of this sorry spectacle walks away 50 Euro the poorer, and is, without question, the sucker on stage to everyone around.
Eventually, as it always does, the truth reveals itself. You figure out it's almost stupid-simplicity--it's surprisingly stinging irony. The final switch, the one like the butter-dish, the one everyone sees but the one for whom it counts, is well-timed. In the few seconds that the anxious new gambler rummages through his pocket, or billfold, or even just his hand, for his crisp clean 50 which he is so sure will earn him another, he completely misses the critical-yet-obvious movement that ends up costing him his wager along with his winnings. Simple as that. Keep your eye on the ball. Seems obvious in a game of "keep your eye on the ball" doesn't it? Well, the sucker on stage doesn't do this. Because when it comes time for the sucker on stage to make his move, he gets distracted. He gets distracted by what he already has, and by what he already thinks, and just shuts down. He stops thinking about what's really going, he stops making the super-slick and super-smooth moves that got him there in the first place, and she stops thinking about the great things she can get when she get's sidetracked by the mediocre things she's already got. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, but hear ye this, sucker on stage:
If your bird is in your hand, THEN YOU DON'T FUCKING NEED TO LOOK AT IT.
Class dismissed.
