“Probably.”
“Do you think you’re a good person?”
“I–I think so… I try to be nice to people. I give to charity every once in a while.”
“I didn’t ask if you were nice or charitable. I asked if you really think you’re a good person.”
“How do you define good?”
He grinned. “Good question.”
I laughed. “What about you? Do you think you’re a good person?”
“No. I haven’t done a single thing for anyone in the world. What difference have I made? I’ve just wanted more money for myself and patted myself on the back by giving money here and there to various charities. When you were young, did you want to be great?”
“Of course I did.”
“Do you think you’re going to be great?”
“Unless something changes in the next thirty years, probably not,” I jested. Then realized how terribly depressing my admission was.
“Do you think you’ve made a difference for the good in the lives of the people around you?”
“I’d hope so.”
“Do you think the people around you have felt their lives were enriched by your existence?”
“I can’t think of anything, but you saw It’s a Wonderful Life. Maybe if I died, people would notice.”
“If you found out you were going to die tomorrow, would you change the way you live your life?” he inquired.
“Absolutely. There’s a million things I’d go do.”
“Do any of them involve your wife and kids?”
“…No.”
“What’s the most cowardly thing you’ve done?”
“…I’m going to opt not to answer.”
“What’s the most hateful thing you’ve done?”
“…I don’t want to answer that.”
“What is the most important thing in the world to you?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Is truth important to you?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it since… since college. There was a time when all I cared about was truth. I didn’t even go to my classes, because I’d be reading books all day.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“…I’m married, aren’t I?”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“…Yes.”
“Does love always have to be painful?”
“…I think so.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think is the worst feeling in the world?”
“When… when you know something good is going to end.”
“Have you ever lied to someone because you were jealous of them?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever pretended to be drunk so you could fit in with a group?”
“…Yes.”
“Have you ever betrayed a friend to protect yourself?”
“…Yes.”
“Did you ever try to commit suicide?”
“…No.”
“Why not?”
“Because… because I was too afraid to try.”
“Did you ever want to die?”
“…Yeah.”
“When?”
“There wasn’t a specific time. I think it was just a general state. Sometimes, I just get tired of life.”
“When was the proudest moment of your life?”
“…I don’t know if I have one.”
“What’s you’re most prized possession?”
“…My car.” I felt empty as the words came out.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think there’s a Heaven or Hell?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you still believe in God if you knew for a fact there was no Heaven or Hell?”
“…I don’t know.”
“Why do you believe in God?”
“Because… I don’t know why,” I said.
“Why do you work every day?”
“So I can make money.”
“For your happiness?”
“No, to pay the bills.”
“Does paying the bills make you happy?”
“No,” I answered.
“If you could escape from this life, would you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Would that make you happy?”
“Yep.”
“Then why don’t you leave right now?”
“Because… because I can’t. I have family. I have obligations.”
“Then you’re being denied your happiness by your family?”
“It’s not just my family. It’s… it’s me… I don’t get it.”
“Do you really believe in anything?”
“…Probably not.”
He jumped up and started screaming and pounding the table. Then he climbed on top of it. “You’re just like me: it doesn’t matter whether we live or die; we just drift without any purpose except to make someone somewhere more money. You really want my job? You really want to be the arbiter of nothing?”
“…”
“I’m going to commit suicide tomorrow. I’m going to die. And do you know what?”
“What?”
“I’m not going to do anything different. I’m going to come into work. I’m going to surf the net and send out some emails. I’m gonna go home at six and grab myself some cheap sushi on the way home. I’m gonna watch television for a few hours. Then I’m going to go to sleep. In the morning, I’m going to get a shotgun and blow my head off. It was nice meeting you. Good luck with the job.”
He left the room.
Gena from HR arrived.
“Everyone loved you and they’re eager to get you in. Let’s talk a little about pay. How much are we looking at?”
It took me a minute before I realized she was asking me something.
“Can you repeat the question?”
Two weeks later, I received a call from Gena.
“I’m sorry, but our company is closing. We’re sending our office overseas to India. Cheaper labor, you know the deal.”
I nodded, then asked, “Did any of the managers lose his entire family last week?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”
Later that night, as I was eating alone, my wife came in dressed in a leather skirt, reeking of perfume. She didn’t say anything as she got her orange juice. She was about to go to the bedroom when I called out her name.
“Yeah?” she asked.
“I have a question for you,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“What’s the meaning of life?”
Urban Dreamers
I.
As a photographer of urban legends, my job was to authenticate a fabricated reality. I’d always lived in a world of fantasy gone awry. Death was a semblance of life; truth, a façade for illusion. My projects revolved around the lies people believed in: the hitchhiker who vanished in the backseat of the car, the baby crocodile flushed down the young boy’s toilet, the ridiculously cheap car possessing the stench of a corpse. I was in love with horror and wanted to capture it through the lens. Joy seemed dull; bliss a masquerade for the inevitability of solitude. I’d been dating a girl named Jane who lived with someone I’d mistaken as her twin — except they weren’t related at all. They just looked alike, dressed alike, worked at the same company, and had rhyming names: Jane and Lane.
I suggested we do a photo-shoot together. The theme would be the twins who weren’t twins: identity mimicked, in a mimicry of distinction. She was intrigued. I rented out a studio and attired them in similar outfits, their colors melding together as a study on the origins of hatred and bitterness.
“How would you describe the mood you’re going for?” Jane asked.
“I… I don’t know how to explain. It’s like everything’s dissolving into something else.”
“What?”
I tried thinking of an analogy. “Think about murder. It’s a magnification of narcissism. Jealousy is an extension of desire. Love is lust amplified, and greed is self-loathing.”