The Wolf and the Bee

            There once was a bee who did not like to do her work. Since she was born she was expected to go out and collect nectar for the hive. All year long it seemed she was busy preparing for the coming winter, when the flowers closed up and did not provide food until spring came again. The leaves were already turning, which always caused the queen to go into a frenzy, nervous that there would not be enough rationed food in the honeycomb for the younger ones. One day the bee was humming to herself while scouting out a meadow for any flowers with fresh nectar. Noticing something different from the previous time she had flown through that part of the forest, she came across a giant silver wolf taking a nap under a tree. Curious about what the wolf was doing outside of his cave, she darted over to him, landing square on his nose. Clearing her throat loudly, she hoped to politely garner the attention of the wolf, but the wolf stayed fast asleep. “Ah hem!” she said, and one sky blue eye opened.

“Yes?” asked the wolf.

“Why hello! I am a bee and I was wondering, why are you are acting so lazy? Not only is winter coming, but you are so comfortably lying down right in the open! Shouldn’t you be preparing food for your pack?”

“I do not worry about food in the winter; I trust that it will be there for me.”

“But what if the deer leave the forest?”

“I know they won’t, because they need to eat the berries.”

“And if the berries die off?”

“They won’t, because they are eaten by the smaller animals, who spread the seeds.”

“So what do you do in preparation for winter?”

“I spent the summer teaching my young how to hunt. When the winter comes the deer will be scarcer but we will still eat enough to survive until the spring.”

“Oh dear! That would never be allowed in the hive. If the workers don’t do everything the queen demands of us we may be thrown out in the cold!”

“Oh? Well, if you do get sent away from the hive I feel confident you could handle yourself. You could even start your own hive in protest. Just don’t eat any of my deer!”

Thinking the idea of eating an entire deer both disgusting and overwhelming, the bee scrunched her tiny nose, and replied “I have always been frustrated with having to listen to the queen’s demands. If I am able to find enough nectar, perhaps I will! Thank you for your time wolf.” Meandering onward, the bee continued to think about the wolf, and how confident he was that the deer would still be there to eat in the cold.

Evolution of an Ideology

When a senior in high school life is much easier. Despite a heavy workload from Physics and Calculus, it seemed much more doable than the three agonizing previous years. In retrospect it was probably as result of years of cumulative teaching on time management from teachers and learning the fastest way to complete homework effectively. Days seemed to coast by. The freshman seemed like little children fresh out of pre-school already capable of geometry and critical analysis of Shakespeare. After a math test first thing in the morning that took up the entire first period, I knew I was headed for an easy rest of the school day, relatively speaking. It was Friday too, which meant that in my Science Fiction Literature course meant a break from the week’s discussions in favor of watching something engaging but simple to digest. Mr. Kline was one of only four male teachers I ever had. Having a male teacher almost always guarantees an easier class, Kline was no exception. He was in his mid-30s, a lifelong bachelor, and had a neck beard that sort of turned into the chest hair that puffed out of the V-necks he wore every day.

I was already approaching the remainder of the day with a lackadaisical attitude; over the course of the semester I had been using a mechanical pencil to drill into the edge of my wood pressboard desk, I could barely get the pencil in any more. After taking attendance Kline popped in a DVD he had borrowed from the local library and played the pilot of a television show as old as my parents called The Prisoner. The opening sequence of the show had Patrick McGoohan cruising through London in a Lotus Super Seven to resign unexpectedly from a post as a spy. Later he was gassed and woke up in a mysterious seaside town called The Village. Fellow citizens were no longer known by names, only by numbers. The fierce determination of the titular character despite the increasingly creative and potent ways that those running The Village devised to get “Number Six” to divulge “information” to them caused an ever-increasing backlash in anti-societal argumentation. After watching the pilot I was hooked.

Over the remainder of the school year I poured myself into the series, not realizing at the time that I was also studying the ideas behind them as well. The series was supposed to be only a seven episode miniseries but to get funding from the BBC it had to be expanded to 17 episodes for revenue purposes. By boiling down the show to McGoohan’s original intent, a cold reality sets in - that society detests the will of the individual, and a never-ending struggle between man and men must be met with a ferocity and respect for the self - unsurpassed by the collective will. That those opposed to the individual will stop at nothing to break down barriers, to combine the thoughts and dreams of every person into a superficial utopia. In every episode the main character matched the wit of the collective, run by “Number 2.” The question never answered by Six was “who is Number One?” I began to look into McGoohan’s influences. Many claimed that The Prisoner was a conclusion to the recently finished series called Danger Man, which featured McGoohan as a spy. In interviews and literature on the origins of the ideas, a recurring name popping up was Ayn Rand, a Russian writer from the mid-1900s. In one otherwise forgotten article McGoohan stated that Six’s entire personality was a combination of the main characters from “Anthem” and “Atlas Shrugged” by Rand. A logical step then was to investigate Rand’s ideology.

By that point I was in my first semester of community college starting on the long task of earning a college degree. Knowing that I was interested in politics, I chose to take Intro to American political science. My teacher, Mr. Blair, was a very bitter Vietnam veteran. He always wore a grizzled look on his face and an army fatigue jacket. His bitterness fueled my rising change in opinion the day he presented the class with a sheet of paper. The page had three columns of words on them; by taking one from column A, then B, then C any government term needed can be created, simultaneously illustrating the ridiculous nature of government and the nonsense terms used to describe overly complex systems. He used it as the launching point for an hour and a half long lecture about how nothing the government does works as well as what the private sector could do. His counterpoint to his own belief was that some argue that the average person is a complete slob, contain the brain function of a pile of goo, and therefore must rely on the government to “wipe their ass.” I doubt think most people in the room at the time recognized the second half of the tirade as sarcasm; after all if they are just stupid slobs they would probably appreciate having a bureaucrat take care of them from cradle to grave. Because I am originally from Canada I see many of the same thoughts spoken aloud by friends and family members who praise the benefits of the subsidized lifestyle, blind to the shackles it places on those who are above average; Harrison Bergeron be damned. To me however, the bitterness spread like a benevolent disease, encouraging me to seek out individualistic tendencies and shirk the reliance on others. I felt much colder inside, less willing to be dependent on anyone else, but stronger all the while.

The following spring a movie came out that piqued the anarchistic seedling in my mind entitled V For Vendetta. Based on a graphic novel I did not get around to reading until five years later, the movie felt like if Batman were a freedom fighter caught in an 1894 style fascist totalitarian government. The title character V was so blindly obsessed with individual freedom that it transcended even his love for himself. Under the banner of anti-establishment terrorist Guy Fawkes, V brought an entire government to its knees by opening the eyes of its populous. The callous nature of his confidence resonated deeply in me. It was during the spring of 2006 that I knew I needed to investigate alternative ideologies much more. This led to hours spent on Wikipedia.com learning more about Rand’s Objectivism, Murray Rothbard’s anarcho-capitalism theories, and libertarian political principles. Whereas I do not think that I fit any political ideology completely, I also see the inherent libertarian hypocrisy in saying as such, so I typically tell people that I am politically a right-wing libertarian. I recognized the author of V for Vendetta, Alan Moore, from a list of Time’s top 100 English-language novels from 1923 on from an English course, where his other best-known work Watchmen was listed. The rationale for adding it was that the philosophical approach of the story mixed with cartoons had created an entirely new genre: the graphic novel. The superhero Rorschach embodies very similar ideals to V: individual freedom is the platform that all greatness stems from, that the man behind the mask is not nearly as important as the idea the mask represents, and that one must be willing to die to defend the self. Both characters had troubled pasts and easily pegged as chaotic good, but leave the reader with an unanswered question about whether they are crazy as a result, or have ascended in understanding of the world. It is unquestionable to me that they were neither completely crazy nor completely sane, but I have yet to learn of any genius who was not a little off.

I was still a young adult at the time, and knew that it was healthy to learn how to define the self through the lens of education. I had been raised in the church my entire life, never questioning the tenets of the protestant faith I had held dear for the first two decades of life. As I began to look at the world from my new Objectivist viewpoint, even my religious ideas had changed. This was when I knew that I had found a philosophical label for myself. I found myself debating everyone, even those I agreed with, if only to help them reinforce their assuredness. When it was political, such as was the case in 2008 with the Obama-McCain election, I became more comfortable with interjecting a third opinion into discussions between those in favor with Obama and those opposed to Obama’s ideological presumptions. When it was religious, I found myself questioning fundamental aspects of the faith, demanding truth while beginning with a love for the self. While frustrating to explain to fellow Christians why I am no longer opposed to homosexuality or plural relationships, it is likewise frustrating to explain to people that it is morally acceptable if people speed on the freeway, live without insurance, or commit stupid actions. My philosophy and religion tell me to begin by loving the self, then others; that as long as I do not do any harm to another life in the process, there is no limit to what I can do with my own. If everyone else believed the same there would be no concern for pollution, lack of food, water, and shelter, and crime would be virtually nonexistent. The only way to describe the feelings I have for myself as a result of my viewpoint is to call it the positive side of narcissism or a reasoned mind’s approach to Freud’s “ego” principle. Taking on the mantle of V and Rorschach, it has become a life goal to ensure that everyone else loves themselves as much as I do myself.

In retrospect we are all Number One.

"Elephant in the Room"

A short story I wrote for a creative writing course:

The little laundromat a block down the street from my apartment was called ‘Cleaners.’ I thought the irony of the name was hilarious at first, high-class businessmen would stroll in with a stack of overpriced shirts soiled with the sweat of late nights in the office, heated debates in air-conditioned boardrooms, or stolen romances with coworkers before going home to the wife and 2.4 kids. The worst part was the white collar and cuffs on colored, pinstriped shirts. Who seriously thought that color combination was a good idea? They would let out a quick “Oh” as they realize that Cleaners was actually a laundromat, they promptly turned suit and beeline for their flashy silver cars labeled with numbers and letters. They seemed well off enough to hire people to do their clothes anyway, why bother with a laundromat?

Doing laundry in public sucks. I don’t trust leaving my clothes unattended so I spend a few hours a week in a no-nonsense shopping center sitting in a yellow plastic chair, cracked with four decades of customers waiting on commercial machines to clean their cheap clothes bi-weekly. The laundromat is light by fluorescent lighting covered in so much grime everything has a green filter on it, chairs line the perimeter of the store. I think the walls were white at one point, but through the stains and lighting I can’t really tell. I always sit in the corner opposite the door so I can see everyone coming and leaving without appearing odd. The occasional new band or album on the iPod helps pass the time, but I spend more than half my time clicking “next track,” sick of everything I have. Music just sucks right now, no new innovation or fusion concepts; even the remixes coming out of Europe are overrated. I tried to write in public, moleskine pad and pen in hand but I just couldn’t do it - I’m just not cut out to be a hipster. The only person who could drag me out of my weekly doldrums was my friend Paul. Until he arrived, I would focus on my favorite pastime - people watching.

Sometimes the elephant in the room is literally an elephant. A white porcelain one to be exact. The man cradling it was sleeping in the corner nearest the door. He was appeared to be some kind of eastern European, older, and a few dozen too many meals in his lifetime. He was wearing a white undershirt and worn khakis and had chest hair sticking out the top of his shirt, spreading like spanish moss across his shoulders, only stopping when it suddenly became landscaped - this was apparently where he decided his beard should start. But the oddest part of him was the porcelain white elephant in his lap, his right arm cradling it like some small yappy dog taking a nap with his owner. It was missing the left tusk and ear, scars of battles lost ages ago.

Aside from me and the guy with the elephant there were two other people in the laundromat. The first was an elderly Black woman who sat in the corner left of the door, in a dark pink dress, matching pillbox hat, knee high stockings, and orthopedic shoes the exact color of paste. I suppose circa 1960-something she would have looked very trim, but in cruddy old Cleaners she looked dated. She had a pursed lip look on her face and wrinkles that let me know she had worn that look at least as long as her dress had been in fashion. Her frail form implied that she looked as if she had worked hard most of her life, I wondered why she didn’t have anyone to help take care of her. Looked to her left hand and saw no ring, tan line, or indent from one.

In the row of chairs to her was a sallow-faced man, probably in his 30s. Every five minutes he got up to check how long his loads of laundry had left, made a funny flustered noise that sounded something like a horse clearing its nose, then went back to his seat. He had a laptop open in the seat to his right, another on his lap, a stack of documents to his left, and a rolling backpack that he referred to for additional papers occasionally. The dated style of his shirt implied he didn’t get new cloths often. His cell phone went off a lot too. No ringer, but I could hear the vibrate function from the other side of the room. No conversation lasted more than 30 seconds either, but he spoke loudly, as if he wanted everyone in the room to think he was important. Seemed odd to be so passive-aggressive in a laundromat on a weekday afternoon.

Shortly after the businessman’s third round I heard a whistling. When you hear someone whistling the time and place dictate whether it’s a talent, someone passing time, or an over-confident serial killer. Are you showcasing your talent on a reality show? Lame, but well done. If the tune is whimsical or mixed with humming in the car, it’s a great way to pass the time. But if you hear that melody from Kill Bill in the park late at night, that’s instant pants-wetting material. In other words, if other people can hear you whistle, you’ve either developed an odd skill or have a bloody axe. For some reason I knew this tune. I was humming along a bit then realized it was an old song by Air. The only person within a hundred miles who listened to anything by them outside the soundtrack to The Virgin Suicides was Paul Stack.

If Paul turned out to be a serial killer I wouldn’t have been surprised, but his manifesto would make one hell of a read. We had been friends since math class in middle school; Paul was a year younger but was placed in an advanced class, skipping 8th grade altogether. He had decided after high school to get a degree in English. “To be a writer,” he had told his parents. “So be a journalist, or a news anchor,” his parents said. But Paul had no concept of making money - his worth was valued in the mind. He pushed open the door with his left hip as both hands each held a cup of coffee. He had found a pair of dark grey jeans long enough to not look like floods last week, but the baby blue polo made them look like a faded black in comparison. Paul always made an impression upon entering a room because he is so dark for a black man; Paul is so dark his shaved head shines blue in direct sunlight like some awful knock-off of Twilight. He paused at the door, finishing the song while looking around for me. After making eye contact with me he took bowed lightly with his arms out a bit, then smiled and walked over. In the green filtered light his bright white teeth and eyes only made him stand out more. “And here, my good sir, is your chalice of fine exotic beans pulverized to perfection. A definitive diamond of beverages, if you will.”

            “Oh is this that Clover coffee? I’ve read about the machine online but didn’t know where they were.

            “The Starbucks down the road in that big shopping center has one. I passed three more coffee shops on the drive here.”

            “One more if you count the one in the grocery store.” He laughed as I took my first sip. ”Oh, that’s good!”

Smiling, Paul placed his brown with white piping messenger bag down next to him, whatever was in it was definitely heavy. He paused for a moment to savor the coffee. Mid-sip he froze, noticing the elephant in the room. The cup was still at his lips when the smile appeared, followed by a snort. “Picture time! I supposed that guy’s got a story to tell!” He pulled his phone out of shirt pocket mid-stride. Walking the long way around the store, he asked the elder lady “Hey doll, hold this a minute,” who broke out a smile and agreed. Paul’s first picture was a close-up of the elephant’s face, a big hairy arm cradling it around the neck. Then Paul took a second, this time of the man’s face. It’d make for a good picture to laugh at later. He profusely thanked the woman for holding his drink and came back over, lightly bouncing. Did he just wink at me? He showed me the picture of the drooling man, laughed again, then deleted it. “What did you do that for? That would have been an instant classic!”

“I felt it rude to mock the man without him being present to defend his honor. He’s obviously very busy guarding that treasure in the last place anyone would think to look for - an old laundromat in a suburban town east of San Francisco.” He broke out in a grin then pointed at the door. “Any minute now a gaggle of black-clad ninjas will pop in, chucking throwing stars straight at your face. Are you ready to protect the kingdom of Laundromat?” As he pointed at the door a middle-aged Asian man and his daughter walked in. Flush with embarrassment, I could only hope he hadn’t heard that.

The man was dressed in very plain clothes - his appearance screamed “tech sector” with his logo-embroidered polo and blue dad jeans. His daughter was about eight, had a bowl cut and wore a ballerina’s outfit, pink tutu and all. As she entered, the girl took turns to say hello to everyone in the room. Speaking to the old lady, she stated “I’m here to help my daddy! My mommy is coming back from Hong Kong really really late tonight, and daddy wants to clean the bed sheets.”

            “Oh, isn’t that nice of you. I’m sure he appreciates the help while your mother isn’t home,” she replied. The businessman only gave her a fleeting smile as he stepped past her to check on his clothes. Pirouetting while making her way to Paul and I, Paul asked “say, you aren’t a ballerina by chance are you?”

            “Oh yes, I perform for Mrs. Romanov every Thursday, and she helps me do better.”

            “Ah. Well, I hope to be a revolutionary someday, and I will need very talented dancers. Would you like to change the world with me?”

            “Oh, that would be fun!”

            “Then let’s dance!”

            “Dance, right here? But there’s no stage to perform on!”

            “Why yes, my Eve, because a revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having!”

As they began twirling about the room I heard my washer finish, and began moving my clothes to the dryer. Paul had lectured me about how to keep my clothes cleaner and maintain the colors but I didn’t care that much. This usually led to a lecture about how I shouldn’t desire to remove color from all my clothes, that even goth people still needed to keep their blacks dark. I could hear Paul humming the intro to “Paint it Black” from across the room, subtly telling me he knew I wasn’t doing things his way. He always told me the same thing: “I know you don’t care, but there are others who would prefer you take care of yourself.” Looking down, I had a band shirt on from the 90s, faded skinny jeans, and a pair of Chuck Taylor’s on. “Based on my current outfit, faded would be a good thing,” I told myself.

The elderly woman seemed to enjoy the pleasantries of the girl, the businessman just huffed and went back to work. After a minute or two of twirling the girl’s father had set the bedding to go, and called for her to come sit down, that she had exercises to complete. Deflated that his budding career as a ballet dancer was over as quickly as it had started, Paul came back and flopped into his seat. “And here I was ready to quit writing and start a new ballet troupe dedicated to only perform in laundromats around the world.” He sighed with exaggeration, and catching her eye he smirked. The girl’s eyes replied as if to say she could have danced with Paul the whole time they were there. “Ah, oh well, I suppose if the revolution is stopped because of over-zealous parenting and math exercises, then so be it.” He managed to catch the girl’s eye again and made a face that caused a giggle, followed by a stern face from her father. Paul then let out a sigh, leaned his 8-ball head on my shoulder, and stated “I hate everyone.”

            “Everyone?” I asked.

            “Yeap. Well, you and my parents aren’t included in that.”

            “Oh, thanks.”

            “I’m sick of the labels everyone places on each other. I want to start over and just allow everything to name itself.” He huffed to make his point. In a high-pitched voice he griped “Ohh, ahh! I better start finding names for things. Let’s call them people, and they’re all “gub.” No that’s not right, “dug.” Not that either, “dumb!” Yes, they’re all stupid and refuse to let bygones be bygones and generally leave each other alone!” To close the conversation, Paul then proceeded to polish off the rest of his and my coffee. “Yours tasted funny. What, do you wear scented lip gloss now?” It was easier to show him my acai flavored lip balm than explain.

            “They were all out of the plain flavor.”

            “Bullshit, you’ve always loved berry flavored anything.” I glared at him sideways and pulled out my iPod. I need more random music, I’m all out.”

            “What, the rock I gave you last week too much?

            “No, I want something with more beat.”

            “I got your fix, we’ll hit up my apartment on the way out.

            “I feel like I’m in a rut, a change of music may help. I mean, I’m barely in school, retail jobs suck, and I have no idea where to go in life.”

            “You’ll always have me!”

            “Yes, but I need the feelings of self-worth and productiveness, not obscure references day in, day out. It is frustrating to not know what move to make next. You may not be working or in school but you’re working on a novel aren’t you?”

            Leaning back and stretching his arms out on the chairs on either side of him he replied “Born into oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. Existence is random.”

            Leering, I asked “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “Do you really want me to lecture you in a laundromat about what I think you should do?”

            “Not really, but I don’t think anything I say now would stop you.”

            “You know I respect you more than anyone else our age.”

            Turning my body toward him I pleaded “O great sage, what should I do”

            “Make your life whatever you want. As long as you don’t step on anyone else’s toes, stomp wherever you will! I just want to see you do something with yourself, but it’s none of my business if you don’t; just remember to maintain your integrity. All we have left in this world is integrity. No matter how low you wallow in your own self-pity, within that inch you are always free.”

            “You don’t get it, do you? I need more out of life than idioms and ideas. Look at those around us, these people could easily be me in 10, 20, 40 years, and I’m just content to bide my time?”

            Reaching into his bag, Paul’s response was a three inch stack of paper in my lap. “No.”

            “What is this?”

            “All work is an act of philosophy.”

            “So what’s yours?”

            “My ideas are largely irrelevant right now. I want you to thrive. It is possible, always. I mean, aside from this I’ve done even less with my life than you.”

The sparkle in his eyes told me how proud he was of what he had just shown me. Looking at the picture he had taken of the elephant in the man’s arms, he said, “This is the first shot of my revolution. I think I just found the face of that manuscript too. Care to join me?”

            Smiling, I stated “But Paul, I can’t dance. Don’t you remember prom?”

            “Anything can be taught in time.”

            The ding of the dryer went off. Collecting everything, I knew I was done here.

The question I want as an author answered is, what is the 'elephant in the room'?

As my mind wrestled with what at first I thought was cognitive dissonance between my religion and my philosophy, I slowly came to the realization that inherent in every man, woman, and child was the desire to improve the human condition. That is when I fell in love with cognitive dissonance, the social darwinism of thought, and when I realized that the successful have already shirked weaker concepts. I step a little stronger tomorrow. With confidence unwavering today, I know that my struggle today will improve the lives of everyone I know tomorrow.