Page 26 - The Myth and the Moment

Morning

sorts of beings. The rest of the achievers keep banging against real or
imagined obstacles until they die.
And back onto Olympic. Must be almost noon. Speedometer
accurate? How long since I’ve had a speeding ticket? Not long
enough. And Phil’s wife: what a handful! They must have married
each other for a reason. Or to each his or her own reason. I should
have asked him how long they’d been married, where they met, who
she is. But that would have justified him prying further into my
affairs. Give just a little, get even less: that’s the Evangelino formula
for success. Rah! Rah! Now they know where I live. Time to move,
no forwarding address. Going to move out to Barstow anyway as
soon as it cools down; another month at most. Nobody knows me
out there—I hope. Find my spot, do my business, and then what?
Depends on what’s left. Probably go on welfare. What a laugh if The
End came while I’m out positioning the capsule! Should I take a
portable radio with me, listen for the final sirens? ‘This is only a test.
Had this been an actual emergency, you would now be vaporized.’
Big joke. Wonder if sociologists ever compare public reaction to
the possibilities of a major earthquake to the probabilities of The
End. Same gallows humor, same lack of precautions. That’s the dark
side of faith: well, if it’s going to happen, then what the hell.
Sociologist: then you are a fatalist, sir? Do you not believe in free
will? Subject: now wait a minute, buster; I never said that. Blah blah
blah. That’s the kind of folk cunning that’s made America great:
sloppy logic masquerading as sincere homespun philosophy. Yes, of
course, the Almighty Forces are inexorable, and I am just a leaf in a
storm; but (and here’s the cagey bit) some people always come out
ahead, or untouched, so why not me? Go on, you nitwits, hedge your
bets, have it both ways: nothing to be done about impending
catastrophe, but I’ve got my own personal talisman against it. So I
can be one of the crowd passively, accepting my impotence, my
dependence on fate, while never letting go of the idea that I am in
control, that I can get a better deal for myself. And statistics can be
manipulated to prove it—or so they think.
Ah, stop grinding yourself with this crap. Gone over it a thousand
times. Remember your humanity, Nate. Everyone else has their
rationalizations, you have yours. You just get weary, sometimes, don’t
you, poor baby. So, what else could I do? Take my tiny nest egg and

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