The Power of One

Dinner with a friend last night. We set the record for the longest dinner ever, I think. I knew it when I turned around and saw the restaurant had emptied out behind us, all the waiters stood staring impatiently, wondering when we'd ever leave. I could have sworn I saw one of them say, "just get the fuck out already." I use the word saw because he was out of earshot. I had to rely on lip-reading, a skill I learned from my time with Hellen Keller. The food was great and the drinks were even better. One drink, named after a person I didn't know and garnished with a leaf of cilantro over a giant block of ice, contained mezcal and lime flavored tequila, blackberry and something else I can't remember. It was lovely. My morning headache told me loudly I'd had too many. There isn't a good reason to have more than two drinks. After two drinks, the costs go up. You begin to barter tomorrow's time, today. We talked of humanitarian conquests, the value of helping others, maintaining vulnerability and openness in the face of insurmountable suffering. She's to spend three weeks helping refugees, in Greece.

"I don't know, I guess I'm afraid; of failure, of not making a difference," she said.

I asked her what she meant, how she could feel that way. To me, just to go somewhere with the express intention to help others, IS making a difference. Most people just sit on their asses, eating Doritos and drinking, thinking only of themselves, unwilling to lift a finger to help anyone - asking instead, "what does anyone ever do for me?"

"Even if you go and only really help one person, that's still one person's life that's been made better by your efforts. No matter what, you're making a difference," I said.

"But what if it's not enough?"

"It won't be, but that's the whole reason to go. At the end of the day you can only hope to do good and inspire others to do the same. And then, with enough people rallying behind a cause, you can effect true change."

I came up with a drunken hypothetical, of a collapsing wall that couldn't possibly be held up by one person, but that could probably be held up by a dozen. Once one person rushes to the wall, even though they know they can't possibly hold it up on their own, they rally others to action. Soon, with a dozen people rushing to push against it, it doesn't fall. The most important action is taken by the one who will try when there is no hope of success.

This morning I had to pick up James' car from the mechanic. When I arrived, no one was there and the phone was ringing off the hook. It was odd because the garage door was open. Finally a hobbled old man emerged from the back. He walked by me as though I were a ghost. I stood wondering whether I'd died. Maybe I WAS a ghost. To test my hypothesis, I pulled down my pants and, kneeling, began thrusting my flaccid sparkplug into a rusty muffler. I very badly wanted some WD-40. Just then an Asian mechanic walked in and stared directly at me for several long seconds. First I paused, thinking it discourteous to continue pumping away, but then I realized it was equally discourteous for him to stand there and ogle me, so I resumed.

"Can I help you," he asked angrily.

"Yeah, I'm here to pick up my car," I said as slapped the rear bumper.

"Is that your car?"

"This car? No, this isn't my car."

"Then can you stop?"

I did.

"What's the make of the car?" he asked.

"A 2004 Nissan Pathfinder."

He brought the car around and handed me the keys.

"You can't pay right now; the system is down."

"So do I need to wait?" I asked, moving back toward the car I'd initially introduced myself to. "You wouldn't happen to have any WD-40 lying around, would you?"

"No, no, you can go. We'll call you."

Very well. I left. The car seems to be repaired, but I won't know for sure until I take it on the highway. What should have been a perfunctory parking job turned into a 45-minute ordeal. Parking in San Francisco will test your patience and foment anger in a way that very few things can. I found myself enraged, screaming at the top of my lungs and pounding on the steering wheel, leering out of the window and threatening to beat an old lady to death because she caused me to lose a spot. When she challenged me I got out of the car and hurled a pile of fresh dog shit at her white hair with my bare hands. Her face looked like the worn, leathery mud flap of a truck. Some valiant white knight came galloping by on a red Vespa and tried to come to her aide, but I got back in the car and rode right over his god damned scooter. I lobbed a ball-bearing at his helmet as I sped off, and I heard it bounce forcefully from his head into a car window, shattering it.

The whirring, car-alarm chaos left in my wake was discordant music to my ears.