In 1952, Kurt Vonnegut's first novel, Player Piano, was released. Two months ago, I changed the quote at the bottom of my eMails to one I found written by Mr. Vonnegut ("I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center.") Though I changed it later to something funny my sister said, this quote was still foremost in my thoughts as I began reading Player Piano. Tonight, I found out that that line came from the mouth of a character that reminds me so much of me it freaks me out, Ed Finnerty.
I'd like to just tell everyone to read it if they want to know how I see myself, but I know that no one I know has that much time on their hands. Moreso, no one I know is that enamored with me. All the same, remember that you can get better details in the book than you'll get from me now.
The bulk of the story is centered around the thoughts and deeds of a guy named Dr. Paul Proteus who happens to head up a factory in Illium, NY, where most of the work is done by machines. The city is separated by a river and the social classes are divided physically in the same manner. On one side, you have the engineers and managers who haven't been replaced by machines because it is either impossible thus far or just not economically feasible. On the other, everyone else. These poor work in either the Reconstruction and Reclamation Corps or, the Army. In exchange for their labor or obedience, they receive a living wage. Those too old to work are given a pension.
All this happened after a war that seems to have happened over the very issue of manpower and human intelligence being made useless by electronics and machinery. Dr. Proteus isn't exactly cool with any of this but he hasn't abandoned his post either. Great things are expected of him because his father was in charge of everything at one point. His wife, Anita, pushes his like Lady MacBeth to strive for every promotion opportunity and his co-workers are in open competition with him despite his utter lack of cooperation along those lines.
He gets a visit from his old friend, Ed Finnerty, who is at a higher post than Paul, but doesn't play by the norm as he never has. He doesn't care about his outward appearance; he drives a shitty car; he loves books, music and whiskey; he could be anything he wants almost naturally but doesn't seem to want anything he has; he is candidly morbid and a chain smoker. Finnerty is free-wheeling and iconoclastic, which is almost everthing Paul is not. However, that hasn't stopped them from being best friends and Paul suspects that is due to some hidden rebellious streak that Ed has spotted.
So on the verge of moving up from the Illium plant and simultaneously, on the verge of seeing a psychiatrist for his "nerves", Paul crosses pathes with Ed again. The first night it is rocky and unpleasant but later on, they bond as Proteus defeats a computer at chess after Finnerty wagered everyone present he would. The next day, they go across the river and get stone cold drunk in a local watering hole where they meet a host of interesting characters who give Paul a new joy. The most interesting character is Reverend Lasher, a pessimistic minister with a Master's in Anthropology (a machinized position now). He speaks of the impending class struggle and dreams of a Messiah. This convinces a very drunk Paul that he could be the Messiah and intrigues Ed enough that he stays behind on the wrong side of the bridge. The following afternoon, Paul is back at work; hungover and tired of taking shit.
That's about as far as I've gotten. It'd be hard to describe here and now exactly why I have such an affinity with this character -- maybe in person or on the phone I could spare the extra verbage -- but there is definitely something of his particular ethos that I find eerily similiar to the things living inside me. Perhaps the best way to put it is as Lasher did when speaking of all the people who've been replaced by gadgets, "Maybe the actual jobs weren't being taken from the people, but the sense of participation, the sense of importance was." Later, Lasher says the Messiah will bring the promise of participation, of belonging, of dignity. It is obvious that Finnerty is missing those things though he has all the trappings of happiness and the talents that most of his collegues would murder to possess (which would translate into better pay and more belongings for them).
So it isn't just that he hates working in a corporate enviroment or likes being drunk and smoking or that he is often suicidal in that despair. It is what he is missing and why he's given to those things without investing fully in them. There is a reason he hasn't pulled the trigger or drunk himself to death: faith that he'll find that something absent. I think that might be it for me, too.
And while I'm busy rambling on about myself, I should mention that Rachel had two rather astute observations about me. One: that I intently follow the role of anything I'm doing (i.e. -- job at a factory? I buy steel-toe boots and stop shaving.) She says it may be a passion coming through in that, but I wonder if that's all that's going on so I'm going to ponder it some more. The second is that I'm graceful when admitting my faults. I explained and truthfully so, that it comes out of lots of practice with having faults. There's something of my introspective and reflective nature in that aside.
In something more like news, I'm going to be going to Henry Ford Community College next semester so I can be on the radio. Apparently, it only costs Dearborn residents $60 to attend a class there and this particular class comes with the priviledge of being on the air playing what you please. It is my sincere hope and desire that come next year, I'll be shoving my musical preferences down the throats of everyone in the Detroit Metro area. I think you can even listen to it online so I'll be sure to inform my fans far and wide of the time and location of these broadcasts.
Dammit, I've had too much coffee to stop right now. So I'm going to do a couple of character profiles on the people I've met up here and possible share a story or two.
My boss. He's a great guy and I'm blown away by how patient he can be with someone who has absolutely no clue about interior car work. Plus, I accidently drilled a hole in the top of the hot rod we're trimming out. Hey, he's a great guy. That said, he has some interesting traits. Like bigotry. He isn't a shameful, dirty racist, but he is still a racist in almost every definition of the word. Mostly, Jews and blacks take the heat, but he also makes time for women bashing.
For example, to break up the monotony of the day and especially the homogenous blend of the same six songs played on the radio, we often improvise new lyrics to the songs we hear. It isn't always funny but it is generally fun. Well, the bossman has a habit of simply injecting the word "whore" wherever it'll fit regardless of whether or not it makes sense or is even funny. Today, he changed a song from "It's hard to leave when you can't find the door" to the predictable, "It's hard to leave when you can't find your whore." Instead of recognizing the folly, he then continued singing that line for the remainder of the song and then for another five minutes after it ended.
The only time he isn't the nicest guy on earth is when Junior pisses him off. What Junior's real problem seems to be is that he has a serious lack of confidence in both himself and simple physics. That and he is probably a little too wrapped up in the world of the young, but at 20, he shouldn't so readily qualify for some of those antics. All the same, he's a wonderful young gent who delights us all because he makes it a habit of setting up the most lusicious insults we could possibly hope to deliver at his expense. And he's good-natured enough to take it. Sometimes, he'll just do something random and weird. Like a couple of days ago in this freezing cold, he slipped on his tobogan, which read "High Life" -- the words separated by a embroidered pot leaf. It was cheap like something someone would buy at a gas station, but it was also grimey, which collectively suggested it stole it straight off the head of a homeless man who'd found it himself in a garbage can or muddied sewer grate. The best part about it and perhaps this defines him best, Junior wore it with lackluster naivete. It was just a hat and meant nothing more until it was mentioned at which time, he was able to laugh a little and take pride in boldness it would take most folks in order to wear something that awful.
Okay, now the caffeine is wearing off. But before I go I want to state again that two really neat things happened this weekend -- especially for those who didn't pick up on it in the entry before last. One: I bowled a turkey for the first time in my life. Three straight fucking strikes and dammit, I feel entitled to a little love here. Secondly, I was hit on by the bartender at my favorite bar. She's been flirtatious since I first stepped in there but I thought nothing of it as most ladies in the service industry are only flirtatious with me as a matter of professional courtesy. However, we chit-chatted some Saturday and after she got me toasted on whiskey and coke, she offered to show me around and gave me her number. I was so floored, I didn't even know what to do with it for the first couple days. Then I figured it out: don't use it. Still, it was flattering and I feel I deserve props for it.
This weekend, I'll be attending dinner at La Shish with my housemates and a couple of their college friends. It should yield some interesting tales so stayed tuned.
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