The Mass

I never would have guessed I’d end up in here. I suppose no one does. But they’re right for putting us here. The Mass is always right. We’re a wretch, you and I. Oh? Why, yes, I’d love a cigarette. You know, I don’t usually smoke. But this is a special occasion, isn’t it? You’re laughing. I amuse you, yes? Good, good. Hmm? No, no I don’t mind telling you why I’m here. It’s a funny thing, really, because I… I… thought I was doing the right thing at the time. But I misjudged the situation. I have a problem about that. I am not fit for society. It’s been my problem with money, you see. I couldn’t help but make tons and tons of money. It’s a curse of mine. No matter what I did, I did it well, and I made money. Hmm? Oh, I was an investor.

I saw you cringe. That’s okay. I don’t blame you. Well, in my defense, I can say my intentions were always good. I always tried to find the weakest company, the lowliest, the surest to fall through, and I’d dump every last penny I had into it. They needed it more than me, after all; they needed it more than a successful business, and the needs of others are all that matter. I wouldn’t have even dreamed of trying to make myself money. How horrific would that have been! No sir, I put my money where I thought for certain it would be a lost cause, a waste. That was contributing to the Mass. That was pure and just. Ah, you’re impressed with me now. Don’t be. My intentions were never realized, you see. My investments were always, and I mean always, a success. No matter how lousy the company, somehow it always managed to pull through and profit—yes, profit. I told you I had a curse.

I was a social outcast from the beginning, in fact. School was a nightmare for me. I aced every test and quiz, I won every game, every sport—truly I was a selfish wretch. My stomach does a turn when I think about all the less privileged students I insulted and deprived with my superior intellect and physique. What right did I have? None. None, I say. But by grade four I caught on to my inborn sin. It was a painful realization, to be sure, but when I understood the wicked selfishness of my success, I all at once stopped trying. I saw to it that I failed every test and lost every game. I guess you could say the only effort I made was an effort not to make an effort! It was the only way I knew how to correct the flaw that nature had dealt me.

Oh, my friend, it was beautiful. The other students were so happy to see me fail. Each F I “earned” brought a smile to all, and tears of joy to a small few—if I was lucky.

And so, such was my tactic for dealing with any endeavor. I carried it with me into adulthood. But the needier I forced my self to be, and the more useless I made my self become, the more I was rewarded. Can you imagine my disappointment and frustration? People were kind to me, they pitied me, they even loved me. It wasn’t long before strangers were cramming money into my pockets; it wasn’t long before the government was too, holding my hand, feeding my mouth, stroking my forehead with a mother’s tenderness.

I began to panic, obviously. Even when I failed I managed to succeed, so it was natural that I should try to share what little money I had with everyone else. I had no right to it, after all. It would have been selfish. So, that’s when the investing began. It was the only way I knew how to give back. But that too was a disaster, because, as I said, I couldn’t help but be successful with it. Somehow, every damn time, those deceiving companies—Oh! Listen to me digress! Forgive me, my friend. I’m in the habit of ranting. You intend to know why I’m here: I am here for being selfish.

Ah, again you cringe, and still it is okay.

It was a Friday afternoon. Cabs in the city are on the verge of extinction these days, what with all those union strikes, but I was lucky enough to spot one and flag it down. It was actually quite an adventure trying to get it to stop—I even sprained my ankle in the process—but I’ll spare you the details. The taxi came to a stop, I pulled the door open, tossed in my briefcase, but wouldn’t you know it, some slick devil rushed passed me and jumped in before me! Now, surely I would have gladly given him the taxi I had managed to stop, but, you see, my briefcase was already inside, so I felt obliged to climb in after him. (Do you see my flawed thinking? My briefcase.) Well that sent all the dominos crashing down. The cabby was screaming “Only one stop! Only one stop!” And the slick devil was shouting, “Get outa here! Get outa here!” And I was pleading, “I only want my briefcase, sir!” Before I knew it, the cabby was making threatening advances with a bat, the other with a knife. I was caught in between, and at my back the traffic was jamming up behind the taxicab that had halted lock stock and barrel in the middle of the street. It wasn’t long before the police arrived to sort it all out.

Physically no one was harmed. But the cabby had it rough with his boss the next day, and the other man, the slick devil, was late for dinner with his wife that evening. These were enormously troubling circumstances according to the jurors that deliberated my case. You see, it was only natural that the other two gentlemen—the cabby and the slick devil—should press charges against me. After all, they had been deprived by people like me—successful people—all their lives. Both had been high school dropouts; one had problems with alcohol, the other with cocaine; each had problems with aggression; neither was capable of holding a job or contributing to society, and for that they were—as I had once briefly been—pitied and nurtured by the government and by the Mass. There was not one among the jurors that couldn't relate to the blue-collar-cabby and the dinner-deprived-husband. But who among them could relate to a wealthy investor like me? Not one of them. Not one.

It was unanimous that I should have simply left my briefcase in the taxi; that would have been the just—the selfless—thing to do, and after a brief preview of my lifelong record of achievements, I was found guilty of perpetual selfishness. There is nothing more the Mass hates than success—and rightfully so.

…Yes, of course, death is indeed the punishment for perpetual selfishness.

…Truth and logic? Don’t be absurd. The Mass has no need for such things. They have feeling. Truth and logic, cold and harsh as they are, would only contaminate the purity of whim and emotion. My friend, I don’t think we ought to be so philosophical about this. Who are we to think about such things?

Hmm? Well, of course people like you and me make up the Mass, but we are not the Mass itself.

…Oh, I don’t know exactly what it is. It’s… it’s collective… and if it’s collective, it’s good. I guess that was my problem. I was never any good at being collective. I tended to operate as an individual, and there’s nothing more selfish than being individual…

Ah, it looks like they’ve come for me. Well, I am grateful to have been able to chat with you. Let’s hope I don’t die too quickly out there. These people, the Mass, they like a show, you know. Human suffering amuses them, so it’s a good thing I’ll probably last a while; my final contribution to the Mass will be partly owed to my sin, my superior disposition, that is. Kind of ironic, eh?

Oh, the guard is impatient. Farewell my friend. You have been very generous to listen to me. Is it possible the Mass was wrong to put you here? Yes, you are right to laugh. I told you I had a problem with judgment. Say… why are you here, anyway? Murder, you say? Oh, my friend, they don’t stone for that. You’ll be out by tomorrow afternoon.