Adrian Pearson - Cow Country

And when I had drawn it all entirely, I held up the intersecting circles for Dr. Felch to see:

“There it is!” I exclaimed.

“There what is?”

“The circles!”

“What circles?”

“The intersecting planes of human culture. They’re all there. Every one of them. And amid these circles, right there in the middle where all the planes meet, is a single tiny dot. Do you see it?”

I stuck my finger on the dot. Dr. Felch squinted his eyes to see.

“That dot is each of us. Amid the endless circles of human experience, you see, each of us is a culture of one. Each of us is a culture of one because there is no other human being who shares all of our experience.”

“Which is a bit of a lonely proposition.”

“For some it might be. But for others it is a liberation….”

“Amid the homogeneity of modern life?”

“Yes.”

“A tiny oasis amid the desiccation?”

“Yes. For water is but a collection of moisture, right?”

“Right.”

“Just as humanity is nothing more than a motley collection of human beings, right?”

“Right.”

“So are we not, then, the many I’s that make up the we in COW EYE? Are we ourselves not the center of the eye that brings it all together to make we ?!”

“I don’t know….are we?”

“We are!”

“We are?”

“Yes, Dr. Felch, we are !”

And here I folded up the napkin and put it in my pocket with the rest.

“Okay, Charlie. I’ll take your word for it. Given how late it is, I’ll just have to take your word that this really is the secret to Cow Eye’s redemption. That this really is the metaphorical significance of it all.”

I nodded.

“But Charlie…?”

“Yes, Dr. Felch?”

“Where’s the damn food?!”

“What food? You mean the hay in the trough?”

“No, Charlie, the food that you promised us all here tonight. The meat without vegetables. And the vegetables without meat?”

“It’s on its way.”

“All of it?”

“Of course. Like everything else in our world, it’s just a matter of time…”

“Not unlike retirement!”

“Yes.”

“And taxes.”

“Yes.”

“And the passing of our beloved history teacher.”

“Our what?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know what?”

“I’m sorry, Charlie. I thought you knew….”

“Knew what ?”

“About Will…it happened some time ago…in the hospital where you visited him….they say it was peaceful enough, quietly and in his sleep…”

“But how can that be! I mean, we just…the three of us were just… he was just…!”

“Sorry, Charlie.”

“But!!!”

“Charlie!”

“Yes?”

“Charlie, are you…are you crying ?”

“No, of course not. Of course I’m not crying. I’m an educational administrator.”

“Here, take this handkerchief….”

“But I’m not crying!”

I took the handkerchief and blew my nose.

“I am not crying. This is just moisture that has accumulated incrementally through the years. The moisture of a thousand rivers being liberated. The moisture of….”

Eventually, Dr. Felch got up to refill his glass, and sitting alone at my table I looked around the cafeteria once again. The disco strobe was casting its spinning reflections around the warm room and in the spinning light it seemed that all the metaphors of the world had coalesced. As I stared through the alcohol at the world around me I saw the arrows flying from every corner of the cafeteria and in all imaginable directions. On the table in front of me was a Ziploc bag. On the wall was a flag. And out past the wet bar was a saffron sarong and the lonely bench at the edge of the universe. Wintergreen and eucalyptus. Trusted pills. A truncated symphony with its violins and flutes and melting glaciers and triangle player standing patiently off to the side. The rain. The river. The stars. In the light of the cafeteria — in the dim neon of the bathroom stall — I saw all of these, though not as their isolated images. As the light shone bright into my eyes I saw them as the oneness that they are. A single splotch of unity where the sun and the moon cease to be opposites but shine down instead on a river of saffron. A timeless procession of moisture flowing over beds of asphalt and glaciers of alabaster toward the perfect tranquility that is the equinox.

By now it was getting late and I was very tired.

Putting my head on the table, I closed my eyes to it all.

*

(…)

So what then is love? What is love if it is not what it could have been and it is not what it shouldn’t be? If it is not what it would be or should be or was? If love is not what it isn’t nor what it will need to be? These are difficult questions to ask, of course, though even more difficult to answer. For such is the existential question of our species: If love is not what it ain’t, then what exactly is it?

Throughout the centuries this timeless question has been asked incessantly by the great lovers of the world. It has been studied by the world’s finest philosophers and empiricists through the ages. To solve its mystery, experiments have been conducted and mathematical models have been developed. Studies have been proposed and reports have been written. And over time the measurable outcomes of all this wondering have gradually trickled down to the outstanding men and women who teach at our community colleges.

Among noble concepts of the world there is perhaps none that has created more consternation and debate. More conflict and contempt. To some, love is immeasurable, while to others it is ineffable. To the youthful it is passion while to the experienced it is love. To the guilty it is forgiveness. To the condemned it is mercy. To the student it is edification while to the teacher it is youth. Love, in all its guises, is hope and compassion and repentance and joy. It is grief and pain. It is sorrow and shame. And warmth. And envy. And affection. And longing.

Yet is it any of these things? And if so, is it any of these things in their entirety? Is it really a passing rainstorm any more than a lengthy and consistent drought? Is it the solstice of deepest winter or the solstice of summer’s peak? Is it a steaming tray of meats? Or the coolest vegetable sampler? Is it an endless highway at night? The moonlit river? A bloody sunrise? Is it the sun at dusk? A brush of thighs? Is it silence more than words? Or words more than silence? Is it an awkward embrace? A nod of the head? A light caress? Ducks quacking? Copulating ancients? Wordlessness? Serendipity? Or a bull’s triumphant erection at dusk? The feel of asphalt on your skin? An arrow passing in flight? Is it music or poetry or mathematics? Is love itself the great flow of humanity from time immemorial down through the ages to the crowded cafeterias and offices and classrooms of our day? Is love a fertile heifer? Is it in fact any of these things? Is it even any of these things at all?

It is!

(…)

*

When I raised my head the cafeteria was empty and dark. The sound of the ice maker could be heard in the distance. Bessie was standing over me.

“Wake up, Charlie!” she was saying. “It’s over.”

“What’s over?”

“The party. It’s over. Everyone’s gone. It’s only you and me here. And the woman vacuuming the floor.”

“But the food’s on its way!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is! I planned everything so meticulously. The food will be here in a matter of minutes…!”