Curse Ned!

We’ve all encountered people who get by handsomely and should not: the smarmy fraud, the sleazy sycophant, the nepo baby. Such a character has the desk next to me where we both teach, and he gets on my nerves; so much so that my thoughts turn dark regularly.

Moral problems here are clear: humans should not rub each other out, and he’s got a spouse and progeny and many people seem to enjoy what meager company he offers, though that shows that taste can’t be accounted for. A murder’s hard to plan, dangerous (for both the perpetrator and the murdered party—clearly!) and probably won’t produce the results one hopes for. The grey bar hotel has no allure. So, days go by, and my secret hatred of the smug charlatan grows. Let’s call the powdered dandy Ned, just for the story’s sake.

There are other, relevant facts: a few years ago, Ned left for a plum job overseas. Needless to say, delectable freedom followed. Never had my workplace seemed warmer, more comfortable or secure. Food tasted better. Breezes seemed dewy sweet. Students seemed less slothful and obtuse.

Then Ned screwed up the wonderful new job somehow—he’s a pompous fool possessed of an ego larger than a parade float, so the catastrophe came as no real shock—and he came back.

Ned then asked me to recommend that he be restored to lecturer status, as the person who ran the department and yours truly got on well. The request was honored: to refuse would have made a jerk of me, and Ned got the post once more. Then the boss told me that Ned had used the short chat they had had to attack my character pretty savagely. He’s not just a ghastly gas bag; turns out, he’s a Janus-faced betrayer, too. A real Judas.

What should be done? Murder’s out. To tell the tale does supply some solace, but to tell the tale to a stranger cannot cause any real change of my dreadful state. Granted, now you know about what’s up, and there’s comfort there. When you moan to no one save yourself, you seem sort of crazy, at best. When you bare your soul to a reader who has some sympathy, the nonsense seems more tolerable. But readers cannot answer a query or supply counsel, save through some response after the fact. So, what to do?

There's ample talk at the moment on the web about quantum entanglement, spooky stuff that’s caused remotely--supernatural phenomena, as you must know. Do you suppose there could be a chance that a small group of readers, moved by my sorry tale, could somehow mess up Ned’s fun? Just thoughts, of adequate number and energy, could be enough to produce some effect, no? Let me offer some other nuances, the better to persuade you to agree that Ned ought to be cursed.

He was part of the same PhD program that yours truly completed. That’s how, regrettably, we met. Ned wasn’t one of that cohort who completed the program (once more, let me assure you that your humble author managed to earn the fancy parchment, and a heap of student debt, by the way) but behaves just as someone who had actually earned the degree would. When students address Ned as “Dr. Ned,” he doesn’t correct them. He has plenty of money, thanks to a generous trust fund and the estates of an array of wealthy, departed uncles and aunts. He dresses well. He has a gold vespa. Really. A gold vespa. He rolls to and from campus when the weather allows. He’s also the father of rumors and ugly tales, most murmured sotto voce, the better to be sure that he’ll be popular amongst the local nabobs and yours truly won’t. See, he knows that the author of the tale you have been so good as to read thus far knows he’s a quack, a sham.

So, Ned throws shade my way every chance he gets. Wealth and your humble author are perfect strangers. The job’s necessary, but Ned makes the job harder. Every day. Remember, he wouldn’t be there had your humble author not granted the boon he requested. Are you ready to curse Ned yet?

Reluctance to become part of a preposterous scheme such as the one sketched here seems perfectly reasonable. After all, whenever we seek to harm others, the boomerang’s bound to fly back at us. But as ought to be clear by now, harm has already been done, by Ned, to me. Let’s suppose that the scales of karma have to be balanced: then the small thoughts of a few readers could do that, no? Keep the parameters clear: just pause every now and then to conjure up a small problem for Ned. A burned steak. One of the wheels on the absurd vespa flattened. A turned ankle. A paper cut. A lost key. A forgotten wallet. A petty argument over lunch. A gull as a targeted, fecal bomber, spontaneously moved to decorate Ned’s flashy helmet as he speeds toward campus. Your efforts cannot be compensated, of course, regrettable as that truly turns out to be for me.

However, there’s real pleasure to be found when one does a good deed for no reward. Casual readers of Kant’s deontology know that when you do a good deed because you expect some reward, that robs the good deed of moral value. But when you do a good deed and forget about what you have done, that deed stays pure and clean. You do not know Ned (as we have agreed, that’s just a fake name for the present story’s sake, and Ned’s) and you do not know me, save as your verbal servant. As far as any of us know, the whole plan could be a laughable lark. Just a mad, harmless game.

On the other hand, there’s a chance that your efforts could have a real effect. That’s a source of some mostly harmless fun, and moral luster, wouldn’t you agree? Let me add another small reason to loath Ned, before the end of my tale. As has already been spelled out, Ned comes from real cash. Ned’s father’s a surgeon. When Ned turned ten, there was a back yard carousel set up for he and sundry, affluent mates to enjoy. Yes, you read that correctly. A carousel. Ned pretends to be embarrassed by that story. But he has told that story more than once, to me and to a number of our colleagues. That’s the sort of awful brat Ned was, and the sort of awful brat he’ll always be.

Hopefully, you have been persuaded. Reluctance to take part shan’t be begrudged, of course. Do contemplate the joy that’ll come from Ned’s stubbed toe, or Ned’s lost sock, or a cup of coffee splashed onto a costly garment Ned loves. None of the above can do any real damage, but each small hurt’s sure to make Ned less happy, and that’ll make my lot more bearable, as well as yours, as the anonymous angel. Whatever you elect to undertake, do accept my thanks, gentle reader.