Worth the Risk

Rust asks his blind date across the diner table, “you have to see the worst in people?”

Janae answers, “you have to be able to imagine the worst in the people, because if you can’t then you risk being naive to what they are capable of.” She works security. “My coworkers think I’m paranoid.

He reassures her, “It's your job to be paranoid, to have a healthy amount of suspicion.”

She notices her hands are no longer restless and it's easier to talk and listen. She enjoys his company.

“Are you happy working security?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is there something you’d rather be doing?”

“I wanted to act,” she explains, “but it's too risky. The chances are so low that I might as well play the lottery and that's what it is. A genetic lottery for whether your face suits the screen, and a geographic lottery for whether your environment nurtures your talent.”

“Let's say it was worth the risk, why act?”

It pours out of her, “It's like getting someone to eat broccoli convinced that it's ice cream. Stories trick us into confronting everything we avoid. When we watch a movie it feels like we escape because we are captivated by fictional events happening to fictional characters in a fictional world, but somewhere underneath the acting and world building, a truth was smuggled in. I would act to be the truth smuggler’s assistant.”

He smiles.

She blushes and asks, “what do you d-?”

Her question is cut off as ribs are laid before them.

The waitress bluntly says, “be grateful,” and walks away.

Rust comments, “Did you know there was never a treaty or negotiation that food did not play an important part. You probably don’t want to decide your own and an entire people’s fate on an empty stomach.”

They each pull off a rib and clank the bones together as if toasting drinks.

Janae asks, “what’s being negotiated over this meal?”

“Whether we are to see each other again and the food gives us little breaks in the near future for one of us to reflect while the other relieves. Speaking of which, I’ll need to excuse myself.”

As Rust gets up a little black notebook falls from his jacket. He notices and slips it back into his pocket. He takes off his jacket and lays it down on his seat.

Janae thinks about what is written in his notebook. His thoughts, his plans, his chores. Despite the date going surprisingly well, the little book sparks a suspicion in her about him. She thinks about how he hasn’t said a word about himself. She stares at his jacket. An urge comes over her to look at his notebook.

His voice echoes in her head: it's your job to be paranoid.

The thought fades away before finishing: to have a healthy amount of suspicion.

Her thoughts wind her up like a hand winds up a toy. Her mind races with the uncertainty of her future, her unconceived children, her loneliness.

She sees him across the room. Quickly she goes under the table and brings a knife with her. As she pats the pockets for the notebook she hears Rust talking to the waitress. She finds the notebook and opens it to find pages filled with rows and columns of numbers. The extent to which is disturbing.

She hears footsteps approach. She puts the notebook in her back pocket and comes back to the surface with the knife in hand, which makes her look like she retrieved it from the ground after dropping it.

Rust shuffles back into his seat and looks at her firmly grasping the knife.

She shifts the attention from herself to him, “did everything come out ok?”

He laughs.

“Like an erupting volcano with no casualties.”

His silliness relaxes her, but she remembers to ask him, “so what do you do?”

“I would tell you, but I think it would be more fun if we made it into a game.”

He orders vodka waters. When they arrive he explains, “You ask me questions. If my answer is yes, I drink. If my answer is no, you drink.”

“Does someone tell you what to do?”

“Nope.”

She drinks.

“Do you tell someone what to do?”

“Nope.”

She drinks.

Are you your own boss?

“No.”

She drinks.

“Is it illegal?”

He slowly picks up his glass and takes a drink. Her eyes get wide.

“I’m kidding, it's not illegal, but it should be.”

She gives him the finger.

“Ok, is it dishonest?”

He drinks.

“Is it low brow and lazy?”

He drinks twice.

“You write fake reviews for desperate businesses.”

“No way.”

She drinks.

“Panhandler, paparazzi, pyramid schemer?”

“No no no.”

Drink, sip, sip.

Finally he confesses, “I’m unemployed, and the government undeservingly pays me to look for a job I'm not looking for.”

She hears her grandmother’s voice, “A jobless man is like a plane with nowhere to land. It's only a matter of time before it falls out of the sky and into the ocean, joining the rest of the men floating around waiting for someone to save them.”

“Are you sure you're not a pyramid schemer?”

He shakes his head, without shame, but with sincerity.

“No.”

He gestures his eyes to her glass.

She sips.

“I’m sorry you’re unemployed, but where the hell do you get off going on dates without a job. There's only so many outcomes trying to start a relationship with no income. My job is to be a judge. I’m judging whether to be with you and your drive to earn anything helps me make that judgement. And it's not a personal, but practical consideration. Even if you were the most handsome homeless man that made me ovulate on sight I would still reject you. Not because you were smelly and poor, but because you have no sense of priority.”

“Homeless people date. They bond over their shared experience.”

“You want to bond over a shared experience, get a job.”

She collects her things, gets up, and remembers that she has his notebook. She turns around and asks, “and before you were unemployed?”

“I was a gambling addict, lottery player. I only had jobs to feed the habit.”

She feels his honesty which disarms her of some resentment. She takes out the notebook and tosses it on the table.

“I took this. Sometimes my paranoia serves me. Sometimes it's like a scab and when I pick at it, it never gets better.”

He picks up the notebook. He motions with it.

“If playing the lottery is the cigarette smoking of gambling addictions, then this notebook is my nicotine patch. It's my toy for teething. It's my stress ball. This is where I write down lotto combinations. I still play everyday, but I don’t buy the tickets.”

“I’m glad you stopped, but I can’t stay any longer.”

She leaves cash for the entire bill and tip.

“I relapsed recently.”

She takes a deep breath and sighs.

“And I hit big. ”

She replies, “so what, just because you got lucky means that you’re gonna get lucky?”

“Aren’t you curious about how much I won?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’ll be on the news. It should be airing soon. I chose to remain anonymous, but I can tell you everything they asked and everything I answered beforehand so you know I’m not bullshitting.”

He gets the waitress to turn the TV on to channel 9. News anchor Heather Hansley appears as she wraps up her hour.

“Now I will hand it over to Logan with Just Another Perspective, Logan?”

“Thank you, Heather. Today Disney announces the opening of its new park on the moon, Lunar Land. Flights to the moon are at all time low at $2,000. Will we ignore the warning of environmentalists and continue developing on the moon or will we preserve the purity of the rock that glows with the sun’s light at night? More on that later.

Campaigning season has begun and we take a look at the presidential candidates. Only half are politicians. Do entrepreneurs reinvent politics or are they contaminating the role of the public servant?

And a school shooting prevented by the bully who pushed the young gunman to the edge in the first place. We have video of the bully taking the gun away and beating up the gunman before he could even take the safety off. He is now in critical condition. No one else got hurt. Is the bully a hero or a villain?

But before we get to all of that, we start with my interview with the country’s most recent jackpot winner of 115 million dollars!

I am Logan Lew, and this,” he pauses, “is Just Another Perspective.”

The TV cuts to a dark silhouette of a man, and across from him sits Logan Lew.

“You decided to remain anonymous, why?”

A digitally altered voice answers, “my identity would only get in the way of what I plan to do.”

“What do you plan to do and what do you think of the notion that the type of person who would play the lottery wouldn’t know how to manage such wealth?”

“The notion is not wrong. I don’t have the skills to maintain or grow my wealth and that is why I decided to surround myself with the best people that could. I got the best attorney, the best accountant, and the best investor. And what will I do now? I’m going to Lunar Land.”

They both laugh.

Before each question Rust summarizes what Logan Lew asks, and before each answer he summarizes what the silhouetted figures replies. Every time Rust does this, Janae’s eyes get bigger and her heart beats faster.

“But seriously what do you plan to do with this money?”

“I want to maximize humanity’s potential, one individual at a time. That's why my identity must remain unknown. I need to be able to spend time with someone undistorted by greed or spectacle before I decide to invest in his or her potential.”

Janae can barely breathe.

“Oh my god,” involuntarily escapes her mouth.

They both tune out the television.

“When you say one individual at a time,” Janae’s words trail off.

He nods yes.

“Why me? I told you off. I took your notebook. I was about to leave.”

“Because you told the truth, you have a dream, and you had enough sense of duty to leave money for an unemployed recovering addict, so he can pay for the meal of a disappointing date. That's my criteria. Dutiful dreamer who tells the truth.”

She gets nauseous. “Will you excuse me?”

She walks urgently to the bathroom. She confronts the toilet with fire in her stomach. She kneels and sings a sad song into the bowl. She feels much better. She flushes the toilet, watching her meal swirl into the city’s intestines, and returns to the table.

She looks at Rust, “what now?”

“You see that bus boy. He survives on $10 an hour, which is about $20,000 a year doing something he loathes. Here are two other scenarios, the second one being a proposition. The first one you’re familiar with. Be comfortable doing something you tolerate or the second scenario, survive pursuing something you love. In other words, I will pay you $20,000 a year, like bus boy over there, as long as you pursue acting, or you can continue working in security making two or three times that. And I agree with you. You should be able to imagine the worst in people, but not without being able to imagine the best.”

She considers it. There is a moment of silence from which the sound of the television tunes back into her awareness. The news anchor wraps up his show.

“Remember, you are a citizen in a free country and you can do and believe whatever you want, because this,” he pauses, “is Just Another Perspective. I’m Logan Lew, good night and good luck.”