The Great Depression, Chapter 2 (It's Going To Be OK) (427 hits)
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Submitted by Grownasskid (View user info) at 2005-10-25 23:36:49 EDT
I've spent the last four or five years living a lie. I've made my bread and butter on telling people that it's going to be ok, that they are going to be all right. And I've told that story to all sorts of people; maybe a hundred different people have heard that from me. I've said it even when I knew it was a bold faced lie, when I knew that there was no chance that they were going to come out ok. I said it when I knew in all likelihood the person was fucked. I've fed that same bullshit story to a hundred people, lied right to their faces. The worst part about it that they always believe me, every time I get the same nod and the belief that because I said it, it will come true. Maybe that's the worst part.
It's all in my delivery. Each situation calls for a different act, a different setting, a different play, but always, always the same lines. Sometimes I use a napkin or a sleeve or my hand to wipe a tear from her eye. I hold her hand, and put my other under her chin. Slowly I guide her face up so she locks eyes with mine. I give her what I imagine to be a look of warmth and care, a look that says "look at these eyes. These eyes have all the answers don't they?" Then I give her a kiss and a hug and she's putty.
But sometimes the situation is completely different. Sometimes I sit down next to him and put a hand on his back. I tell him some joke, something stupid to get him to loosen up, and then I grab his shoulder and give him the "serious" face. And then I give him the line, no smile, no warmth, just a cool stare that I imagine says" look at this face. This face is to confident to be wrong about everything ever." Sometimes he hugs me, sometimes he says thanks, sometimes he just nods, but the point is across and the idea is in his head. And that's the whole dog and pony show.
And the things these people tell me! Good lord, the secrets I've heard, the crimes they've committed, the sins so deep that priests would condemn them. The things I know about people are the kind of things that make father forsake sons and mothers disown daughters. The things these people tell me in their weakest moments are the worst parts of their being. All the acts of violence, all the acts of abuse, sexual or otherwise, all the parts of the soul that people can use as weapons against others are the things that they tell me in their lowest moments. I have information that could bring down the lives of all the people who have ever heard my little act. I have the keys to all the closets; I know all the skeletons by face.
Can you imagine the power that it gives me? Hell, you might have even spilt your guts to me one time. You still might, because for some reason that I can't fathom, I was given the face, the eyes, the calm voice that convinces people that I can make things right. And for a time I used to believe that I could make things right. I used to think that I could make a difference. But after a while, after all the secrets and tears of people who thought it was going to be ok and broken lives and pain and lies, I realized that I couldn't make a damn bit of difference. All I could offer people was a false sense of hope, a feeling of home and comfort in a set of rehashed, meaningless words. All I was was a momentary piece of wellness, a delay of the inevitable. There was a time I believed my act, but that time is long ago.
These people must have known that it was all bullshit. How could they not? Couldn't they feel it in the pit of their stomachs, in their shaky, unsure fingers? They must have known that it wasn't ok. It they knew it was ok; they wouldn't be coming to me for the confirmation. They must have known I was a liar, that I offered no solution. And yet for the last four or five years, people have been coming to me, asking for the same magic words over and over again like I am some kind of false idol. They come to me for the lie, because it is so much easier to take than the truth. That must be it. They can't believe that because I say something it makes it true. They can't have really believed me, can they?
Can they?
This time, it's not going to be all right.
User Reviews
Submitted by Barnymeinhoff (user info) at 2005-10-26 06:03:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
1.5
Submitted by WellFedEthiopian (user info) at 2005-10-26 00:00:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I've had that feeling before.