Perspectives

"It's all good," say the kids these days. But the Truth, Ms J, is that it is not all good. All is not good. Not always and not with all people. Sometimes, things are not good at all. A case in point is the suffering caused by recent and ongoing hurricanes wreaking havoc in Texas and Louisiana. Or the pain and despair my friend Jenn will endure, having been the victim of a brutal sexual attack last week. Closer to home still, is my friend Bob. Things are not "all good" for Bob either.

Bob was here for lunch yesterday. I hadn't seen my friend in a fortnight or so. Bob's an actor and he's been very supportive of me over the past few years. I first met him in a play we did together in 2001. He wanted to hear all about my first paying gig (the Hydro thing I did last week) and of course, I told him. I also told him about the money I found. My manner of speech is quite animated at times and I was excited anew as I recounted the day's events. I told him about the play and the money I earned, (and found!) and enthusiastically, I told him all about the fantastic weekend Meagan and I had at Teen Ranch and about how amazing and thrilling my Life has been lately. My friend listened as I spoke and he shared my elation. He was smiling and laughing and congratulating me.

I raised my palms and my eyebrows and stared at him and smiled.

"It's all good, eh Bob? Isn't it all good?"

When it seemed I'd monopolised the conversation long enough, I asked him about himself. Bob is not married and lives with his mother. I asked about her too. She's been ill lately.

"So what about you, Bobby?" I asked, sipping hot tea after lunch. "How are you doing? How's yer mum?"

Bob didn't hesitate at all in his response. His burden must have been cumbersome. He could no longer carry it alone.

"I took her to the doctor yesterday. She's got cancer. It's in her throat somewhere I think. They have to do more tests."

The warm energy that had filled the room a moment ago was now completely gone, drained, like water from the bath tub. I swallowed and blinked and turned to look out the window. A black squirrel ran across the lawn with a walnut in his mouth. The television was playing in the living room behind me. It suddenly seemed to be blaring and I got up to turn it off. The room was quiet when I returned to my chair.

"I guess it's not good for everyone, is it?" I said softly. "Not everybody's as happy as me, are they, Bob?"

I felt a twinge of guilt for being so happy a minute ago. How is it right that I express my unrestrained joy in the fortunate Life I lead while others hurt so? I have the right to happiness, don't I? Isn't happiness my divine right? My duty and obligation? I sat still until the feeling passed, and I vowed to be more aware that others may not have so much to celebrate.

I stole a glance at Bob and quickly looked away. Men's tears really upset me, Ms Journal. So do the tears of a friend. I had never seen this man cry before. He balled his big fists, wiped his eyes and apologised for ... something. Crying, I suppose. I don't know. Personally, I cannot understand the need to feel remorse for showing honest emotion.

"Please don't apologise, Bob," I said. "There's no shame in a man loving his mum."

"What will I do?" he sobbed. "What the hell will I do ...?"

I knew his question was rhetorical and I let it hang there in the awkward stillness. It didn't require an answer. There is no answer to that question. Not yet.

Our conversation gradually moved to what I'd hoped would be less emotional matters. We talked about the theatre and about gas prices and taxes and about current events. It was clear that my friend was angry. His anger was apparent as he railed against the government tax system.

("They'll never force me to pay my taxes. I'll tell them to go screw themselves!")

The forced evacuation of Gulf Coast residents in the face of impending hurricanes also enraged him.

"I wouldn't leave my home if I lived there. It's my f-ing house. No one can make me get out of my own house. I'd chain myself to the house somehow. They'd have to shoot me and take me away in an ambulance."

He went on and on. And I listened. His anger was excessive and his words were ridiculous until I understood where they came from. Bob was trying to feel as though he had some control over the events in his Life. But try as he might, in his heart of hearts, he knew full well that ultimately, he could not direct his fate. Or the fate of his beloved mother.

It's a sobering thought, Ms J. We are not in charge of things here. Not really. We like to imagine we have control, but we don't. Not in the long run. This is God's world. We are God's people. He has the keys. He does the steering.

I love you, Bob. I am your friend. I'll help you. I haven't the slightest idea how, but I'll help you. Happiness, it would seem, can be nebulous. And fleeting.

I'll do well to remember that.

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