The UFO

At a community cocktail-party recently, I was doing what I always do at these affairs—wandering casually from group to group, wine glass in hand, smiling and nodding, overhearing and eavesdropping, trying not to engage directly—biding my time until it was time to go.

My wife, who works a room like the most polished politician, understands this about me, and never chides me or worries about leaving me to my own devices.

I was brought up short, however, when one portly fellow—a neighbourhood acquaintance more than a friend—pointed at me as I approached the small cluster of folks he was with.  “Here he is now,” he said, “the guy I was just talking about.”  Draping one arm over my shoulders, he drew me into the circle. 

“Oh, oh,” I joshed.  “This can’t be good.”  They were all smiling, though, so I raised my glass as I nodded hello.

“I was just telling everybody that I’m a regular reader of your blog,” the fellow said.  “Good stuff!  Really enjoy the articles.”

“Good, good,” I replied, nodding, waiting for the But…

“But,” he said, “I’m curious about one thing.”

“And that is?” I asked, looking to find my wife to eyeball her to my rescue.  This was exactly what I try to avoid.

He dropped his arm from my shoulder to reach for a canape on the tray being passed.  Shoving it into his mouth, he said, “I don’t know how you can be such a Pollyanna optimist about things.  So much of your stuff is about the end of the world, about how we’re all going to die, about the mess we’re leaving for our kids.  And yet, you come across as confident that things are going to turn out well.”

I shifted away so he couldn’t drop his arm on me again.  Everyone was still smiling, but expectantly now, wondering, I suppose, how I might respond.

“Well,” I said, shrugging, “we are going to die.  Nobody disputes that, right?  And I think we are making a mess of the planet, which may not affect us, but will surely have an impact on our kids and grandkids.  But you’re right, I don’t think it’s too late to do something about it.  Not quite yet.”

I gestured to the group, hoping to elicit a response.  “What do you folks think?”  A woman across from me opened her mouth to reply, but not quickly enough.

“I don’t think anything we can do will make one iota of difference,” the big guy said.  “You think blue boxes are going to solve the problem?  Most of that stuff ends up in landfills, so what’s the point?  You think changing your personal carbon footprint, whatever that means, is going to help the planet while China and India are spewing pollution?  Please!”

No one seemed willing to engage, so he went on.  “Here’s my theory,” he said.  “Every one of us was born into this world.” He paused for a swallow of his drink.  None of us could question his theory to that point. 

“But we didn’t make that world,” he continued.  “We got what we got.  Our parents did the best they could with the world they inherited, and now we have to do the same.  Am I right?”

“I don’t know,” I said, gesturing again to the group.  “What do you folks think?”

But the big guy was on a roll, and no one seemed inclined to step in.  He was compelling, even if a tad pompous.  I reminded myself that he was a loyal reader of my blog, took another sip of wine, and kept trying to locate my wife.

“And we are doing the best we can,” he said.  “Nobody I know goes out and deliberately befouls the planet.  Hell, right in this neighbourhood we’ve got a group that’s adopted a stretch of county road so we can clean up the trash and litter.”

I couldn’t restrain myself.  “Where does the trash and litter come from?”

People’s eyes were shifting back and forth between us now, as if courtside.  And I don’t even play pickleball.

“From idiots who don’t know any better,” he said.  “My point is that, for every ten of them, there’s only one of us who cares.  We’re outgunned.”

“What do you folks think?” I asked once more, turning to the group, hoping to engage them.

The same woman tried again.  “Well, I think there’s…”

“Hold on, Marilyn, hold on,” the fellow interrupted.  “Sorry, but the thing is, no matter how many of us try to do the right thing, it’s not going to work.  There’s too many of them, the ones causing the problems.  And you think we’re going to fix it all in our lifetimes?”  He jabbed a finger in my direction.

“Maybe not in our lifetimes,” Marilyn, said, quicker off the mark this time, sparing me from answering.  “But we can make a concerted effort.  Are you saying we should do nothing?”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” the fellow protested, unhappy at being challenged, and by a woman.  “I’m just saying we got what we got.  We didn’t ask for it, we just got it.  There’s five billion people on the planet, or whatever, and the planet can’t sustain that.  Not forever.  All we can do is whatever we can do.”

“So, here’s the question then,” Marilyn countered, on her own roll now.  “Will we do whatever we can do?  Or will we just bury our heads in the sand?”

At that fortuitous moment, the fellow’s wife, perhaps drawn by the sound of his penetrating voice, approached us, a fixed smile pasted to her face.  “George, there’s someone over here I want you to meet.”  She took him firmly by the elbow.

He smiled down at her.  “Okay,” he said, “but let me say one last thing first.  Everybody knows we got problems, nobody’s arguing that.  My point is, there’s nothing we can do about them that’s going to make any difference to our kids and grandkids.  It’ll be up to them to deal with the world they live in, just like we had to.”

“So, you’re saying it is what it is?” I asked.

He nodded emphatically, setting his empty glass on a table.  “Exactly!  It is what it is!  Always has been, always will be.”  And with a cheery smile, he allowed himself to be escorted away by his wife.

“Always will be?” Marilyn said.  “What a UFO!”

“UFO?” I said, confused.

“Unalloyed fustian oaf.  Don’t know how his wife puts up with it.”

I nodded goodbye and wandered off in search of my own wife, but the oaf’s final words troubled me.  We do know how it’s been; we do know how it is right now. But is this how it always will be?

What do you folks think?

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2022}