I Saw, I Conquered, I Came (5)

I Saw, I Conquered, I Came (5)

“For the last few nights, I’ve sat awake, wondering things—stupid shit, like the origins of words, you know—and one thing led to another, and now I’m curious to know how many people there are in the world that have the job they wanted when they were six years old.” Monty was talking as he distractedly scrubbed at dishes. They were encrusted with last week’s Rogan Josh, congealed bacon grease, and semen, alternately. I wasn’t listening. “Like, think about it. How many kids want to be firemen or vets?”

It was about quarter to eight in the morning. Elderly women had begun tottering into the street, yappy creatures underfoot—I’ve always hated those damn things, anxious, quaking like they’ve seen the end of the world and pissing in handbags. The woman in the street was walking a Yorkshire terrier. They’re the absolute worst, because on top of being frightful and noisy, they’re also somehow more entitled than the others. If I had a car, I’d run one over.

“I don’t know, Monty,” I sighed. “Lots. Lots of kids want to be vets.”
“Right, right,” he wasn’t really listening either. “But, at the end of the day, what percentage of people end up doing the job they wanted when they went to primary school? How many people live their childhood dreams, as it were?”

I’d never had much in the ways of ambition as a child. Between three and twelve, I wanted to eat or sleep or be left alone. There was a brief period from thirteen to seventeen where I wanted to be cool, but realizing that was basically impossible and also lame, I reverted to my original plan. Old habits die hard.

“Accountants, for instance. Did they dream of numbers? Did they play ‘initial consult’ with their cuddly animals? ‘Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Bear, but my calculations indicate that your new policies are actually pushing you into deficit rather than away from it.’”
“I’m not sure kids play with toys any more.” I yawned. “Didn’t you have an Atari?”
“My parents didn’t let me have one. Said it was worthless. I had to make do with a well-worn chimpanzee and a very complacent basset hound. His name was Wesley.”

We stared into empty space.

Outside, it started to drizzle, ever-so-slightly. Even though it had only been raining for about ten seconds, the ceiling became damp. One audacious drip fell to the floor with a disproportionate splat, reminding us to resume conversation.

“What did you want to do when you were a kid, Jake?”
“Nothing. You?”
“I wanted to be a writer, actually.”
“Well, there you go, then.” I said. “You’re living the dream, aren’t you?

He laughed, and dried a dish with the bottom of his shirt.
“Somehow, I doubt that Montgomery Patil, age eight, aspired to right such brilliance as ‘oh yes, oh yes, ram it in my pussy.’ Still,” he sighed, “It’s better than accountancy, right?”
“Shit, yeah. Tea?”
“I think I’ll make myself a chai this morning, actually.”

He went into the kitchen, fiddling around with pots and absurdly tiny pouches of allspice and cardamom or whatever it is they stick in tea in India. Chai is limited in its appeal for me—it’s too exotic to be accompanied by a piece of dry white toast or a stale Hobnob. The ground I stand on was founded on a combination of Earl Grey and slavery, and I’m nothing if not patriotic: tea in the morning, and BDSM films through the day. Ol’ Dick the Lionhearted would have been proud.