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Philosophy
for Bartenders
fiction by Ace Boggess "It's a zombie." Frannie hands me the glass filled with a red, syrupy concoction. She always treats me with the greatest care, staring into my violet eyes when I remove the prescription sunglasses. Sometimes she playfully runs her hands through my soft, white hair. She spoils me with conversation and free drinks when the owner's not looking, asks interesting questions that have nothing to do with missing pigments in my skin, and sighs when the time comes for me to leave. If she had any interest in men, I'm sure I'd find a secret name for her. "Thanks," I tell her, unwilling to refuse anything. "No problem, Mars. You know I'll treat you right." She's dressed as a soldier in olive fatigues and a tortoise-shell helmet on which the words 'Born to die' have been scrawled in black magic marker across the front. The slogan's a display of apathy, though I doubt its accuracy. All who are born must die, so all are born to die. However, that misses reality. The proximate result of birth isn't death, but life. It's life that leads to death. 'Born to die' edits a step from the process. It suggests an active connection between beginning and end. Even the suicides know success or failure relies on chance--many circumstances beyond the gun, knife, pills. So, the will and effort to kill oneself are no more than prayers for a hasty death. And as with all prayers, these may or may not be answered. Besides, they recite their petitions from the living perspective rather than that of the dead. So, life's a lengthy wait. We aren't born to die, but to await death and whatever's beyond. As we gather resources for sustenance, we wait. When we grind fingers against a pencil during the search for someone else's idea of a quality education, we're waiting. Working, grieving, or struggling with success and failure, we're waiting still. Even during erotic scenes--the locking of hands, lips, and legs--it's just a sweet escape to distract us as we wait and wait and sigh divinely while we wait some more. So there it is. The expression Born to die fails to grasp human nature. If I were to label myself with a slogan, it would go like this: 'Born to wait, live to die.' "You aren't in costume," Frannie says. It comes across not as inquisitive but as merely a statement in recognition of a fact. I respect that. She accepts what she sees--a common feature shared by most bartenders. They listen, observe, and if asked for an opinion, respond based on what they've previously heard and witnessed. That, to me, adds credence to her disguise. After all, good soldiers are existentialists, whereas bartenders come across as perfect empiricists. She's disguised not only her form but her philosophy. I explain that to her as I applaud her taste and cleverness. She laughs and pats the back of my pale hand with one of hers. "You're an odd one, Mars," she tells me. "It's weird the way you think. Sometimes I wonder what you're all about." "My life's a metaphor," I reply. "I make connections between different things." "How so?" "I look for the strings that bind all things together." "Everything's bound?" she asks. "Everything's one thing," I explain. "It's all just one great infinite thought." "What about the other schools?" "Schools? I don't follow you." "The schools of philosophy," she tells me with a grin. "You said soldiers make good existentialists, and bartenders are . . . what did you say?" "Empiricists." "Right. I like that. I'm an empiricist. Makes me sound like a queen." "In a way I guess you are," I coo. "Okay," she sighs. "Existentialist, empiricist, aren't those schools?" "I see what you're saying. The schools of philosophy. That's right." "Aren't there other schools?" "Oh," I say with a dégagé nod of the head. "There are rationalists, pragmatists, ontologists--just to name a few." "So, what are they?" "Ontologists? They look for meaning in the origins of things. It's not so much what we are or where we've been, but more along the lines of where we come from." "What came first, the chicken or the egg?" "Sort of. The chicken or the egg, the apple or the seed, the parasite or the host. Of course, ontologists might look at it differently. What came first, the chicken, the egg, or God?" "So, who are they? No, let me guess. Doctors?" I stop to consider the possibility, making the connection as best I can. I shake my head. "Detectives, perhaps. Or cops." "How so?" she asks. "It's their job to search for the origin, the cause of causes. Not God or scientific rationale, mind you. but something more relevant to their lives. When did the fire begin? What were you doing at the time of the robbery? Who buried the young boy's body in an unmarked grave? These are questions an ontologist might ask." "I see," she says, and it's clear at least to me that she does. Her empirical mind files the information until it comes in handy. "What about the others?" "Well, rationalists are like lawyers. They're trying to prove or disprove everything based on sheer logic alone. They come up with a premise and set about trying to figure out why it's true. Sometimes they reason empirically, sometimes ontologically, and frequently they make the whole thing up as they go along." "So they're not trustworthy?" I laugh, slow and casual. "What?" she says. "They're trustworthy, all right," I tell her. "You can believe almost anything they tell you because they usually believe it themselves. The rationalist approach sets them up as believers. They start proving a point and, to do so effectively, first they have to prove it to themselves. Problem is, they're easily manipulated. They take things as true as soon as a rational argument's provided that leans their way. It leaves them open to suggestion. Makes them easily conned." "So if I see a group of lawyer types gathered around a table. . . ?" "You can have your way with them." She giggles and pretends to be embarrassed. "Stop it," she whispers. "That's not it. What I was about to say was, if I see them sitting there, I can casually mention that my special frozen mango daiquiri's the tastiest drink in the world, and they'll be convinced and order a round." Smiling, I reply, "It's not quite that easy." "Then what?" "First you make the suggestion. Then you leave them alone for a while, maybe bring their round of vodka martinis on the rocks. You've planted the idea. That's all you can do." "What good is that?" she asks. I take a deep breath, playing out the scene in my mind. "Okay, so you've planted the idea in their heads. They begin to rationalize and justify it--maybe out loud, maybe to themselves. They form arguments to convince themselves and rebuttals for any counter arguments that might come up. Their thoughts spiral around and around on this one topic, even as they discuss their cases and calamities, not to mention the rational arguments they're preparing to make in court. And then, before long, they can think of nothing else. By the end of the day, three out of four will have convinced themselves of the genuineness of your declaration and will have acted on it, ordering the drink if that's the idea you planted. As for the fourth, either she has something against the taste of mangoes, something you couldn't have anticipated, or she'll be back tomorrow with cash in hand, her convictions having taken that much longer to develop." Frannie squints to reveal coquettish green eyes, watching me with intentions more desirous than I'd expect from her. She leans across the bar like a young flirt until her face is a mere eight inches or so from mine. I can feel her bourbon breath on my cheek and taste it as I breathe the flavor in. "So, it's a guaranteed sale?" she says, her words not matching the timbre of her voice. I shake my head slowly, offering a coy, deceptive grin. "Nothing's ever guaranteed. The only absolute's there are no absolutes. Everything's subject to chance and circumstance. No, it's no guaranteed sale. Just a theory, though if you test it, I want details." "Interesting," she says with a sigh. "Any other tips for me?" "What do you mean?" "Business advice," she clarifies. "What else should I look for?" "I leave business to the businesspeople. I'm not a businessman." She shrugs and pulls away. "I think you misunderstood me. I just meant that, well, you were telling me about certain types of people and. . . ." She stops and gives me a look as if to say, "Are you with me?" When I don't respond right away, she shakes her head as if defeated and adds, "Soldiers are existentialists. Lawyers are rationalists. What else?" "Ah, so that's how it is. I'm not having a friendly chat. I'm giving a dissertation." Perhaps it's the tone of my voice, but for some reason, she doesn't find my sarcasm all that sarcastic. She accepts it as a statement of fact. "That's right. That's what it is. Tell me more." "What else is there to tell?" "You mentioned at least one more group. What about them?" I have to stop and retrace my recent history, trying to remember which philosophers I've forgotten or overlooked. After a short pause to compose myself, I reply, "The pragmatists." "That's them. Tell me about them." I sip from my drink for the first time and taste its bittersweet taint like black licorice or some other soft candy made from too much sugar. It slides over my tongue and goes down easily without causing me to gasp or choke. Then, beautifully ambivalent as ever, I begin to talk. "My friend, pragmatists are your everyday Americans. They have goals, dreams, ambitions. Their whole philosophy's based on plotting and planning, finding the simplest way to achieve those goals, to live those dreams, and to satisfy their ambitious minds." "So how do I sell to them?" I hesitate before replying, "This is only speculation, but at a guess I'd say you'd need to figure out their goals for the evening. Then it becomes a simple matter of convincing them what you're offering is the fastest, most efficient way to achieve those goals. If a pragmatist comes in, sits down, and has a sullen, defeated look on his face so it's clear he wants to forget whatever's bothering him, then you might explain how Long Island iced teas might be the simple road to travel. If, on the other hand, you have a timid young woman who comes in by herself, and she makes it clear through subtle gestures and soft innuendoes that she's hoping for romance or sex or whatever it is timid young women hope for when they come to bars by themselves, then you emphasize the fact that a couple margaritas or perhaps your infamous frozen mango daiquiris are the quickest way for her to loosen up and make her dreams come true." I pause for a breath. "The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. That's the pragmatic philosophy at its essence. What you have to figure out is where those two points are. From there it's connecting the dots, drawing that line so your pragmatist can see." "That's very clever," she says, and I can tell her empirical mind's already contemplating experiments to supply the factual data for or against my theory. Her eyes scan the room, searching for potential pragmatists. "What are they?" she asks. "Programmers, auto mechanics, athletes, and perhaps even your physicians." She surveys the room a second time, frustrated. "Too many masks. I can't pick them out." I take another long, slow drink before I meet her gaze. "Look for people dressed as artisans. Or carpenters. Carpenters are prototypical pragmatists. They conceive of something that must be built, and then they set about the task of designing and constructing it, always looking for the simplest, most efficient way to get it done." "Wasn't Jesus a carpenter?" "Have to admit, he's a superb example of the pragmatic ideal." She looks at me queerly. "You'll have to explain that." I laugh long and slow, the way a father might laugh while watching through a window as his child plays some imaginary game by rolling nearly naked in the mud. It's laughter of recognition. It comes from understanding how this situation might be straddling the border between good taste and indecency without a care which way it leans. "If you take the New Testament as a historical document, regardless of whether you accept the religious or mythical implications, you can see Jesus as the ultimate pragmatist. He concluded that the world's full of sinners and that those sinners need to be redeemed." "Okay." "He tried to figure out how to achieve this altruistic vision in a quick, effective way." "I don't know about that," Frannie counters. "That's not the way I understand the story. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't he just following the Divine path?" "That's irrelevant to what I'm saying. If it was Divine, then it was Divine in part because of its directness, its simple clarity. In that case, his strategy--and it was a strategy--was to accept the weight of all sin on his shoulders and then to die, carrying that weight with him into his transcendence." I watch her carefully as she nods. Frannie disappears for a while, serving other masked partiers waiting for October's last midnight. When she returns, she mixes me another zombie and says, "What about you?" "What ABOUT me?" "What's your philosophy? What do I need to know to manipulate you?" Amused, I flash my most ambivalent grin. "It's not hard to figure me out. I take what I'm offered. You want to sell me a frozen mango daiquiri or an alien secretion, set it in front of me." "Seriously?" "I'm an eclectic. I accept anything." "That's good to know," she says. "I'll have to test that theory." "Be my guest," I say. "So, tell me about this philosophy of yours. How's it so different?" "It's not different," I correct her. "It's a combination of the other philosophies. Eclecticism's a belief in openness, indulgence, experience. I reject only rejection." "Wait," she says, testing my beliefs. "How can you tie all the others together like that? I thought the schools were different." "No, they're parts of the same great whole." "Then how do you match them up?" "Perspective. Consider things from a point of detachment, focus on where they intersect." "Where do they?" she asks. "What's the bond?" "It's time." "I'm not sure I. . . ." She stops herself. "How do you mean?" It's simple," I assure her. "The element of each philosophy that makes it unique is its relationship to time. Ontology's a search for meaning in the beginnings of things. The origin of the universe, the origin of man, the origin of language, these all represent the furthest backward points on a finite timeline. The other philosophies don't typically reach so far into the distance of yesterday. Therefore, that's how ontology's distinct." I stop to sip from my second drink as I study lines on Frannie's face, the contemplative squint of her eyes, the deadpan expression playing with soft shadows on her lips. "Empiricism, now that's a philosophy of the past." "Go on," the bartender urges, remembering this is the science I ascribed to her. "To base all your beliefs on empirical evidence is to be consumed by everything that has ever come before, regardless of what comes after. It's a philosophy of what HAS happened, not of what IS happening, what WILL happen, or even what SHOULD happen. However, it's not concerned so much with origins except in regard to the revelations formed by statistical probability. In other words, origins are just historical events, best used inductively to figure out how similar origins might occur again. It's a science of statistical probability." Sighing, she grumbles, "Those who don't remember history are doomed to repeat it." "Exactly," I say, applauding with a raised glass. "That's a standard statement an empiricist might make. And it's a truth you bartenders exemplify better than anyone." "How so?" "You listen to your customers as they tell their sad and sappy tales. You watch as the stories resolve themselves. Then, when another customer shares a similar scene, you call it up in your mental database, figuring out what paths others have taken and where those paths inevitably led. Based on that, you make your recommendation. It's history at work." "Fascinating," she says. "So back to the time question." "Oh," I agree. "That's right. No need to get off track like that." "Right," she says. "Okay, so you have this finite timeline that begins with ontological origins and moves through the empirical past. That gets us to the present, where the existentialists dwell." "Tell me more." Another drink, another pause. "Existentialists get consumed by the here and now. The past's mostly irrelevant and the future's nonexistent since it's yet to occur and can't be controlled. You can hope, dream, and act faithfully toward achieving your hopes and dreams, but without preconceptions because the future's an unstable element, something you can't control. It's a great ocean, voluminous and vast. You can toy with it, resist it, set out across it. You can try to redirect it in small steps with canals and pipelines and such. But no matter what you do, the ocean itself has the final say. It goes on without you, doing whatever it does. In the end, it's best to let the ocean be the guide and take you where it must." "Wow," Frannie says. "So how does it fit with the others?" "On the timeline? It's the present. Ontology's the beginning, empiricism the past, and existentialism all that's right now." I pause for a drink. "Taking it one step further, you find the pragmatists. Their philosophy encompasses all between now and possible futures." "I'm not sure I follow." "Pragmatism's a practical approach. It's a theory of how to get from here to there. Say you want to make love to a beautiful woman. . . ." "Why not?" she coos. "If you want to make love, that becomes your end. You set about getting from here to there. Pragmatism is the road ahead, or a map of that road. It's a strategy for how to act in the immediate future. It's an extension from the here and now toward some ultimate end." "I think I see," she says, while shaking her head as if to imply she doesn't. "It's everything on the timeline that comes after today." "Almost. Not quite." Trying to explain, I tell her, "Pragmatism's the future advancing. It doesn't quite capture the future itself. There remains the question of ultimate ends, as many and vast as they might be. You see, to a pragmatist, each end once achieved becomes a step toward another as the process starts over. A philosophy of ends exists elsewhere by itself." "And that philosophy is?" "Rationalism and its many variations. Kant's categorical imperative, the utilitarian ideal of Mill, Aristotle's golden mean, Plato's glorious republic, the socialism of Marx, the Christian ideal, and this splendid, improbable place that's called Utopia, they're all visions of the way things should be. That's where rationalism or idealism or utilitarianism or any of the other labels for philosophies of OUGHT come in. They search for ultimate truth somewhere in the future and set about convincing themselves not so much how to get there but why getting there's the right thing to do." Slapping the bar with one hand, I point a mock pistol at Frannie and fire. "And there you have it. A complete timeline of philosophy from probable beginning to possible end." "So it seems." There's still a void that her eyes reveal with a vacant, distracted glare. "What is it?" I ask. She hesitates, probably not wanting to offend me. Grinning and nodding, she says, "You've explained all that well enough, but you seem to have forgotten yourself. Where are YOU on the timeline? I think you've left yourself off." I laugh, warmly amused at her adept, empirical observation. "No, my friend," I tell her, waving my glass once more in a festive salute. "I'm there, all right. I'm on the timeline. In fact, I am the timeline. You see, a philosophy of eclecticism's one of acceptance. It's being open to all things on their merits, regardless of good or bad. Each scene, each experience, each philosophy has something to offer. I relax and take each as it comes. To be eclectic's to love each moment in an ongoing history, to accept it all from distant origin to any imaginable end. Admittedly I lean toward existentialism. I tend to prefer the here and now. But that's by necessity. It's always with me. Besides, it's the center on the timeline, and center's the best place to view both ends." She takes this in with a numb, detached expression shielding all emotion from her face. I can tell she understands, and I love her for it. After a long silence covered up by the clatter of a plate breaking in the kitchen and the droning hum of white noise from other conversations around us, she smiles. "That's a lot to think about. I just have one last question." "Fire at will." "I know you don't believe in wearing masks." "I have no use for them." "Still, you found costumes and roles for each philosophy: soldiers, lawyers, bartenders." "True," I agree. "But it's more than just masks. They apply to faces underneath as well." "What I want to know is. . ." "Go on." ". . .what costume might an eclectic philosopher wear? In other words, if you believed in wearing disguises, what exactly would you disguise yourself as?" I close my eyes, daydreaming possibilities. God, the universe, a river--these have an eclectic flavor. Each offers a hint of my beautiful ambivalence, the embrace of randomness as well as design. Yet how can one disguise oneself as God? How can I wear a mask that resembles the nothingness of space or the transient stream? I ponder the problem for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes while Frannie goes off to mix enough drinks to satisfy a backlog of orders. "Perhaps," I explain with a sigh when she returns, "I'd disguise myself as a ferryman, living on the river's edge, carrying people from side to side, learning from them and accepting them as they come." |
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