"The Perfect Blog" (4 of 6)

November 27, 2002

Day Four. The changes in them almost frighten me.

My first interview with them began at eight as usual, but this time no one looked groggy or out of sorts. I commented on that, and Howie said, "Sound sleep is the hallmark of a content individual."

Savannah replied, "Content or content?"

The room erupted into laughter. I asked them to explain the pun. Nick was the first to tell me that Howie was changing jobs, pouring money from his insurance claims business into self-help books and CDs: "the content business."

(What made me make that link? I've only been skimming the blog, but clearly it's had its effect on me, too.)

Howie beamed as I turned toward him. "There's nothing more important in this sad and greedy world," he said, "than helping others through it."

I remarked that he sounded like Gordon, the communist. And I think I saw him flinch.

But Gordon quickly spoke up to smooth things over. "This isn't communism, Mr. Samal. He's found a creative solution that enriches himself and the community at large in ways both pecuniary and societal. Karl Marx, who reasoned from social classes and not from individual behavior, had no room in his philosophy for such a move."

"Have you given up on communism, too, Gordon?" I looked from Gordon to Howie and back again. They were quite different: Gordon was a black college student with thick glasses and a sloppy beard; Howie a well-fed fiftysomething WASP with no hair on his head except a snowy mustache. But something in their eyes looked exactly the same.

"Communism and capitalism are both limited memes left over from earlier times," Gordon replied. "We need some new fusion of those systems, mixed with the best ideas of 'The New Economy' and several other models."

I was feeling dizzy. I looked over at the Easton couple, Rosie and Hal, who hadn't said a thing since we'd started. They were holding hands and seemed to be communicating telepathically. I'm exaggerating. I think.

It wasn't just them, either. All six seemed eager to touch one another: a hand on the shoulder here, a brushing of elbows there. No sense of personal boundaries. I want to call it a hippie commune, but that's not right. Hippies rarely have such good hygiene, and these people smelled like honey and strawberries. It was more like they were part of one extended family.

"Gordon's right, Mr. Samal," said Nick. "The economic system we've got right now is much better than what we had even a hundred years ago, but it does produce people like me."

"Like you?"

"Nick was very lost," said Rosie. Nick looked grateful that he wouldn't have to tell this himself. "He had tried one self-improvement group after another... Toastmasters, Dale Carnegie... but nothing really stuck and he was still miserable. He was fantasizing that if this group didn't work out, he would climb a water tower and start shooting passers-by."

I looked at Nick in disbelief. He looked so calm, so in tune with the world.

"That brings up an interesting question," he said. "Can you be convicted of a crime you only intended to commit? I mean, 'conspiracy to commit' et cetera, but what if you only intended it on your own?"

"None of us," said Hal softly, "are truly on our own."

Everyone murmured in agreement. It sounded like a symphonic orchestra, tuning its instruments. At which point, they turned, almost as one, to their computer monitors for the first reading of the day. It was eight-thirty. Precisely.

I do think I saw Howie flinch when I called him a commie. I like to think so. I like to think that he's still human under all that happiness.

This journal is the private property of Agent Samal. Reading it without permission is a felony.