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There seemingly is no singular path to greatness, or perhaps itf',f,,f,,s the very nature great men and women to forge their own way. Some, I think, are driven, willing or no, by the tremendous burden of their own intrinsic talents. For such as they, the savants, the profoundly, wondrously gifted, I wonder what suffering of the mind must manifest should they not relent to that driving need. Is the pressure of such gifts the progenitor of our inclination to associate brilliance with madness? Still others, men and women of a different yet no less venerable disposition, find their way to greatness not by that which fills them, but rather by the ache of hollow needs yearning to be fulfilled, and while we may marvel at the naturally imbued, we are humbled in the face of the common man or woman who aspires to rise above that which they are. What quality of man is more noble, after all, or more responsible for the best of what we are and may one day become, than that ability, born of choice and free will, to see clearly the absolute limit of our own abilities, to know the point beyond which we may advance no further, and to utterly reject those limits as false?
It is futile, perhaps, to grasp at these ephemeral qualities that distinguish the great among us and bind them to the page with paltry phrase, as a lepidopterist might pin some rare and beautiful specimen for display. In such venue, perhaps one might preserve the beauty of the wings, but you cannot see it fly. Similarly, it is not fully possible to capture in mere words that experience of standing in the presence of greatness, in whatever form it may take. In whatever field or discipline, be it the creation of sublime art, the perfection of skilled craft, the selfless struggle to alleviate the suffering of our brethren, the toil to discover, the will to persevere and the burning passion to rise, the truly great among us are beacons, showing us the way. In their reflection we see the best of what we each are capable of. And it is humbling to meet such a person, someone who has reached such a pinnacle, who holds even briefly that title of distinction, or even to approach being the best at whatever their calling.
I have recently been so humbled, for this past Friday I met such a man. How much of his distinction was natural, or how much was born of his will, I cannot say. Did his parents make him as he was at the very moment of conception? Was it the lessons by which they shaped him in his youth? Was it perhaps not due to, but in spite of his upbringing? Ultimately, I suppose it doesnf',f,,f,,t matter, for regardless what confluence of circumstance, heredity or environment conspired toward it, the unwavering truth of him did for mine humble witness manifest. He was, I believe in my heart, the absolute dumbest mother-Froster in Louisiana.
What? You didnf',f,,f,,t see that coming? Well then hi, my name is Dave and apparently we havenf',f,,f,,t met. The remainder of this entry will dispense with formality and return to my usual profanity laden format, as I found not swearing for three rather long paragraphs draining. Twatwaffle. Sorry, you can ignore that; I just needed to get it out.
So, Friday last I was leaving the office at noon to work the rest of the day from home. I had just merged onto I-12 South in Mandeville, LA, from which my commute home takes me 25 or so miles south to I-10, and then east to Biloxi. It was then that I first saw him, standing by the side of the highway, waving his arms over his head and bobbing up and down in an odd cross between jumping jacks and epilepsy. Now, in some parts of the country hitchhikers are rare and often illegal, but down here theyf',f,,f,,re a fixture, and I typically pass two or three every time I make that drive. I often feel bad for them, though only for about as long as it takes to reach the next mile marker, but I donf',f,,f,,t ever actually stop. Itf',f,,f,,s not that I donf',f,,f,,t feel inclined to help; itf',f,,f,,s just that I have a family that depends on me and itf',f,,f,,s a bad risk. Also, itf',f,,f,,s hot in this part of the country, and your average itinerant interstate adventurer doesnf',f,,f,,t typically have that freshly scrubbed look I so value when sharing a small enclosed space. Seeing, however, that this guy was giving the universal signal for, f',f,,fe,"please help,f',f,,f‚, I was inclined on this occasion to make sure he didnf',f,,f,,t have a wife and kid stuck in the 105f',f‚, heat somewhere back down the highway
I pulled over.
f',f,,fe,"Break down?f',f,,f‚, I asked him.
f',f,,fe,"Yeah, blew head gasket,f',f,,f‚, he somewhat mumbled.
So, ok, stranded motorist, slightly different from hitchhiker. I also take note that the guy weighs less than my 12 year old son and is wearing a white t-shirt and shorts of a relatively thin fabric, so that short of smuggling a box cutter next to his taint he clearly isnf',f,,f,,t hiding any weapons. I was pretty sure I could snap him in half at will if necessary, without even resorting to cruise control. Also, he appeared to have bathed in the recent past. I asked him where he needed to get to. The Slidell exit was his answer, which is at the bottom of I-12, directly on my route. So, seeing as If',f,,f,,d already stopped, there was no apparent danger, it wasnf',f,,f,,t even a little out of my way and it was a miserably hot day to be walking on the highway, I decided that it was an acceptable risk to give him a ride.
f',f,,fe,"Get in,f',f,,f‚, I told him.
Now, at the risk of getting a little long winded, let me expound a bit on the subject of Dumb, which comes in more varieties than cheese but doesnf',f,,f,,t make nearly as tasty a pizza topping. I feel that when I say this man was the dumbest mother-Froster in the state, I should qualify the subtle and specific form of stupid to which I refer. If',f,,f,,m not talking about slow. There are people we all encounter now and then who, while often sincere and amiable, are simply not blessed with an excess of functional intellect. They hover somewhere just above the clinical definition of specific mental deficiency. When I say dumb, these are not the people If',f,,f,,m referring to, nor do I endorse or condone jokes at their expense, which are mean and unfunny. No, If',f,,f,,m talking about the willfully, functionally, Frosted up kind of dumb. The people who put a little effort into obtaining the title. Sure, picking on them is still mean, but itf',f,,f,,s funny, and if that makes me a dick, I can live with it. Besides, I gave the Emerson a ride.
So, wef',f,,f,,re in the car, headed south, and inevitably theref',f,,f,,s the small talk. If',f,,f,,m not sure if it was the lack of grammar or the slightly muffled speech, enriched by that particular permutation of the southern drawl that only seems to arise in rusted trailers with rebel flag curtains and cardboard over broken windows, but before wef',f,,f,,d traveled a mile I was aware of a thick, clinging dumb, filling the car like a deep fried fart. (itf',f,,f,,s the south, they can deep fry anything) I tried, though, to not make hasty judgments. While theref',f,,f,,s certainly something to be said for intuition and first impressions, I simply donf',f,,f,,t find you can accurately sum up a person with no more to go on than a few minutes of awkward conversation. You need a more reliable window into their psyche. My personal preference is to stand behind people at the grocery store and assess their items while they check out, a technique I find more revealing than years of psychoanalysis. Fortunately, as I had no intention of detouring to a Winn Dixie, it proved unnecessary. The dumb was soon to be on display.
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