Yo, I wrote a short story today. Check it out, comments and critcisms appreciated.
Selfless
A short story by James Sullivan
“I, if you asked another, would be highly regarded as a truly selfless person. I am the kind of guy who is always there for somebody else, to listen, to console, to help within and in times beyond the extent of my capabilities. I always put others’ needs of relief, pleasure, and hope above my own. The priorities of others are my top priority. The happiness of others made me happy, and as it would later be revealed to me, that virtue denies all, or any, praise I’m provided.
I knew a man, his actions a mirrored image of my own, who by any regard appeared as selfless as I. However, through him my selflessness was transparent; I am not as selfless as he . no one is.
We lived under the overpass of I-45 and 242, our lives much the same. In the first decade of the 21st century, we’d both donated, not abandoned, our possessions, save a pair of clothes. We’d abandoned the system, or perhaps the other way around, abandoned our 9-digit number which identified us as the tattoos had identified the Jews. I am not a number; I am not my doctorate in philosophy from Berkeley; I am neither a reflection nor representation of society and community. I am human.
He was a self-educated man; his entire home, when he still lived in it, had books stacked to the ceiling with books. He never spoke about what he used to do for work, in fact he never spoke about himself at all. If you were to ask what how he was or anything about his background, he’d cunningly and quickly repel the conversation back your way. In this sense, he was a very good conversationalist, because people love to talk about themselves . that’s something you don’t learn in books. It was very difficult to get much any information from him about himself; he was a very well educated man, and as such could hold an intellectual conversation with anyone. He knew science; he knew history; he knew psychology; he knew anthropology; he knew philosophy; it were as if he spent his life, from birth, getting doctorates in every field of work.
He was a real life philosopher, a true sophist; our conversations in regards to metaphysics, epistemology, and ethics often intertwined, drawing correlations and applying one field into the next. What is truth transgressed to what is real; what is good translated into what can be known, learned, and how the reality of those things prove irrelevant while remaining the most relevant existing element. Our conversations brought me great satisfaction, having another intellectual absentee to converse with what a rarity.
“Good morning, Guy.” He hadn’t slept; I don’t think he ever does.
“Good morning, Sir.” I never knew his name. When I first asked him his name, he told me he’d forgotten, and added that it wasn’t relevant anyway. I think it was really just another discarded piece of identity, but over the years perhaps it were possible to truly forget one’s own name.
One other gentleman dwelled under the overpass with us, Robert, but was referred to as Drunk Bob; he was a consistently belligerent, drunken individual. He sold his blanket for a fifth of scotch, thinking it’d provide the same warmth. Now he’s cradled together, his knees buried in his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs.
“I’m d-d-dying.” He stuttered, the impediment caused by the chattering of his teeth.
“We’re all dying.”
“I’m dying now.” Drunk Bob replied, annoyed.
“We’re all dying now. Here.” He handed Drunken Bob his only blanket.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked.
“For some, life is a race to die; while Robert over there might not want to suffer this lifelong endeavor any longer, he sure doesn’t want to die cold.”
Sir was unusual like that. He spoke always in an incredibly pessimistic tone; the happiness he brought others didn’t contribute to his collective happiness like mine did. He was a profound giver on the surface, balancing on the edge of the martyr cliff underneath the surface, and a devastatingly depressed self destructor at the core. He used to say “The only thing that keeps me from walking out in front of an 18 wheeler is the delay of cargo I’d cause. I don’t want to trouble anybody.”
I’m what can be translated into a selfishly selfless person. My actions are selfless to the extent that they’re for others before myself, but ultimately the actions I make are done in accordance with the psychological “do good feel good syndrome.” I make others happy to make myself happy. I maintain, as well, a Self. I have a name, convictions, possessions I’m unable to sacrifice, happiness, and a valued life.
To have no Self, as Sir did, is uncontestable selflessness. No identity, no possessions, no use to himself . only to others, no life internally valued. No Self.
I woke up the next morning to the passing cars, blaring horns, and even louder blaring music of men and women venturing to another work day, delusioned that their benefits are greater than their loss. I rose, as I always did, and felt a missing presence. I saw Bob, lying cold and dead, blanketless with an empty bottle clutched in his cold, dead fingers. He must’ve sold the blanket, again. Sir was gone, without a word, without a sound, and without a note.
I never discovered what happened to him; he was a nomad, but it was customary when departing from one location to another to leave something behind. I suppose he ventured away to die quietly, leaving nothing as to leave no despair of his disappearance. He never wanted to trouble anyone.