The Devil's Advocate

"Does suffering help creativity?" The question floated in the air, like the thin spirals of smoke drifting upward. He drew a last puff before answering. "All experiences, good or bad, make us more creative. The mind is like a muscle; the more you dish out to it, the stronger it gets. But suffering's no better for the mind than anything else. In fact, it's usually a whole lot worse." His words trailed off as he gazed through the half-shrouded window. Outside, a light rain was falling.

I pursued the point. "Look, you lived in a tough part of the city and you learned more there about life than anyone here your age." His eyes narrowed as if trying to make out something beyond the rain-smudged glass, and his first words seemed just as murky. "Nothing I'd want to learn again ..." Seconds passed. "You really want to know? I learned to suck up to the jerks who mattered the most, usually the biggest and strongest assholes. I learned to look the other way when some poor schmuck was getting the shit kicked out of him. I learned not to be that schmuck. That's what I learned."

"What about girls?" The question hung in the air as the pitter-patter grew louder and as the blur of a police car passed. He finally turned to me. "In those days I was just starting to notice girls and most were Portuguese. At the dances they were always chaperoned and on the street they'd just walk by, eyes straight ahead." He fell silent a moment, thinking. "But you know, if you catch a Portuguese girl in the eyes, even for a few seconds, and not look away, just keeping your eyes locked into hers, even without saying a word, if you can do all that ... she's yours for the taking."

I was about to win my argument, or so it seemed. "Then what you learned there did help you here." He shook his head, looking again out the window. "With the girls here it's another bag of tricks." He sat back. "What you learn in one place will work best in that kind of place. And what you learn while suffering will work best with that kind of suffering."

"But can't suffering teach things that work elsewhere, you know, general stuff?" I was groping for an example. "Look at science. The specific leads to the general. Like radio waves, light, and X-rays, they're all just different wavelengths of energy. And all of the elements of matter are just different combinations of electrons, neutrons, and protons ..."

He broke in. "And energy and matter are one and the same. Energy can be released from matter and matter can be congealed from energy." He paused. "But what good is all that when you're horny on a Friday night? The more abstract your knowledge, the further it gets from the problems of real life." He went on. "Sure, there's general advice that works almost anywhere, but don't kid yourself. Specific problems usually need specific solutions. And, anyhow, why would you learn more about life from suffering than from enjoyment?"

"Just look at all the great thinkers and writers. Didn't Huxley say..."

"And just look at John who's been dumped by his girlfriend and now feels like a useless turd. Do you think he's going to write a bestseller? Some people have it and others don't. Some people are open to life and others aren't. Einstein started as an office clerk. Does that mean working as a stupid clerk in a stupid office will make you a great thinker?"

My argument was floundering but I gave it one last try. "What about the time you attacked your neighbour with a kitchen knife? That was tragic for both of you, and painful, but wasn't there something to be learned from all of that? Something worth knowing?" The pensive gaze was gone. A reply, incredulous, shot back: "He sure as hell didn't think so!"

****************

Everyone knew the bare facts. Last September 17th, around 11:15 p.m. David Cleary, 16, formerly of Toronto, went to his neighbour's back door and began knocking furiously. When Michael Payne, 38, answered, David lunged. A struggle ensued and the assailant was hit several times with a baseball bat by the oldest son, who finally knocked him unconscious with a blow to the head. He was still lying on the floor when the police came twenty minutes later. After being taken to the hospital, he told the police that it had all been a bad trip. No charges were laid and he was eventually released.

And so, one frosty morning, where the main road ran past a clump of pines, the schoolbus stopped and he climbed on, the skin under his eyes still black and blue. A hush fell over the bus. Had anyone else done what he had done, we would have felt more sympathy for a rabid dog. But David was David. He represented everything that the boys wanted to be and the girls wanted to have. As handsome as Che Guevara, equally at ease with crude jokes and metaphysics, able to mix with freaks at a rock concert or hosers at the local tavern, he commanded respect without having to demand it. Yes, what he did was godawful, but there must have been some reason, a reason whose intense meaning transcended our ordinary lives.

He never told me. "Oh, I'm sick and tired of having to explain the whole thing to so many people. I'll tell you some other time." But he never told me. Or anyone else. The closest he ever came to telling was once when four of us were in a friend's pickup. "Really, I can't make sense of it," said the driver, fishing for an answer. "Even stone drunk I'd never go that far." But the bait got only a nibble. "Hard to explain. I felt like I was another person."

He may have tried to tell me another time, or maybe not. The two of us were in the little room that served as both den and front hallway. He was musing. "The trouble with marijuana is that you can only go so far." I looked up from the liner notes of Master of Reality. "Why go further?" I asked.

"To find what lies beyond, beyond the doors of perception."

"But what if there's nothing beyond?"

"There's got to be something."

"What if there is something, but it's harmful?"

"Bullshit."

"If you can't perceive something with your normal brain, maybe it's for your own good. If there was some benefit to be gained, your brain would perceive it without any help. Your brain would've evolved that way. If there was no benefit, just harm , your brain would tune it out. For your own good."

"Bullshit."

"Like alcohol and LSD. We've evolved with alcohol for thousands of years, so we can handle it. But LSD's something new. That's why it's a total mind-fuck."

"Bullshit."

****************

September 17. 6:45 p.m. A young man sitting alone in a closed porch. Dusk fading into night, the stillness broken now and then by a nighthawk's call. A phono needle noiselessly sailing around and around the centre groove of a record. Fingers tapping an armchair aimlessly. Half-open magazines. An unlit cigarette. A moist wad of paper.

Time passes. The young man gets up to flip the record, only to change his mind. In his thoughts drifts a question: Where's Larry? Why's he taking so long? Reassurance floats past: Don't worry. This won't be the first solo, remember?

Outside, a car pulls into the neighbour's driveway, its tires crunching on the gravel. Must be Mike Payne. Father of four, outboard motor mechanic, never went beyond high school, friendly enough. Normal guy. A bit stuck in the mould, like most plastic people, but no worse than the others. The outdoor light switches on. His wife no doubt. Waiting for him like a good normal wife. Normal. ... Like those who voted for Hitler.

The thought had bobbed up out of the blue. And it just as quickly sank away. The young man stands still a few seconds then shuffles to the kitchen, turns the tap on and lets it run a few seconds before filling a glass and letting the water spill down into his throat. Larry must have found other fish to fry. But no matter. Won't be the first time.

He trudges back, flicking on the lamp and standing for a moment in the doorway. The lamp casts its glow partway into the front porch, whose far corners are engulfed in darkness. He checks his watch. Guess Larry's not coming, but no matter. Here is light and life. The rug, seemingly bigger, looks as inviting as a fluffy cat waiting to be stroked. The cushioned footstool is sighing with bosomy softness. And the old armchair is heaving like a lung breathing in and out. His thoughts too are pulsing with new vigour. They flow like a stream coursing over rocks and logs, taking the path of least resistance, pushing this way and that, drawn downward and forward to the great sea....

The outdoor light switches off. Immediately night envelops the twin driveways. Mike is home now, safe and sound, leaving behind a world plunged into darkness. As if he cares ...The fuzzy glow of the porch beckons to the man in the doorway. He pushes forward, settling into the armchair, and lighting the unlit cigarette. A long drag. A cough. Then a thought. What if? ... No, couldn't be ... The thought sinks away and vanishes. Meanwhile, the armchair's heaving is picking up speed, like a heartbeat now, spreading to the footstool and from there to the plant by the window. The glow is turning red at the edges ...

The thought resurfaces and this time refuses to go away. His eyes narrow, horrified, yet unable to block it out entirely. And it does make sense. He looks around for counsel, to the glow spilling in from the living room, to the face looking up from the album cover, to the pines standing still in the heavy darkness ... His head nods. Of course, he'll have to talk to him ... He looks out the window, through the space left by frayed curtains and windowsill bric-a-brac. There is no moon tonight, nor stars, only low ragged clouds passing over the black sky in almost unbroken succession, their dim outlines barely visible. For a moment, a bird flies past a lit house, and is no more.

But what if he did talk to him? Mike would just deny everything. Laugh it off. And then what? The troubling thought is followed by an even more troubling one: Wouldn't denial be further proof of guilt? The room is throbbing with reddish light, like the signals at a level crossing, like a warning against something. But what? He thinks hard. And starts to understand. However worldly-wise he might be, he can still fall prey to lies and deception, and this time he'll face the master liar, the greatest of all deceivers. Truth will run into a wall of half-truths, specious arguments, cynical pleas for open-mindedness, and deceit cloaked in the language of reason. No, there's nothing to gain from talking. And much to lose. There's only one proper response.

His hands are clammy, his breathing short and fast. He turns his face in rapid succession to the glow, to the face, and to the pines, hoping for more guidance. Surely there are other options. Things are never that cut and dry. There's always more than one response. But he hears only silence. The time for counsel is over. Suddenly, he glimpses something outside, across the road, in the lit house surrounded by darkness. The lights are going out one by one.

Slowly, and with determination, he gets up from the armchair. He stands for a moment in the doorway, steeling himself with resolve, then walks briskly to the kitchen and starts rummaging through the drawers. It's all so clear now. Why didn't he realize earlier? There's only one thing to do and it has to be done, in the name of all that is just and decent and human, with no turning back, no giving in, no bowing out. There can be no compromise now. Not with Satan, not with the great sea of darkness that threatens to engulf more and more of the world in its evil embrace. The time has come to act ...