I’m a Fool to Care
Tourists fill the dance hall, day trippers out for a night on the town, curious about this strange place they know little of. Wanderers landing there by accident, the lights and music drawing them to the vibrant nightlife. Strangers and friends obscuring the view of the chosen few dotted throughout the place, those who came with intention. Who know why they are there but are not yet sure they have the courage.
At the back of the dance hall, two smartly dressed men. Not impeccably dressed, but thoughtfully. One might go so far as to say innocuously, though perhaps they stand out as a little less casual than most. They are neither stylish nor sloppy. Well-cut suits that would not be out of place in the board room, yet subtle enough to pass almost unnoticed at their café table now that they’ve relaxed their collars.
And the band plays…
I’m a Fool to Care
Why should I pretend?
I’ll lose in the end.
I’m a fool to care
Do I miss it? It’s hard to say. I’m envious of people who feel, even when that feeling is…well, let’s say unconstructive. Yet, I don’t think I would choose to go back. To become who I was. I don’t miss that guy. Not often.
Not that I’m…I should be clear about this. I’m not a good person. In no way am I a good person. I’ve done things that…well you know. Of course, you do. I suppose I’m preaching to the choir. You don’t ask me about mine and I don’t ask you about yours. Rules are rules.
If you want to know if it helped, in the work I mean, it’s not even a question. The answer is an unequivocal yes. I don’t think the old me could have even considered such a…profession. How the rest of you do it is beyond me. If you want to know if it was worth it…well…I don’t know, friend. I don’t know. How do you measure a thing that isn’t there? Something for which there is no name.
I mean…the bigger ones, the obvious ones, they have names, of course. But they’re not the real…the real loss was something else. The anger, the hate…they were just collateral damage. The real loss was something closer akin to…well…maybe the closest word is…care.
I can hardly remember…I mean…what I mean to say is that though I can recall the events, the pieces and parts of my before-life, recall how it felt. I can recall the idea of how it felt, but only intellectually. In my head, but not my heart. That’s…that’s gone.
My father and stepfather were both cruel. My mother spent most of her time halfway between this world and the next, staring and staring and staring. My brother beat the shit out of me as a matter of habit. Well, that’s the way these things go, I suppose. Like father like son.
I was cruel too.
I did far more than my share of damage for its own sake. As a child, it was mostly our dog – she was the only one left. And later, I learned to hit other boys, to have my way with…even before I knew how to…it was certainly rape. Violence, or the threat of it, was always there. Not that…I mean…well, damage is our trade, of course, but this was different. There was a joy to it. An emotional payoff. Damage for its own sake. That’s something I can no longer even envision.
And I had a son.
And I was cruel to him, too.
Eddie and I weren’t close at the end. Well, fathers and sons and all that. Not that I didn’t…In my own way I loved him more than I loved any creature on this earth, more than…but no, we weren’t close. If we had been, maybe none of this would have…but then we wouldn’t be here, now, would we?
It’s funny. There was a time when you couldn’t have dragged this out me for love or money, not with imminent death staring me down between the eyes. Not even with the kind of punishment that…well…I shouldn’t say that. Who knows what a man will do under that kind of pressure, eh, Friend?
But that was then. Now it makes no difference. Now I’m…well…let’s just say I used to be a person. Like you. Now I’m…something else.
Eddie didn’t have it in him. He just couldn’t take the loss. She broke his heart and he took his life and what more is there to say? Is it heartless to say it like that? Careless, yes, but heartless? I loved Eddie, but it wasn’t love that drove me to kill her. It wasn’t for love that I revenged myself upon her. Not from my heart did I destroy her from the inside out. It was not because I loved but because I cared.
Not for Eddie, but for myself. I hated not her, but myself. I blamed not her, but myself. I went there to kill not her, but myself.
It was ugly. As ugly as I have ever…I can’t overstate the brutality with which I avenged my son’s death upon that woman. The cool, dispassionate, and professional work I do today was nowhere to be seen. This was personal. I made it personal. I made her hurt, suffer. I fed of her pain, took it inside myself, felt the power surge with each cry, each whimper, each time she begged for death. It was the culmination of my…
They say all good things must come to an end. So too of the rest.
As I stood over the last remnants of my…mess…as I burned away any evidence of my rage, I hungered for more. I saw myself looking for another excuse. Another place to put my anger. To feed this insatiable hunger I had. I looked about the room, at what was left of her, and knew that it could never be enough. That I could never be satisfied. Find closure. In a moment of weakness, I saw myself for who I was, a man burdened by care.
I know how that sounds. That a man so cruel, filled with so much hate, so much anger, so much rage, could also be a man with care sounds ridiculous on its face. People who care don’t cause pain and suffering, don’t hurt those around them. People who care nurture and cure. They don’t destroy.
And yet, what was it but care that drove me? How can you hate if you don’t care? How can you hurt if you don’t care? I’m not talking about damage. Damage is easy enough. Easier, without question. But to hate…that is something else entirely.
That is what I saw in my moment of weakness. That brief moment, perhaps the first time in my life when I saw myself for who I really was. Not a monster. Quite the opposite. I saw myself as a man burdened by caring too much. A man who hated himself so much he could not help but hate others. A man who felt every slight, every vaguely spiteful word as a personal affront, and spent his life turning that hate back out toward everyone around him. A man who cared so much he would destroy the world for his so-called honor.
And I walked here.
And I sold my soul to the devil.
She beat it out of me. It was the fight of my life. The fight of…you know that feeling when…you ever lose a fight? Of course you have. That feeling when you know, when you face it, face that you’ve lost, there’s always this…this angry…like you’ll be back soon enough. That it isn’t really over. That someday you’ll be back and make them pay, right? Well, this isn’t that.
Not even close.
She doesn’t let you lose. Doesn’t let you give up. She beats it out of you. And I’m not talking about physical pain, though, that too. I’m talking about real pain. The kind of damage you can’t touch but chips away at you until there is nothing left. She beats it out of you and she beats it out of you and she beats it out of you. Doesn’t let up until it’s gone. Until you don’t care anymore. Until you can’t care anymore. Crying uncle doesn’t count. Saying the words doesn’t count. Losing the fight isn’t enough. She just keeps going. Long after you can’t take anymore, after you’ve given up, after you’ve promised her anything and everything she could possibly want, she hits you again. Kicks you again. Drags you to depths you could hardly fathom let alone survive.
Because she doesn’t believe you. Because somewhere deep inside you still care. Somewhere, you’re vowing revenge.
Not until you stop caring what happens to you, what happens to her, what happens to anyone, not until you’ve lost the last remnants of what makes you human, does she let up. Does she reach out her hand. Does she stand you up and usher you out.
No compassion. No empathy. Just a damned devil doing her job. A damned devil holding the door for me as my soul languished in her pocket.
Back at the bar, they were waiting for me. For the perfect recruit. A man who could damage without care. Who would never let the memory of today’s job get in the way of tommorow’s. It’s a good life as far as it goes. I don’t have to tell you that.
But the price. The price was high.
Do I miss it? It’s hard to say.
I suppose caring is for fools.
I suppose.