A Ring of Freedom

It’s not like it’s real work; it’s not like he’s toiling at the bottom of the ocean in a pressure suit, in the dark black of some pit or cave. Maybe he can’t pay for his house, but he’s sitting in it. Maybe he and his wife barely speak but she’s there. He can get up each morning and work on his book, Aspartame Dreams and Other Cautionary Tales, and not worry (too much) about being rendered by the CIA, or monitored by the police, however guilty and deserving of punishment he might be, however much belonging to a state with ultimate jurisdiction over his body and lifeblood bothers him to the core. He should have had kids, he thinks to himself, and fewer dogs, but what with the world being the world and all, and so expensive. He has moments when he understands Don Corleone, or Walter White, or any other number of dauntless men whose priority, despite appearances, is Family, but he could never come round to picturing himself in the slacks-wearing role of paterfamilias, although he likes children well enough, although he thinks it’s people like he and Trish who should be rearing the next generation. He should have gone back to school or learned a trade. He should have stopped long ago thinking there was a heroic path through sacrifice, a viral germ of an idea planted there by mythology masquerading as religion, but he tries not to blame anyone for that, or even “the culture.” He understands that we all choose our own brand of yoghurt, if you get his drift (he’ll opt for a silent H every time), that’s it’s not easy living with his inclination, which is very nearly a principle, to say yes to every