Ask the Passengers
Page 16
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“Like moving motion?” Ellis asks.
“Yep. Like all motion.”
“He said it was impossible?”
“Him and a lot of guys before him. But he proved it in new ways. Mostly to disprove it, I think, but still, yep. That’s what he meant.”
Mom and Ellis look at me like I’m weird. Dad says, “How’d he prove it?”
I explain the arrow theory.
“That’s stupid,” Ellis says. “That’s like saying that I’m not eating paella.” She eats paella. “See?” she says with her mouth full of paella.
“I know.”
“So didn’t you say he was right?”
“He is,” I say. “But not in the way he meant. In other ways.”
“Are you getting graded for learning this stuff?” Mom asks. “Because I can’t see how this will help you get a job.” Ah, there’s the Claire that was missing half an hour ago. I missed you, Claire.
“Come on, Claire. This is what college kids learn in Philosophy 101. You don’t remember Zeno?” Dad asks.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t they teach philosophy in art school?”
She glares at him. “They taught it. I didn’t take it. I had more practical things to learn so I could one day support my family.”
I dip more bread in more oil.
“So when are you moving on to the Socrates part of the class?” Dad says. “I was talking to a mom at one of the hockey games, and she told me that it’s awesome. Her son took the class a few years ago.”
“We started last week,” I say. “But this week we’ll really get into that part—the project.”
“Stuff like that makes me wish I could go back to high school.”
I’m about to say something lame like “yeah,” but Mom talks over me. “You can go back to college any time you want, Gerry.”
He stops and looks at her. She said it to cut him down, but he took it as a real suggestion. His eyes dart around. “You know, Claire, you’re right. I could,” he says. “What do you think of that, girls? Imagine going to college with your dad. Freaky, huh?”
“I don’t think so,” Ellis says. “I’d have a built-in on-campus fan for hockey games.”
“And I’d have someone to go to wood shop with who won’t make a bong,” I say. Although I know there is a great chance that Dad would probably make a bong.
Mom puts her fork down loudly. “No one wants to go to college with me? I was fun in college, you know.”
She throws a sad look at Ellis, who says, “Aw, I’d go to college with you, Mom. I bet you threw some great parties.”
15
THE 135.
IT IS ONLY 135 HOURS until we are all standing at the door of Atlantis again with our cover charge in our palms. Only 117 hours until I see Dee again in the parking lot of Maldonado’s. The school week is like a holding pattern. It is the invisible man. It is a black hole. It is the Enso of Zen—the big zero. All I can hear are the ticking of seconds, each one a notch in the 135. For the record, that’s 486,000 notches.
On Tuesday in humanities we learn about Socratic paradoxes. Here’s one of Frank’s: No one desires evil. Of course, that’s an insane thing to say. One look around Unity Valley will prove the guy dead wrong. One look at anywhere will prove the guy certifiable. Especially in fifth century BC Greece. Geez. So for him to say No one desires evil is about more than just challenging the obvious fact that plenty of people desire evil.
When I raise my hand and Ms. Steck calls on me, I say, “It was about making people think. Because the only way to disprove something that defies common sense is to ask why. Why would people desire evil? Why are people evil? Don’t they think they are doing good from their perspective? What is evil, then, anyway? That’s exactly the type of thing Socrates was after. Making people think so they could find the truth.”
“And do you have any answers?” she asks.
“No. Only more questions,” I say. I have come so far from my Zeno-denying arm-flailing only two weeks ago.
They say: Astrid Jones is such a kiss-ass.
They say: Ms. Steck will give her an A just because of lit mag.
They say: You know about Ms. Steck, right?
Anyway, our final assignment for the unit is to create our own paradox and be ready to argue it Socrates-style. This is the Socrates Project. Every year we’ve been in high school, the day before Thanksgiving break, senior humanities students dress like Greek philosophers and argue throughout the halls all day. It’s the reason people fight to get into this course, and the reason some people wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. I fluctuate between being shit-scared and totally geeked out with excitement. I’m even going to go barefoot. I haven’t figured out my paradox yet, but I have a month, so I’m not going to push it.
All week, Kristina is weird.
Monday: Are you sure there wasn’t any truth to that thing you said about a girlfriend? You know you could tell me, right?
Tuesday: She squints at me a lot and whispers something to Justin right in front of me. Justin shrugs, then pulls up his camera and snaps a picture of me. When I complain, they claim it’s just a funny joke.
Wednesday: I thought we were best friends, dude. You’re not keeping secrets from me, are you? Justin and I can help, you know. Justin nods.
Thursday: Silent treatment. Or at least that’s what it seems like. Plus, she’s overly friendly with her plethora of more popular friends. The Homecoming Court people, the majorettes, the two lead actresses in our fall production of The Miracle Worker. I even see her talking to Aimee Hall—enemy of many, thanks to her knack for making shit up and spreading it like mulch so the weeds of sanity can’t poke through and doubt her.
Friday: Kristina’s all perky and nice at lunch. “Maybe you’ll tell me the truth tomorrow night?”
“You know the truth,” I say.
“That’s not what I heard,” she says.
I try not to look panicked. I call Frank S. to rescue me. Bad idea. He slides into the booth behind Kristina and looks right into my eyes. He knows the truth, too.
16
AM I WEARING A “BE PUSHY WITH ME” SIGN?
THE HISPANIC CENTER CATERING JOB is hard core. We work from five thirty to three thirty. That’s a long day here in the land of shrimp veins. Dee and I meet in the walk-in only once. We don’t even have time to talk except catering-teamwork talk, so while we wash and sanitize big pots and pans, she occasionally hip-bumps me and I hip-bump her back.
“Yep. Like all motion.”
“He said it was impossible?”
“Him and a lot of guys before him. But he proved it in new ways. Mostly to disprove it, I think, but still, yep. That’s what he meant.”
Mom and Ellis look at me like I’m weird. Dad says, “How’d he prove it?”
I explain the arrow theory.
“That’s stupid,” Ellis says. “That’s like saying that I’m not eating paella.” She eats paella. “See?” she says with her mouth full of paella.
“I know.”
“So didn’t you say he was right?”
“He is,” I say. “But not in the way he meant. In other ways.”
“Are you getting graded for learning this stuff?” Mom asks. “Because I can’t see how this will help you get a job.” Ah, there’s the Claire that was missing half an hour ago. I missed you, Claire.
“Come on, Claire. This is what college kids learn in Philosophy 101. You don’t remember Zeno?” Dad asks.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t they teach philosophy in art school?”
She glares at him. “They taught it. I didn’t take it. I had more practical things to learn so I could one day support my family.”
I dip more bread in more oil.
“So when are you moving on to the Socrates part of the class?” Dad says. “I was talking to a mom at one of the hockey games, and she told me that it’s awesome. Her son took the class a few years ago.”
“We started last week,” I say. “But this week we’ll really get into that part—the project.”
“Stuff like that makes me wish I could go back to high school.”
I’m about to say something lame like “yeah,” but Mom talks over me. “You can go back to college any time you want, Gerry.”
He stops and looks at her. She said it to cut him down, but he took it as a real suggestion. His eyes dart around. “You know, Claire, you’re right. I could,” he says. “What do you think of that, girls? Imagine going to college with your dad. Freaky, huh?”
“I don’t think so,” Ellis says. “I’d have a built-in on-campus fan for hockey games.”
“And I’d have someone to go to wood shop with who won’t make a bong,” I say. Although I know there is a great chance that Dad would probably make a bong.
Mom puts her fork down loudly. “No one wants to go to college with me? I was fun in college, you know.”
She throws a sad look at Ellis, who says, “Aw, I’d go to college with you, Mom. I bet you threw some great parties.”
15
THE 135.
IT IS ONLY 135 HOURS until we are all standing at the door of Atlantis again with our cover charge in our palms. Only 117 hours until I see Dee again in the parking lot of Maldonado’s. The school week is like a holding pattern. It is the invisible man. It is a black hole. It is the Enso of Zen—the big zero. All I can hear are the ticking of seconds, each one a notch in the 135. For the record, that’s 486,000 notches.
On Tuesday in humanities we learn about Socratic paradoxes. Here’s one of Frank’s: No one desires evil. Of course, that’s an insane thing to say. One look around Unity Valley will prove the guy dead wrong. One look at anywhere will prove the guy certifiable. Especially in fifth century BC Greece. Geez. So for him to say No one desires evil is about more than just challenging the obvious fact that plenty of people desire evil.
When I raise my hand and Ms. Steck calls on me, I say, “It was about making people think. Because the only way to disprove something that defies common sense is to ask why. Why would people desire evil? Why are people evil? Don’t they think they are doing good from their perspective? What is evil, then, anyway? That’s exactly the type of thing Socrates was after. Making people think so they could find the truth.”
“And do you have any answers?” she asks.
“No. Only more questions,” I say. I have come so far from my Zeno-denying arm-flailing only two weeks ago.
They say: Astrid Jones is such a kiss-ass.
They say: Ms. Steck will give her an A just because of lit mag.
They say: You know about Ms. Steck, right?
Anyway, our final assignment for the unit is to create our own paradox and be ready to argue it Socrates-style. This is the Socrates Project. Every year we’ve been in high school, the day before Thanksgiving break, senior humanities students dress like Greek philosophers and argue throughout the halls all day. It’s the reason people fight to get into this course, and the reason some people wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. I fluctuate between being shit-scared and totally geeked out with excitement. I’m even going to go barefoot. I haven’t figured out my paradox yet, but I have a month, so I’m not going to push it.
All week, Kristina is weird.
Monday: Are you sure there wasn’t any truth to that thing you said about a girlfriend? You know you could tell me, right?
Tuesday: She squints at me a lot and whispers something to Justin right in front of me. Justin shrugs, then pulls up his camera and snaps a picture of me. When I complain, they claim it’s just a funny joke.
Wednesday: I thought we were best friends, dude. You’re not keeping secrets from me, are you? Justin and I can help, you know. Justin nods.
Thursday: Silent treatment. Or at least that’s what it seems like. Plus, she’s overly friendly with her plethora of more popular friends. The Homecoming Court people, the majorettes, the two lead actresses in our fall production of The Miracle Worker. I even see her talking to Aimee Hall—enemy of many, thanks to her knack for making shit up and spreading it like mulch so the weeds of sanity can’t poke through and doubt her.
Friday: Kristina’s all perky and nice at lunch. “Maybe you’ll tell me the truth tomorrow night?”
“You know the truth,” I say.
“That’s not what I heard,” she says.
I try not to look panicked. I call Frank S. to rescue me. Bad idea. He slides into the booth behind Kristina and looks right into my eyes. He knows the truth, too.
16
AM I WEARING A “BE PUSHY WITH ME” SIGN?
THE HISPANIC CENTER CATERING JOB is hard core. We work from five thirty to three thirty. That’s a long day here in the land of shrimp veins. Dee and I meet in the walk-in only once. We don’t even have time to talk except catering-teamwork talk, so while we wash and sanitize big pots and pans, she occasionally hip-bumps me and I hip-bump her back.
