Dearest Rachel –
There’s not much to tell you about today (although at this hour of the morning, would you expect there to be?), aside from what for me was a fairly unusual dream, in that I had no part in it, save as an observer of what might as well have been a theatrical or cinematic performance. There really was nothing about it where I felt like I existed in this world my mind created – and I’ll admit that I’m just as content for that to be the case.
The story seemed to center around some sweepstakes being held by some organization – whether a local company or a global conglomerate, it wasn’t clear – wherein certain slips of paper were released into the general public, not unlike Willy Wonka and his golden tickets. Indeed, the slips in question were printed on goldenrod-colored paper, and looked very much like the highest denomination of Monopoly money. If one could collect five of them, and turn them in – where, again, was not specified, but you know how dreams are; not all of the plot holes can be filled in as things proceed – they would receive a certain not insubstantial sum of money for their efforts.
As it so happened, the main character of this drama was a young boy living in the rough part of town; I guess we would call it “the inner city,” but that conjures up a certain phenotype that did not happen to be the case here (although I suppose it wouldn’t really matter much if it did). Improbably enough, he had managed to assemble five of these papers, and was therefore eligible to collect the prize associated with the contest. However, it didn’t seem as though he knew of a way to do so; anything means he would need in order to do so required him to rely on someone else to help him, and the environment he was steeped in was such that this wasn’t an option.
Although actually… he did have his father, who was a reliable sort, if somewhat hapless, that he could trust. However, he was hardly any better off than his son, in terms of knowing where to go and what to do without informing some third party about the situation to assist them. In the city, were anyone to find out that they had access to a means to better themselves financially, that would put a target on their back.
So the boy decided not to tell his father what was going on, and instead, asked him to take him to meet the neighborhood “boss,” and give him the papers to collect for himself. In return, the “boss” would (hopefully) be willing to offer them some protection – and maybe a few repairs or upgrades to their tenement, on the down low – that would sufficiently better their situation without drawing attention to it. Meanwhile, as far as the father was concerned, the slips of paper his son was presenting to the “boss” were just that; not being aware of their value, he just assumed that his boy knew what he was doing (which he did… sort of). In any event, despite the (implied) sinister nature of the “boss” and his, ah, “business,” things worked out as well as they could have been expected to, under the circumstances. The “boss” got the money (eventually and offscreen), the boy got what he considered to be an equivalent value of goods and services out of it, the father kept his hands clean (thanks to his complete ignorance of the matter), and – most significantly to the point – nobody got hurt.
Now, I honestly don’t know if this is the way things go down in the city, either now or ever. But in a world where people can be shot in the back for wearing nice shoes (let alone something really ostentatious, like jewelry or some such), it seems plausible that, under certain circumstances, you ought not to call attention to your success. Even relatively “safe” societies seem to have a similar ethos – I’m familiar with the “tall poppy” syndrome common in eastern Asia, exemplified by the expression about how “the nail that sticks up gets hammered down” – but when it gets murderous, then it becomes a real problem.
The funny thing is, it wasn’t a particularly life-changing amount of money; to put it in perspective, it was roughly equivalent to the amount that Daniel had to liquidate in order to pay his taxes this year. But that’s still way too much for a kid that young, in a society that tough, to be advertising he’s in possession of. Even an older person – like his dad – couldn’t be trusted to stay safe with that kind of cash in such an environment. And what saddened me was to realize that, while this may have been a dream, I’m pretty sure this is real life for far too many people.
You’re familiar with the story of the frog in the slow-boiling water – although I understand that it’s exaggerated for the sake of the analogy; apparently, the frog has to be pithed in order to reduce its ability to react to the heat – but there’s a similar tale from the animal kingdom that might apply to humanity to a similar extent. It would seem that when a single crab is captured and placed in a bucket, it will do what it can to escape (and from what I can gather, crabs have an ability to escape from such circumstances that would make Houdini jealous). However, if one can gather multiple crabs in that same bucket, any attempt at escape will be met by its fellow captives grabbing the attempted escapee and dragging them back into the bucket; “I may be doomed to boil by the time the sun sets, but I ain’t gonna die alone; you get back down here!”
Such is life in the big city – and even in the world at large, honey. I wonder if I’m supposed to relate to the kid who can’t even claim a prize due to him, lest the thugs in his neighborhood assault him for it, or worse. When I started writing to you here, honey, I was warned not to talk about my situation here, where someone might read about it over your shoulder; no one wants to see someone doing better than they are. Even the fact that I’ve lost you along the way doesn’t mitigate that, because there are folks who are both poor and lonely out here in the ether. My situation – as ambivalent as it might be – is an affront to them. They would rather see me (and others like me) dragged back into the bucket.
At least, that’s what struck me as I woke up this morning, and tried to parse my dream. It occurs to me that I’ve no “boss” to turn my winnings, such as they are, over to in exchange for protection (although the fact that there would be one would be like voluntarily surrendering to the head crab, and staying in the bucket; that’s what was so sad about the kid’s plight). Then again, maybe I’m overthinking the whole thing; what do you think?
Either way, I’d appreciate it if you would be so kind as to continue to keep an eye on me, and wish me luck; clearly, I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 