An Inhuman Condition

These are a few pieces of flash fiction from the Blue Valentines lot that were off subject or unrelated.

The Put Option

“It’s a stupid bet,” Martin said.

“I don’t think so. We both agreed the only way to find out was to ask.”

“Well yeah, but who doesn’t have regrets about their choices?”

“You said it was just a matter of perspective, right? You said I couldn’t know whether or not they were happy living the family life because I wasn’t in that position. So we have to ask to settle the bet.”

“And what if he says he’s happy?”

“Then he’s a liar. If we push him even a little bit, the misery will surface.”

“How are you so sure?”

“It’s simple. He was a painter, and now he’s designing product packaging. How could that possibly make him happy? It’s a sacrifice he made to support the wife and kids, but it has to kill him. There’s no way coming up with aesthetically pleasing cracker boxes and soup cans fulfills his creative urge. The man is dead inside, and I can see it.”

Alan was pretty sure of himself already, and Jeff’s tired, desperate eyes as he entered the bar made it a sure thing. Martin was convinced that there was a certain nobility to raising kids and doing the “adult” thing; he even seemed to wish he was in a serious relationship on the road to family life. Alan drunkenly tried to convince Martin that he might as well wish for death. As a writer, Alan had a tendency to get cocky and oversell things like this. After a couple hours of arguing, they made a bet and called Jeff in to settle it.

“Hey guys, it’s a bit late isn’t it?” Jeff wasn’t used to his old roommates calling anymore. He was a little suspicious, but he wasn’t left with many opportunities to leave the house anymore. The stir-craziness superseded his better judgment, and he joined the guys for a beer.

After a couple drinks, Alan turned their conversation to Jeff’s family.

“So Jeff, how do you like being a dad?”

“It’s pretty good, you know. I look into the kid’s eyes and it’s like I’m looking into an odd mirror. It’s like I can’t believe he’s actually my son. I never thought I’d be here before thirty.”

“And being married?” Martin added with a cocky little smile.

“That’s great. Karen and I have never been more in love. When I come home from work and see her sitting on the couch with our daughter, it’s like my own little Norman Rockwell painting.”

“Hey, Jeff.” Alan plucked a twenty from his wallet. “Why don’t you run up and grab us another pitcher?”

Martin’s grin widened as Jeff made his way to the bar. Alan nodded slightly and thought for a moment.

“Double our wager?”

“Come on, you’re clearly losing this bet. You might as well call it and save your money.”

“If you’re that sure, just bet me then.”

“Fine, double it is. You’re not as smart as you think you are.

“You are right about that, my friend.”

When Jeff came back, Alan immediately turned the conversation onto his writing. He bragged about his novel being sent to the publisher and his short story in Harper’s last month. He was really talking himself up, and it seemed to Martin like he was too drunk to remember they had a bet. Almost like a non-sequitor, Alan asked Jeff about working in graphic design. After a few half-committed responses about how good the job was going, Alan made his play.

“So have you had any time to work on your painting?”

“Uh, well not so much. I’ve been so busy with work and the kid that it’s been hard to find the time.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But still, you’re not giving up on it, are you?”

“No, it’s just on the backburner for now.”

“I guess you can still be creative at work though. Have you had any brilliant designs lately?”

“I did this really cool wrap-around for a bag of tortilla chips.”

“Just like Andy Warhol, eh?”

Alan knew that would be the final push. Jeff had always despised Warhol with a passion. He grimaced at the mention of his name, gulped down his pint of beer and poured another.

“You know, that’s pretty much right,” Jeff said. “I’m a regular mister Whore-all. You know I designed a very sharp box for light bulbs. It’s like an exercise in futility. Imagine writing formulaic romance novels day after day. The client says he wants this one with a blond leading man and busty lady. He says he wants it full of steamy romance. But the thing is, it’s not different – they all ask for that. ‘Give my widget something to make it pop.’ ‘What font is going to sell my crap over the other guy’s?’ It’s insulting. They could make a computer do my job, but it wouldn’t feel the shame and disgust. I think the product manufacturers want to see you pant and roll over for the money.”

“You could make some free time to be creative for real,” Alan goaded.

“Free time? What makes you think I get free time?”

“Can’t Karen watch the kid a little longer?”

“Hell, no. She’s exhausted every day when I get home. She practically throws Jenny at me and runs into the bath to read. It’s like we don’t even talk anymore.”

“But what about that Norman Rockwell stuff you said earlier?” Martin tried to save the conversation before it crashed and burned.

“Rockwell was a fake, phony. All that Americana was a lie. The dream was never real, and they don’t tell you that until you buy it. That white picket fence is just kindling for the pyre of your freedom. It’s all a mirage to sell the houses and sedans that keep the economy going.”

“So you aren’t happy?” Alan said hiding his smile.

“No, I’m miserable. I’ve signed the contract, and I’m stuck here at least until Jenny can go to daycare. That’s if Karen even wants to work. It’s like I’m expected to put everything I want to do on hold. If I ever get around to painting again, I’ll just be an old joke like Bob Ross and his happy trees. You guys are lucky. You can just go out and grab a drink whenever. I had to guilt Karen into letting me come out tonight.”

“It can’t be that bad. There has to be something rewarding about having a family.” Martin was stretching to try and salvage his point.

“The only rewarding thing about it is knowing I’m not going to die alone. All I had to do for that was sacrifice the few things that made life worth living. It’s like I’m already dead, and you’re just talking to my ghost here.”

Jeff stood up and stumbled toward the bathroom. Alan let loose his clever grin, and Martin sat with shock and sadness for their friend.

“What are you supposed to say to something like that?” he asked.

Alan held out his hand expectantly; “Pay me.”