The parallel of talent

It’s easy to hate money from far away. I’ve done it for as long as I can remember. I’ve said many bad things about it, but mostly when it couldn’t hear me. I know it’s wrong. There must be good money somewhere. If I’d grown up around money I might have understood it better, but as it happened, I didn’t. My parents and their parents were mathematicians and composers and teachers. They didn’t care much for money. They cared about talent. They understood money the way they understood plumbing—they used it, but they didn’t really know where it came from or where it went. They worked for their money and viewed the whole affair as an unfortunate necessity, something that had to be done so they could do other things. It was just how life was.


“Money doesn’t grow on your father’s back,” my mother once said when I was still a kid.

I had wanted some toy but now the mental image of my father with money growing like leaves from his back was instantly more engaging.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Money is hard to come by,” my mother answered.

This didn’t make sense to me. There was a lot of money at the bank. All my father had to do was to get some. I’d seen him do it before. He didn’t have to grow money on his back or anything like that. He could just fetch it.

“Why can’t he go and get more money?” I asked.

My mother lit a cigarette.

“What do you think he’s doing right now?”

“He’s at work.”

“Yes. Doing what?”

“Getting money?”

“No,” my mother sighed, “he’s working.”

“Why?”

“That’s how he gets money.”

This didn’t make sense to me either. There were many people who didn’t seem to work much but got more money than my father. Up the street lived a man who had a boat and stood around on his lawn in the afternoons with a beer in his hand, while my father was still at work, getting his money. This man didn’t work at all. Perhaps my father wasn’t doing it right. Perhaps he was doing the wrong work.

“Why isn’t Dad a doctor?” I asked.

“Your father’s too smart to be a doctor,” my mother said firmly.


Years later, as a teenager, I got into an argument with my father about money.

“One day I’m going to make money,” I declared. “Not like you, working. I’m going to make it.”

“Is that so?” he said and looked up from the book he was reading. “Doing what?”

“I’m going to manufacture money,” I said. “Of all the jobs you can have, making money must be the best one. When people ask what you do, you can say, I make money.”

My father took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes the way he did before he tried to teach me something.

“Are you going to work at the Mint?”

That was not what I’d had in mind.

“No,” I scoffed. “I’m going to make paper money, you know, but counterfeit, and real good.”

“I see,” my father said as he cleaned his glasses. “Real good?”

“Yeah!”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I dunno,” I waved away his question. “Just think—stacks of money!”

But my father wasn’t thinking about stacks of money.

“Never mind that it’s illegal to print your own money,” he said and gave me a level stare. “To forge money takes great skill and technical knowledge. How are you going to do that?”

“I’ll just do it! Just think—”

“How?”

It was obvious that he couldn’t see the stacks of money I was looking at.

“How exactly?” he stipulated.

“What do you mean?”

“For example,” my father said in his lecturing voice, “printing money requires precision. Right now, you cannot even write in a straight line. How are you going to do that?”

“I’ll do it then, not now.”

“How? Where’s it going to come from?”

“What?”

“Where will your respect for precision and effort come from?”

“Why must it take effort?”

My father put his glasses back on and pushed them up his nose.

“Good things do,” he said. “Look around this room—the clock, the microwave, the table, the glass in the windows—these things took talent to invent, and years of hard work to perfect.”

I could see where this was going.

“It doesn’t have to take long,” I objected.

“Meaning?”

I won’t be spending all my time making money. I’ll be home more often than you.”

It was unfair to say that, but I wanted to hurt him. My father looked away and straightened from where he’d leant with his hands on the table between us.

“Perhaps I’m not as talented as you are,” he said.


But talent is no more than a food stamp in the world of work. I know that now. And in case I forget, I’m reminded often.

“Are you going to work today?” my seven-year-old daughter Annie once asked me.

“It’s Friday,” I said. “Of course I’m going to work.”

“But you went yesterday?”

Her question surprised me, especially as it was the same one I often asked myself.

“Why must you go again?” she added.

“Well,” I sighed, “they pay me to be there five days of the week. It’s like school is for you.”

“But you’re big,” Annie frowned. “Why can’t you finish your work on Monday and get all your money?”

For a moment I toyed with the idea of telling her that I was actually far too busy to work. There were many things I wanted to do around the house, and a long list of personal projects. But I knew that she’d agree and then I’d have no way to explain why I was going to work again.

“Do you like it?” Annie asked before I could say anything.

I put on my jacket, gave her a hug, and opened the front door.

“No,” I admitted. “Not really.”

“We can do something nice later,” she suggested as I started down the steps.

I turned to look at her.

“That’ll be good,” I said. “I’ll stay home tomorrow.”


Say something about this post…


Mail me when new posts come out

A wall across time

You can’t sit by the river of time, my father used to say. He always said this casually, as though he was merely pointing out that it could not be done, whenever he found me staring into space instead of doing my homework or something else he considered useful. When I didn’t react, he got more animated.

“Things won’t just fall into your lap from the sky,” he’d say in exasperation, pointing at the sky. To impress on me what he meant, he’d add, as a kind of visual emphasis, “like wet sacks of shit.”

What these things were that would not befall me like wet sacks of shit was never specified. My father made no sense when he was exasperated, and he was exasperated often. I stared into space a lot, sitting by the river of time, as he put it.

“When are you planning to wake up?” he interrupted my reverie one Saturday morning when we were building a terrace wall at our beach house.

He’d insisted that I help him, but I didn’t feel like it and was staring into space.

“You know,” he said as he leaned on his spade, “rounded to the nearest decade?”

“I’m awake,” I mumbled.

He shook his head, wiped his brow with the back of his gardening glove and adjusted his glasses.

“You wouldn’t look awake if I put a thousand Volts through you,” he remarked.

“I’m awake when I do my own things,” I retorted.

“What did that teacher say?” my father asked. “The one who looks like a Hampshire pig?”

“Killian?”

“That’s the one.”

I swallowed. Mr Killian was a near-spherical psycho who had taken a particular dislike in me.

“He said all I had to do was keel over and stink.”

My father wiped his brow again and smiled to himself.

“Wouldn’t you like to look at this wall one day,” he asked, changing the topic, “and know that you helped your father build it?”

“I guess,” I said and looked at the wall. “But you make me hold things and it’s boring.”

“I make you hold things,” my father replied, “so you won’t run away.”

He had a point. I once drifted off and left him crawling around inside the roof where he tapped various metal pipes for hours, hoping to hear me call out from the scullery that he’d found the one containing its electric wiring.

While it was natural for my father to think me lazy, it was rather that I wanted to be someone else, elsewhere, elsewhen. I imagined myself as a minor messiah, speaking in parables and understanding animals. I daydreamed of being picked up by passing aliens. Most of all, I wished to travel back in time to hurt Mr Killian when he was a boy. As I dreamed of all this, I talked to myself and had vigorous disagreements with invisible people. I never knew what I was actually supposed to be doing. Maybe I was a little lazy too. Nonetheless, my father’s warning against inaction had the opposite effect to what he’d intended. It sounded to me as though I could indeed sit by the river of time but that it was forbidden to do so. This added an extra dimension of pleasure to staring into space and doing nothing—it wasn’t merely wasteful; it was illegal.

“Why do you look so fucking smug?” my father once asked after he’d delivered what felt like an hour-long speech about the nature of fulfillment and how little of it I would attain if I continued down the road to indolence. “Work is a form of love,” he went on. “Things won’t just fall into your lap from the sky—”

“Yeah, I know,” I dismissed him, “like wet sacks of shit.”


But, of course, he was right. All I’d seen of the river of time were the waterfalls and rapids that are childhood and puberty. I didn’t yet know how helplessly adrift I actually was, dragged along in the stream, one second every second, one day per day. Then, as the years went by, the river left the mountains and things slowed down. The days became more alike. People came and went. I realised that work had better be a form of love, like my father had said, because I seemed to be doing little else. My investment in daydreaming also paid off. Things began to fall into my lap like wet sacks of shit. At last I understood what my father had meant all those years before—the sort of things that fell into your lap were not the sort of things you really wanted. They were OK, as things went, but they were not the greatness you had dreamt of.


Now, years later still, the river is nearing the sea. My father is long gone and his grandson stands before me, the very embodiment of absence. JD is ten. He looks like my father but he acts like me. We’re at the beach house where my father built a terrace wall one Saturday morning so many years ago. JD and I have come outside so that I can interrogate him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I ask.

JD stares into the distance and tries to stand on one foot.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” I say in an effort to control myself.

He looks at me and furrows his brow to concentrate.

“And?” I ask.

“What?”

“What were you thinking!?”

“It was a light saber,” he says and does a Darth Vader sound.

“It was a neon tube,” I correct him with strangled restraint. “You know, the sort that breaks.”

“Well,” he mumbles and looks past me again, “it felt like a light saber.”

“You didn’t think,” I say, “that’s what. When are you planning to start?”

“Start what?”

“Thinking, dammit!”

“I think!” JD shouts. “I think about all the things I’m going to put in my movie.”

Ever since he was six he has claimed to be the world’s best director, frustrated in his calling by his nagging family and the silly requirements of school.

“Your movie won’t get made if you don’t start thinking about other things too.”

He looks past me and it’s clear that he’s elsewhere already. With a pang I see myself, as my father must have, standing in the same spot JD now does.

“Can I go?” JD asks and scratches his knee.


As he walks back to the house, I look again at the wall. It has stood here for most of my life, day in and day out, while a giant fig tree has grown to overshadow it. I’d give anything now to have my childhood wish come true and travel back in time, not to hurt Mr Killian, but to help my father one Saturday when I’m fourteen and wanted to be elsewhere. When we take a break from our work, I’ll walk back to the house, like my son now does, and have a cool drink on the patio while my father smokes a cigarette. My mother will come to argue with my father about her plan for the wall, but I’ll carry on working without him. At sunset we’ll go outside to look at our wall together. My mother will be there and she’ll tell us how this is still wrong, and that, and my father will say that I mustn’t mind her and that he’s glad we did this today.


Say something about this post…


Mail me when new posts come out