Fearing death at the catered affair


AN ALUMNI HALL STORY


JULY 2004

“It is imperative, as Mr. Sabato has a live interview with CNN at 3:00 PM, that the meal be totally finished by 12:30 PM .The Vichyoissoise should be served no latter than 11:45 AM.”
A quarter century ago. Cultural anthropologist. Pulitzer Prize winner.

 “You did such a great job at our last event; I hate to rush such a special meal.”

 For a time, during the primacy of Freud, it was huge. Central thesis is one of the most disturbing analyses of human behavior ever set in print.

 “Mr. Sabato, strangely enough, will probably eat at Subway at Newcomb Hall. But we do have some vegetarians.”

 Everything we are, our personalities, our attitudes, our personalities, our very being, is an elaborate lie, a carefully constructed self-delusion constructed to avoid having to face a fact so terrifying it would drive us mad:

“Attention everyone, ‘slowly pour the ice out of the cups, pour in the Vichyoissoise, using these pitchers, and carefully wipe the edges’.”

 Not only are we certain to die, but death could come at any moment, followed by an eternity of nothingness.

“Okay, eight cups per tray…. let’s go!”

 Lower animals, blessedly unaware of their mortality, plod thoughtlessly through their lives on instinct alone.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, if you think the last election was close…hold on to your seats.”

Lacking their ignorance, we compensate by making ourselves stupid. We tranquilize ourselves with the trivial; we make friends, raise families, drink liquor, follow the Cavaliers, find comfort in religions promising eternal life, all which takes our mind off the potentially paralyzing truth.
“If I may draw your attention to the red and blue states on the screen behind me.”

 We deceive ourselves, not literally, but emotionally, that we are immortal.

 “Melvin on lobster salad, Mary on asparagus, Fernando on wild rice salad, Mario on garnish, Shelly, you wipe the plates, please.”

 Paranoiacs and depressives are in some ways the sanest among us; because their layer of denial is so fragile it fractures.

 “Eight plates per tray!”

 Most of us, though, are able to retain our sanity so long as our anxiety is held at bay, and our anxiety is held at bay so long as our bold illusion remains manageable.

“Looking at the red states…shall I dare mention Al Gore?”

 On some level, we attempt to smother our elemental fear of death with a grand lie.

 “Move! Eight Chocolate Tortes per tray. Mario on Raspberry Sauce, Shelly, wipe please.”

This is not exactly the anthem of romantic poets or motivational speakers.

 “For George Bush, if Iraq goes bad? Does anyone remember Jimmy Carter?”

 But no one has ever successfully challenged the central thesis.

“Perfect Ted, we are off to the Rotunda; we will see you at Thanksgiving.”














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