IIF (Is-It-Fiction?): The Rick Ingram story
A client came into my office today. But I can't say more about the client, since NDAs limits the hell out of me. Somehow most of my clients also sign NDAs, and invariably they violate them every-time they open their mouth in my office. NDAs don't mean shit in my office, but surprisingly the ones who don't respect them often demand me to respect their privacy by forcing me to confidentiality. It's a vicious cycle of entertainment, disappointment, and disgust. The same people who end up being dishonest are the ones who require even more security than those who are just concerned about everyday life. I have never seen anyone else in such a prison, outside of those in real ones.
Today's client confronted me with Its pain. I was told, albeit indirectly, that pain levels vary for everyone, and everyone naturally does their best to reduce pain as much as possible. No shit.
The question I asked, in my head, was "How does it seem 'natural'? When one lies one's way through a painful experience to reduce pain? Would not the 'ideal' outcome then become a lie?"
"Do you regret what you did?""No." I heard without any delay.
"What do you think of what you did up until this point?"
"I made a mistake, okay?" The creature was defensive.
"Do you know who you are?"
"I'm still trying to figure that out." There was a delay.
"Do you know what you want?"
"I'm still trying to figure that out." Again a delay.
"Then how can you have honesty with your word?"
"It's all I can do."
"Can is a choice. I can ride a bicycle, but I am not at this moment. You have a choice."
"But I can't take the pain."
Maybe I'm too biased. I thought privately. Yet, you forget that you brought this on yourself intentionally.
You wanted something, and now you don't want to pay for it.
And you continue lying.
You let fear take over.
You let greed take over.
And now you'll let your heart feel game-over.
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| [to be...] KEPT UNTIL NEEDED OR SOLD |
I shook my head inside it, knowing there is no "GET OUT OF JAIL FREE" card. I watched as a disgusting and self-predicted coldness, which the client once brought as a personal observation, begin to rise over Its soul. I was frustrated, disappointed, and disgusted. I couldn't respect that, I couldn't jump into a pit with that just to shove them out. Even though I wanted to do that. But I wasn't in a position where whatever I did in regards to saving the client would be respected or reciprocated on the same level. The client wouldn't know how to respect personal salvation or absolution, moreover I wasn't sure if It wanted that to begin with.
It concluded Its awkward behavior by describing how It was sorry for making things "difficult," without actually realizing the appropriate verb in this scenario should be "worse."
Whatever progress I thought was made with It, was either shit on, vomited on, or kicked. How did I feel about It? What else could I have felt after so much, given my position?!
How did I really feel?
I felt like It makes me regret having It as my client, because It takes a step back from what I consider to be important and then It shits all over the important work It's been working on with me. "Because [It's] in pain." Yet, It covers Its own shit with lies and pig vomit. How does THAT make me feel? Used, beat down. And worse, left for emotional dead. Only to be poked with by a stick. I watched It as It side-stepped everything of moral or ethical integrity. "It can't have the best of both worlds." I thought for the umpteenth time. And of course, I've told It that endlessly.
After I kicked the client out I called Mose. He brought over the finest bourbon his money could afford, which was fine because he's employed by me. Albeit his finest happens to remind me of my poorest, but I don't mind too much. Progress had been made earlier in the day with two other clients, so again, I didn't mind too much.
I could hear through another part of my mind singing a song I couldn't recall where I had heard it from. It's funny, because most of my "knowledge" of music is from riding around in cabs. You hear at lot of music that way.
The lyrics came back to me,
Black heart dead soulApathy and miseryLoss of controlAny of the above would describe meI hate being humanAll I do is fuck everything upSomeone just please put a gun to my head
I just don't care anymoreI'm broken tired and soreI just don't care anymoreFrom my black heart
Faceless humansJust want to get inside meShut down long agoNot even the closest know meLike a leper everything I touchRots dies then turns to dustEveryone should just stay away from me
I just don't care anymoreI'm broken tired and soreI just don't care anymoreFrom my black heart
Such happy lyrics. I mused quietly.
"Mose, pour one for yourself too. I'm not doing this alone y'know?"
"Way ahead of you." he quipped at me. I could tell that the first tumbler was going to be his. By the amount alone, I could only imagine that his problems were worse than my own.
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