A Well-Planned Future
Daily Observer
Pidgy Schnook was an amiable house guest. While he was trying to “get it all together”
which he did by spending long hours in bed and longer hours in front of the
television screen, he did rouse himself enough to do housework and generally
neat up the place. His getting bounced
from Prep School for smoking pot didn’t upset him as much as it did Lapius. “What the
hell,” he said, “everybody does it, and besides you drink alcohol.”
“That’s
not the point,” Lapius said, “I have my career. Alcohol didn’t interfere with it. It was momentary effects. It doesn’t leave me boggle-eyed the following
day. I only have one drink at night
after office hours…. But with pot, I’ve
seen the results. It leaves kids
somewhat obtunded for a day or two. But
that’s not the point. The point is
neither pot nor alcohol. No doubt,
someday pot will be legal. The main
question, Pidgy, is what are you going to do
now? What kind of a
career are you going to carve out for yourself?”
“I
haven’t thought about it.”
“At
one time you wanted to be a doctor.”
“I
don’t think that would be good for me, Uncle Simon. It doesn’t give me pleasure.”
“Pleasure,”
Yelped Lapius, “What does pleasure
have to do with it?”
“Well,
I mean you have to like what you are doing, don’t you, Uncle Simon? I mean, you like being a doctor.”
‘Of course. But I
didn’t really like studying to be a doctor.
It was very difficult. I didn’t
like working as an intern for 25 dollars a month. And I didn’t like nor do I like being awake
all night, exhausted all the time, or being overwhelmed with responsibilities
that sometimes I didn’t feel equal to.
Pleasure isn’t the criterion. The
question is what does the path you follow lead to? Pleasure, perhaps, but actually the word is
satisfaction. There is a vast difference
between pleasure and satisfaction.
That’s what I would like you to understand.”
“Okay,
I understand,” Pidgy answered, looking back at his
copy of Mad Magazine.
“Put
that infernal magazine down, Pidgy, I want to talk to
you,” Pidgy reluctantly laid the copy aside, leaned
back, closed his eyes and prepared to listen.
“The
purpose of a career, young man, is fundamentally to provide yourself with the
talent to be able to feed yourself and your family.”
“But
Uncle Simon, things are different today.
After all, even the interns get 10,000 dollars a year and the garbage
men get $18,000 a year. What difference
does it make what I do for a living? I
think maybe I should join a union.”
“Even
to do that you will have to learn how to saw a piece of wood or lay a brick,
wouldn’t you think, Pidgy?”
“I
guess so.”
“Don’t
you think it possible that if you continued your schooling you might find a
career that, although it would be difficult to achieve, might keep your
interest; that although you might not get pleasure in pursuing it – it might
mean a lot of hard work which, I have observed, you seem allergic to, it might
yield compensatory gratification when you are older.”
“That
could be, Uncle Simon. But to tell you
the truth I like to read a lot. And I
like to listen to music, and there are lots of things that I do that give me pleasure
all the time, so why push myself for a career.
Our generation is different than yours.
Our perception of life is different.”
“But
Pidgy,” Lapius asked, an
edge of exasperation in his voice, “what do you intend to do for a living?”
“I
have never had trouble getting fed yet,” Pidgy
answered, “I mean don’t blame me if my parents are affluent.”
“But
they might not always be. Has that
thought entered your beclouded mind?”
“Well,
then I can get married.”
“Married?” The thought always sent a shudder through the
massive frame of Lapius. “Then you would quadruple your
responsibilities. What would do if you
got married?”
“I
guess the same thing I do here. I can
get the housework done in about an hour or so and the rest of the day is my
own.”
‘But egad, Pidgy. You would have to earn a living, wouldn’t
you?”
Pidgy lay back and stared at the ceiling. “No, I wouldn’t have to earn a living. Not if I married a doctor, or a lawyer, that
is.”