I'm doing 42 things
“Doc was changing in spite of himself, in spite of the prayers of his friends, in spite of his own knowledge. And why not? Men do change, and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at down, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass. Change may be announced by a small ache, so that you think you’re catching cold. Or you may feel a faint disgust for something you loved yesterday. It may even take the form of a hunger that peanuts will not satisfy. Isn’t overeating said to be one of the strongest symptoms of discontent? And isn’t discontent the lever of change?
Befote the war Doc had lived a benign and pleasant life, which aroused envy in some gnat-bitten men. Doc made a living, as good a living as needed or wanted, by collecting and preserving various marine animals and selling them to schools, colleges, and museums. He was able to turn afable and uncritical eyes on a world full of excitement. He combined the beauty of the sea with man’s loveliest achievement- music. Through his superb phonograph he could hear the angelic voice of the Sistine Choir and could wander half lost in the exquisite masses of William Byrd. He believed there were two human achievements that towered above all others: the Faust of Goethe and the Art of the Fugue of J. S. Bach. Doc was never bored. He was beloved and praised on by his friends, and this contented him. For he remembered the words of Diamond Jim Brady who, when told that his friends were making suckers of him, remarked, “It’s fun to be a sucker-if you can afford it”. Doc could afford it. He had not the vanity which makes men try to be smart.
Doc’s natual admiration and desire for women had always been satisfied by women themselves. He had few responsibilities except to be a kindly, generous, and amused man. And these he did not find difficult. All in all, he had always been a fulfilled and contented man. A specimen so rare aroused yearning in other men, for how few men like their work, their lives- how very few men like themselves. Doc liked himself, not in an adulatory sense, but just as he would have liked anyone else. Being at ease with himself put him at ease with the world.
In the Army there had been times when he longed for his music, for his little animals, and for the peace and interest of his laboratory. Coming home, forcing open the water-swollen door, was a pleasure and a pain to him. He sighed as he looked at his bookshelves. It took him ten minutes too decide which record to play first.. And then the past was gone and he was faced with the future. Old Jingleballicks had kept the little bussiness going in a manner even more inefficent that Doc had and then had left it to founder. The stocks of preserved animls were depleted. The bussiness contacts had lapsed. The bank that held his mortgage was no longer checked by patriotism. There was some question whether Doc could ever build back his marginal bussiness. In the old days he would have forgotten such considerations in multiple pleasures land interests. Now discontent nibbled at him- not painfully, but constantly.
Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hungers gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there’s time, the bastard Time. The end of life is now not so terrible far away- you can see it the way you see the finish line when you come into the stretch- and your mind says, “Have I worked enough? Have I eaten enough? Have I loved enough?” . All of these, of course, are the foundation of man’s greatest curse, and foundation of man’s greatest curse, and perhaps his greastest glory. “What has my life meant so far, and what can it mean in the time left to me?” And now we’re coming to the wicked, poisoned dart:” What have I contributed in the Great Ledger? What am I worth?”
And this isn’t vanity or ambition. Men seem to be born with a debt they can never pay no matter how hard they try. It piles up ahead of them. Man owes something to man. If he ignores the debt it poisons him, and if he tries to make payments the debt only increases, and the quality of his gift is the measure of the man.
Doc’s greatest talent had been his sense of paying as he went. The finish line had meant nothing to him except that he had wanted to crowd more living into te stretch. Each day ended with its night, each thought with its conclusion; and every morning a new freedom arose over the eastern mountains and lighted the world. There had never been any reason to suppose it would be otherwise. People made pilgrimages to the laboratory to bask in Doc’ s designed and lovely purposelessness. For, what can a man accomplish that has not been done a million times before? What can he say that he willl not find in Lao-Tse or the Bhagavadgita or the Prophet Isaiah? It is better to sit in appreciative contemplation of a world in which beauty is eternally supported on a foundation of ugliness: cut out the support, and beauty will sink from sight. It was a good thing Doc had, and many people wished they had it too.
But now the worm of discontent was gnawing at him. Maybe it was the beginning of Doc’s middle age that caused it-glands slackening their flow,skin losing its bloom, taste buds weakening, eyes not so penetrating, and hearing dulled a little. Or it might have been the new emptiness of Cannery Row- the silent machines, the rusting metal. Deep in himself Doc felt a failure. But he was a resonably realistic man. He had his eyes examined, his teeth X-rayed. Dr. Horase Dormody went over him and discovered no secret focus of infection to cause the restlessness. And so Doc threw himself into his work, hoping, the way a man will, to smother the unease with weariness. He collected, preserved, injected until his stock shelves were crowded again. New generations of cotton rats crawled on the wire netting of the cages, And four new rattlesnakes abandoned themselves to a life of captivity and ease.
But the discontent was still there. The pains that came to Doc were like a stir of uneasiness or the flich of a skipped heartbeat. Whisky lost its sharp delight and the first long pull of beer from a frosty glass was not the joy it had been. He stopped listening in the middle of an extended story. He was not genuinely glad to see a friend. And sometimes, starting to turn over a big rock in the Great Tide Pool- a rock under which he knew there would be a community of frantic animals- he would drop the rock back in place and stand, hands on hips, looking off to sea, where the round clouds piled up white with pink and black edges. –and he would be thinking, What am I thinking? What do I want? Where do I want to go? There would be wonder in him, and a little impatience, as though he stood outside and looked in on himself through a glass shell. And he would be consciuos of a tone within himself, or severeal tones, as though he heard music distantly.
Or it might be this way. In the late night Doc might be working at his old and battered microscope, delicately arranging plankton on a slide, moving them with a thread of glass. And there would be three voices singing in him, all singing together. The top voice of his thinking mind would sing “ What lovely particles, neither plant nor animal but somehow both- the resevoir of all the life in the world, the base suply of food for everyone. If all of these should die, every other living thing might well die as a consequence”, The lower voice of his feeling mind would be singing “ What are you looking for, little man? Is it yourself you’re trying to identify?Are you looking at little things to avoid big things?” And the third voice, which came from his marrow, would sing, “_Loneseme! Lonesome! What good is it? Who benefits? Thought is the evasión of feeling. You’re only walling up the leaking loneliness”.
