That Numbskull Moment
How to Avoid It, With a Reference to Vladimir Putin
This prose poem is about what happens when numbskulls in power make the wrong decisions:
Maiden Voyage
“The ocean undulating like an experienced lover.” “Dark sad clouds wanting to merge and pleasure themselves.” “The sunrise craving to slip into something sexy.” All three, dumb expressions repeating themselves in my head like the rat-a-tat-tat of a claw hammer. I’m the last living passenger on this “maiden” voyage, which, ironically, included only men. The cattle, sick of being sacrificed, had jumped overboard, so the crew was forced to eat each other. The last mariner, mad from guilt and shame, voluntarily walked the plank to the great applause of perched seagulls, while a billionaire in a cowboy hat floated weightlessly in space, too stupid to realize he’d eventually have to land. Meanwhile, I’m leaning over the bow, grasping a bouquet of dead roses in my sunburnt hands. I’m waiting for that previously promised maiden to present herself and prove that she was more than just a virus-driven fever dream. I’m praying for a new Garden of Delights and Disappointments to suddenly appear on the horizon. A place where we can happily repopulate, knowing we will be dead long before our watered-down genes ruin it again.
My wife, youngest son, and I just moved. In fact, we downsized in an attempt not to be house poor. We were living in a 3000-square-foot home that was being reconstructed more than the bones, muscles, and sagging jowls of an aging action hero, and which cost more to heat than the local cavernous Episcopal cathedral. It was an interesting experience patching up that old house for three months before letting a bunch of strangers with far more money than me wander around and criticize my work. I repaired a drop ceiling, then painted some rooms. I sanded a wood store, and then painted some more rooms. I spent the afternoon with a family of mice underneath an ancient hot tub trying to fix a leak, and then, yes, painted a few more rooms . . .
After this experience, I have some valuable advice for those of you who plan to move.
Don’t.
I have even better advice for those of you thinking of downsizing and who have a spouse who would rather lose a limb than surrender a piano that hasn’t been played in fifty years.
Forget it. Do anything else. Take up blues harmonica or do research on that toe fungus that just won’t go away.
But what I really want to talk about are the boneheads I had contact with during this move.
The plumber who never showed up.
The bricklayer who, for no apparent reason, decided to add $400 to the bill and who, when I politely refused to pay, said, “But I thought you liked me.” “I do like you,” I replied, but all I wanted was a bricklayer. I have enough friends.”
Let’s not forget the electrician who spent half his time demonizing Democrats and the liberal media and who truly believed that Donald Trump was the Son of Man. Not the Son of God, but the Son of Man. What the hell is the Son of Man? But at least he showed up and did good work before I sent him packing, offered him the name of a good shrink, and finished the job myself.
And, finally, there was the guy we bought our new house from, who congratulated himself for leaving us the tractor mower, and for having the place freshly painted, and for getting rid of all the empty or partially empty cans of paint.
It seems he believed that following normal decent buying-and-selling protocols made him eligible for sainthood, even though it ended up that the tractor had a flat tire, a broken belt, and cracked accessories; the interior of the house appeared to have been painted by six middle-grade boys on a Twinkie and Red Bull high; and, a week after our move, I discovered a broken dehumidifier and rusty refrigerator (both of which were supposed to be removed) hidden behind an old woodshed. I also found all those empty and half-empty paint cans tucked away in a remote corner of a basement closet.
So what’s my point?
My point is that this guy must have known he was being a creep as he made his decisions, but he just didn’t give a damn. He must have said to himself, “A decent person would fix the tractor, hire professional painters, and clean out the house, as promised, but what the hell?”
I’m interested in this moment when people have to decide whether to do the right or wrong thing, and choose the latter, and I hereby name this lapse in conscience “The Numbskull Moment.”
It’s the perfect phrase because it suggests a temporary or permanent moral brain freeze of the part of one’s brain responsible for common decency. Sometimes it is a temporary moral lapse, but for some people it’s a permanent disability, cultivated over a lifetime of making contemptible choices. These are the people who cause a lot of trouble. They can be a nuisance, like the guy I bought our new house from, or they can be downright dangerous.
For example:
Shortly after my divorce, broke and raising a three-year-old three days a week, I had to buy a new car, which, for me, meant buying a very old car. I finally came upon a beat-up orange Volvo station wagon with an attitude. It resembled Mick Jagger—so ugly it was good-looking. I was leery of the cost of repairing such a vehicle because Volvo mechanics and parts are expensive. But just as I was ready to walk away from the deal, my toddler’s face lit up and he said, “That’s the Pumpkin Car.” I looked at the car, I looked at my son’s face, and then I took out my checkbook. But I also bought it because I felt bad for the guy selling it. He had cancer and was given six months to live, which was one reason he was selling the car.
So I took it for a spin, and, surprisingly, it drove well. Its only drawback was the peppermint smell of three Little Trees hanging from the rearview mirror. But so what? I could just take them out. Which I immediately did. Two weeks later, I was driving with my son, and couldn’t get the smell of gas out of my nostrils, so I brought the car to my mechanic, only to discover that the gas tank had a crack in it and would cost $1000 to repair, which, at that time, I didn’t have. “It’s a good thing you brought it in,” he said. “If anyone had lit up a blunt in the front seat, Boom!” So I got it fixed, then called the previous owner to complain. I asked him if he knew about the crack. “Yes,” he said. “Then I think you should pay to fix it,” I replied. “Sorry,” he said, “but business is business.” “But you’re dying,” I said. “I mean, what are you going to say to God when He asks why you risked blowing up a depressed divorced dad and his toddler for a lousy $1000?” There was a moment of silence, and I imagined him experiencing that holy second of self-examination when one becomes contrite. I waited for him to fall to his knees and begin to weep. I waited for him to ask me for forgiveness, But all he said was, “Business is business.”
In his case, it would be fair to say that the “numbness” of his “Numbskull Moment” had also spread to his heart, which brings us to the worst Numbskull Moment of the 21st century, courtesy of Vladimir Putin.
Imagine Mr. Putin sitting in some Moscow mansion as the snow falls. A fire is raging across from him. He’s wearing white silk pajama bottoms imprinted with intimidating red hammers and sickles. He has his shirt off and is surrounded by five or six scantily clad women and an assortment of sycophants. And then, right as he is about to slurp vodka from his favorite mug fashioned in the image of Stalin’s head, he thinks. “I wonder what the world would do if I invaded Ukraine.” He mulls this over. It is indeed doable. In fact, anything he wants is doable. But somewhere an uplifting childhood memory is invading his consciousness—a memory that suggests all human life is sacred and must be cherished. And he realizes that an attack on Ukraine would be preposterous, not to mention, inhumane. At this moment, dear friends, he still has an opportunity to drink his vodka, flex his pectorals, and have a decadent dictatorial evening. But, no. Instead, drenched in the testosterone of his egoism, he experiences “One of the Biggest Numbskull Moments” of the last fifty years–a moment that has the possibility of ending with World War III.
I would argue that all of the above “numbskull moments,” both big and small, are becoming more common.
And dangerous.
And that they are mostly a male phenomenon.
Something I will obsess on endlessly in these essays . . .
You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com
His most recent book of prose poems is Old Man Howling at the Moon
His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories