I'm a Stranger Here Myself (33 page)

If there is one thing that I trust I have made clear in these pages over the past many months, it is that I am not very good at technical stuff, even at the most basic level. For instance, I have only just learned, to my considerable astonishment, that what I had for years called “duck tape” is actually “duct tape.”

In my experience, you either know these things instinctively or you don’t. I don’t. What’s worse is that repairmen know that you don’t know. I can’t tell you the number of times I have taken a car to the shop because of some minor pinging noise in the engine and undergone an interview with a mechanic that has run something like this:

“What sort of revs have you been getting on your piston torsion?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you experienced any slippage on the disk platter?”

“I don’t know.”

He nods thoughtfully, taking this in. “And what sort of flexion ratios have you been getting on your axial carriage?”

“I don’t know.”

Another long, thoughtful nod. “Well, I can tell you without even looking,” he says, “that you’ve got a cracked combobulator on your manifold and a serious misalignment in your drive train.”

“You know that without even looking?”

“No, but I know that
you
don’t know—and boy is it going to cost you!”

Actually, they have never said that, at least not exactly, but you can see that that is what they are thinking.

So when, the other day, Mrs. Bryson announced to me that the washing machine repairman was due to call and, moreover, that I would have to deal with it because she was going out, I received the news with some foreboding.

“Please don’t leave it to me,” I begged.

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll realize in the first five minutes that I’m an idiot and ratchet up his prices accordingly.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said airily, but I knew in my heart that this was going to be one more in a long line of regrettable repair encounters.

When the repairman arrived, I showed him to the washing machine—I had made a special effort to find out where we keep it—and then retired to my desk, hoping that by some miracle he would make some small adjustment that would cost about fifty cents and then quietly let himself out, but secretly I knew that it wouldn’t be as simple as that because it never is.

Sure enough, about thirty minutes after he arrived he came to my study holding something metallic and oily.

“Well, I found what it is,” he said. “You’ve got a broken fly valve in your transverse adjudicator.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding gravely, as if that meant something to me.

“And I think you may have some seepage in your distributor sump.”

“Sounds expensive,” I said.

“Oh, you bet! I’m going to have to shut off the water.”

“OK.”

“So where’s your auxiliary shut-off valve?”

I looked at him dumbly, my heart simultaneously sinking and beating faster with a sense of panic at the thought of an impending humiliation. “The auxiliary shut-off valve?” I repeated, stalling for time.

“Yes.”

I cleared my throat. “I’m not entirely sure,” I said.

He cocked an eyebrow in a way that indicated that this was going to make a story for the boys back at the depot. “You’re not sure?” he said, a disbelieving smile tugging at his lips.

“Not entirely.”

“I see.” Not only would there be a story in this, but the extra charges would fund a very nice Christmas party, possibly with dancing girls.

It was clear from his expression that no householder in plumbing history had ever not known the location of his auxiliary shut-off valve. I couldn’t bear to be the first.

“The thing is, actually, we don’t have one,” I blurted.

“You don’t have one?”

I nodded with great sincerity. “Seems the builders forgot to put one in.”

“You don’t have an auxiliary shut-off valve?”

“Afraid not.” I made an expression to show that I was as incredulous about this as he was.

I had hoped that this would lead him to come up with some alternative way of making the repair, but this was a line of inquiry that he wouldn’t drop.

“Where’s your primary shut-off then?”

“They forgot that, too.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“Well, what would you do if you had a burst pipe?”

Now this I knew. First, I would hop around excitedly, going “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” as you might if, say, you looked down and unexpectedly found your legs on fire. Then I would try to stuff something like a sofa cushion into the leak, making it worse. Then I would hop about some more. Finally, I would dash out into the street and flag down passing vehicles. At about this point Mrs. Bryson would return home and sort everything out. That, at any rate, is how it has always been in the past when we have had a water-spraying event.

Obviously I couldn’t admit this to the repairman, so I tried a new tack and said: “Wait a minute. Did you say
auxiliary
shut-off valve? I thought you said
ancillary
shut-off valve.” I feigned a hearty chuckle at our comical misunderstanding. “No wonder you’re looking at me like that. It’s in the attic.” I started to lead the way.

He didn’t follow. “Are you sure? Normally they’re in the basement.”

“Yes, exactly—in the basement,” I said, immediately changing direction. I led him down to the basement. I should have thought of that in the first place. The basement was full of mysterious things—pipes and spigots and boilers—any one of which might be a shut-off valve. I trusted that he would spy it immediately, and I would be able to say: “That’s it. Yes, that’s the one.” But he didn’t do anything. He just looked to me for guidance.

“I think that’s it over there,” I said uncertainly and pointed to something on the wall.

“That’s the fusebox, Mr. Bryson.”

The trouble with lying, as our own dear president has learned, is that it nearly always catches up with you in spades. Eventually I broke down and admitted that I didn’t have the faintest idea where anything in my own house was, other than the refrigerator, television, and garage. As ever, I ended up seriously embarrassed and hundreds and hundreds of dollars out of pocket.

And the worst of it is, I didn’t even get invited to the Christmas party.

TO THE GRADUATING CLASS OF KIMBALL UNION ACADEMY, MERIDEN, NEW HAMPSHIRE

I have a son who is about your age, who in fact will be graduating from Hanover High School in a couple of weeks. When I told him, rather proudly, that I had been asked to give the commencement address here today he looked at me with that special incredulous expression young people are so good at and said: “
You?
Dad, you don’t even know how to turn off the back windshield wiper on the car.”

And it’s a fair point. I don’t know how to turn off the back wiper on our car, and I probably never will. There are lots of things I don’t know. I’m kind of an idiot and there is no sense denying it.

Nonetheless I have done one thing that neither my son nor any of you graduating seniors have yet done. I have survived twenty-eight years after high school. And, like anyone who has reached my time of life, I have learned a thing or two.

I’ve learned that if you touch a surface to see if it is hot, it will be. I’ve learned that the best way to determine if a pen will leak is to stick it in the pocket of your best pants. I’ve learned that it is seldom a good idea to take clothing off over your head while riding a bicycle. And I have learned that nearly all small animals want to bite me and always will.

I have learned all these things through a long process of trial and error, and so I feel I have acquired a kind of wisdom—the kind that comes from doing foolish things over and over again until it hurts so much you stop. It’s not perhaps the most efficient way of acquiring knowledge, but it works and it does at least give you some interesting scars to show at parties.

Now all of this is a somewhat hesitant way of coming around to my main point, which is that I am required by long tradition to give you some advice that will inspire you to go out and lead wholesome and productive lives, which I assume you were intending to do anyway. I’m very honored to have that opportunity.

With that in mind, I would like to offer ten very small, simple observations—passing thoughts really—which I hope will be of some use to you in the years ahead. In no particular order, they are:

1.
Take a moment from time to time to remember that you are alive. I know this sounds a trifle obvious, but it is amazing how little time we take to remark upon this singular and gratifying fact. By the most astounding stroke of luck an infinitesimal portion of all the matter in the universe came together to create you and for the tiniest moment in the great span of eternity you have the incomparable privilege to exist.

For endless eons there was no you. Before you know it, you will cease to be again. And in between you have this wonderful opportunity to see and feel and think and do. Whatever else you do with your life, nothing will remotely compare with the incredible accomplishment of having managed to get yourself born. Congratulations. Well done. You really are special.

2.
But not that special. There are five billion other people on this planet, every one of them just as important, just as central to the great scheme of things, as you are. Don’t ever make the horrible, unworthy mistake of thinking yourself more vital and significant than anyone else. Nearly all the people you encounter in life merit your consideration. Many of them will be there to help you—to deliver your pizza, bag your groceries, clean up the motel room you have made such a lavish mess of. If you are not in the habit of being extremely nice to these people, then get in the habit now.

Millions more people, most of whom you will never meet or even see, won’t help you, indeed can’t help you, may not even be able to help themselves. They deserve your compassion. We live in a sadly heartless age, when we seem to have less and less space in our consciences and our pocketbooks for the poor and lame and dispossessed, particularly those in faroff lands. I am making it your assignment to do something about it.

3.
Don’t ever do anything on principle alone. If you haven’t got a better reason for doing something other than the principle of the thing, then don’t do it.

4.
Whatever it is you want to do in life, do it. If you aspire to be a celebrated ballerina or an Olympic swimmer or to sing at Carnegie Hall, or whatever, go for it. Even though everyone is tactfully pointing out that you can’t sing a note or that no one has ever won the 100-meter dash with a personal best time of seventy-four seconds, do it anyway. There is nothing worse than getting to my age and saying, “I could have played second base for the Boston Red Sox but my dad wanted me to study law.” Tell your dad to study law. You go and climb Everest.

5.
Don’t make the extremely foolish mistake of thinking that winning is everything. If there is one person that I would really like to smack, it is the person who said, “Winning is not the main thing. It’s the only thing.” That’s awful. Taking part is the main thing. Doing your best is the main thing. There is no shame in not winning. The shame is in not trying to win, which is of course another matter altogether. Above all, be gracious in defeat. Believe me, you’ll get plenty of chances to put this into practice, so you might as well start working on it now.

6.
Don’t cheat. It’s not worth it. Don’t cheat on tests, don’t cheat on your taxes, don’t cheat on your partner, don’t cheat at Monopoly, don’t cheat at anything. It is often said that cheaters never prosper. In my experience, cheaters generally do prosper. But they also nearly always get caught in the end. Cheating is simply not worth it. It’s as simple as that.

7.
Strive to be modest. It is much more becoming, believe me. People are always more impressed if they find out independently that you won the Nobel Prize than if you wear it around your neck on a ribbon.

8.
Always buy my books, in hardback, as soon as they come out.

9.
Be happy. It’s not that hard. You have a million things to be happy about. You are bright and young and enormously good-looking—I can see that from here. You have your whole life ahead of you. But here’s the thing to remember. You will
always
have your whole life ahead of you. That never stops and you shouldn’t forget it.

10.
Finally—and if you remember nothing else from what is said here today, remember this—if you are ever called upon to speak in public, keep your remarks brief. Thank you very much.

(And a bonus point for readers: If you write for a living, never hesitate to recycle material.)