Living with machines is much easier then living with people.  I’ve done it both ways.  I know.  I suppose it isn’t really any big secret, just something that nobody really cares to think about or admit.  I mean, can you imagine the tension here last night if I’d actually invited a living, breathing human over to share a meal, which ends up being what a DVD is to a DVD player.  Something to snack on.  So, for imagination’s sake, let’s just say that I’ve invited over a machine I met, who we’ll call D - short, of course, for DVD Player.

First, the night’s cinematic torture session would have been like sitting down to a meal that looks good but tastes wrong from the very first bite.  D and I would have sat across the table from each other, smiling politely each time our eyes met, pretending to enjoy the meal when in fact we both knew it was the most vile thing ever to cross our lips.  We would both chew as slowly as humanly possible (or in my date’s case - machinely possible), hoping somehow that our tastebuds would be tricked into thinking that our mouth’s were empty and their work done.

Politeness is the real enemy, you see.  It’s the thing that keeps us smiling and chewing, and gives us all that look of being graciously entertained.  I would have no way of knowing (having not dated in many, many years), that politeness, a real compass when it comes to navigating the human world, is of little use when dining with a machine.  And D, the poor thing, having just arrived in this country and new to dating herself, would have no way of knowing that politeness can be a tool that humans switch on and off on a whim.

It’s politeness that keeps us in our seats for half the movie, squirming all the time.  And politeness again when I pretend to look away as D turns and spits the half-chewed disk into her napkin.  It’s an awkward moment.  I wonder if I should reach out for her hand, but think, What about the napkin?  What if I grab that instead? My politeness has me cornered. 

“How’s your meal?” It’s the only thing I can think to say.  “Everything okay?”
“Oh perfect.  Everything is just perfect,” she’d say, hiding the napkin in her lap.
“Oh good.  Then how about a little desert?”
“No, no, no, no.  I think you’ve done quite enough tonight already.”
“It’s O Brother, Where Art Thou?,” I say in my best teasing voice.
“Oh really?  Well okay.  How can I resist that?”

I get up to get the desert and catch a glimpse of her emptying her napkin into the case.  Suddenly, everything is just fine.  I’ll worry about what to tell Blockbuster later.

You see, with machines, unlike with people, the night can always be saved.

The two boys are back together, despite the combined efforts of Mother Nature and a slow-leak rear tire that is beginning to get on my nerves.  Call me demanding, but I like a tire that can hold its breath for 50,000 miles without whining.  This consistent I need air attitude is a bit much, forcing me to decide every two days whether to waste two minutes stopping for air or forty-five minutes seeking more thorough treatment.  So far, two minutes always wins.

The roads were nothing more then a spiderweb of ice rinks, and the van, even after thirty minutes of warming up and shaking the ice from its windows, was proving to be no skater.  The trip had mishap written all over it, so I just kept my mouth shut as we began a wild slide that only ended when the two of us were sitting side by side in a restaurant, eating greasy hamburgers for lunch.  Who am I to argue with destiny?

“The fries need more salt,” my son says.  I almost tell him to just rub them around on his greasy fingers, which already have enough salt stuck on them to season every spud in Idaho.  But I see he’s smiling.  He’s only joking, attempting to hone his budding sarcasm skills.

I did have an opportunity, while we were ordering, to come up with a new theory.  Or maybe it’s no theory at all, but just a reflection.  I’ll let others decide.

While I waited for my son to make up his mind, I found my gaze drifting away from the gigantic hamburger pictures and the faux shakes, spinning on strings all around my head.  And then, through the slightly hazy fog of grease, I spotted a monitor near the end of the counter.  It seems I’m on television.

And suddenly it’s time for theory.  Or reflection.  It’s simple.  If you take any unshaven man in a bulky jacket and ski cap, lean him on the counter of any restuarant, convenience store, or gas station, and then play this image on a television mounted from a ceiling, you will reduce that man into looking exactly like a desperate, potentially armed felon.

It must be some sort of translation error that happens along the way.  Something must get distorted somewhere between here and there.  I don’t think I look like a felon in real life, but I sure did just then.  Was it the clothing?  No, they seemed normal.  My facial appearance?  Couldn’t be, you could hardly see my face at all (which did seem cleverly felon-like of me, I thought, and a possible flaw in my theory).  Maybe it was based purely on location.  Hmmmm.  I wanted to take off my coat and hat and stick them on the next guy in line, just to give it a test.  In the name of science and learning and higher understanding.  All that stuff.  But I held back, not wanting the challenge of having to explain myself to not only the man, but my son, who would surely wonder what the hell? Or whatever the eight year old equivalent is.

Who am I to fool around with the future of the scouting program?  It just doesn’t seem right.  An organization so rich in history shouldn’t have to suffer an embarrassing coup d’etat attempt from a troop of hastily organized magicians.  If I do nothing, everyone prospers.  The scouts keep their uniforms and their pledges, and JK Rowling keeps her hoards of cape wearing followers.  What would I do with so many kids hounding me anyway?  Sounds like a horrible imposition.  Can you imagine the mail?!  And between you and me, I’m not sure my magic would hold up well under such a load.  I might be labeled charlatan, driven from town by a mob of angry, plastic wand waving children.  The scouts, no doubt, would assist by directing traffic.

It’s not that the idea isn’t a good one.  I’m just not the man for the job.  As much as I hate to admit it, a few of my leadership skills leave something to be desired.  More specifically: I was never a very good scout.  I joined the ranks, but never thrived.  I fell for every snipe hunt.  My matches would never light.  My jackknife blade snapped in two.  But I liked scouting, despite the setbacks.  When my hat would drop through the hole in the outhouse, I tried to smile.  And when every hike led straight into the heart of a poison ivy patch, I remembered that it would all be over soon enough.  I assured myself with the fact that I was only a Tenderfoot, that honorary rank given to each and every scout upon slipping into the uniform.  How could I possibly be expected to know all these things?  I would remain a Tenderfoot my entire tour of duty.

One of the funny things about being a man is that all of this stuff that crams into our heads doesn’t really begin to work its way back out for at least twenty-five years.  There’s this unexplainable gap between “remembering” and “knowing”, like converting memories into knowledge is some sort of arduous challenge.  For example:  I have always remembered the struggles of scouting, but was never able to use these memories in any timely manner.  The ground was literally thick with subtle clues - Structured life is not for you, young Tenderfoot. And other clues, not so subtle - Military life disagrees with your temperament.  Be not a fool.  Walk another path. I saw the clues.  I even read the clues.  But it wouldn’t be until much later that I knew the clues.  Upon turning eighteen I would hike directly into the military like it was the biggest patch of poison ivy in the woods.  But that’s a different story, for a different time.

Maybe if I’d only had the stern, knowledgeable, guiding hand of Lord Baden-Powell, Scouting’s founding father, pointing me in the right direction.  Maybe then life wouldn’t have been so oblivious.  Surely he would have instructed me in the proper technics of understanding life’s direction.  I mean, just look at him, shaping those boys right up.

I first met Economic Recovery while walking along the edge of the dump near Bay Lake, Minnesota.  My grandma and I were there together, looking for arrowheads.  She was still young then, as grandma’s go, and seemed to scamper up and down the mounds of earth as easily as I did.  But I didn’t really see that then.  Back then, all I knew was that for some mysterious Indian reason, she would find arrowheads and I would not.  It’s hard for a boy to be bested by his grandma.

I tried to sneak off and find my own secret spot.  Some place that was fresh and full of arrowheads.  Some place that grandma hadn’t been, and that was when I spotted the other woman, walking right at me with huge, long steps.  She seemed to take no notice of the dump at all, and I thought she might actually not see me.  Maybe she’s lost, or blind, or both, I thought.  Maybe she wants to scare me off or thinks I’m just another piece of trash, thrown out for the crows to peck at.

The woman stopped directly in front of me, hands on her hips, and stared at me through icy blue eyes.  I liked her immediately.

“We’re looking for arrowheads,” I told the woman with childlike boldness.

“No you’re not.  You’re looking for me,” she replied.  She handed me an arrowhead, then slipped past me, walking away as quickly as she had come.  At the time, I had no idea who it was I had just met.  Her statement had been a curious one, no doubt, but I had my arrowhead and my curiosity soon disappeared.  Suddenly I felt worthy of my grandma, whose pockets, I knew, would be bulging with arrowheads by now.  I rushed off in search of her.

Summer at grandma’s meant being surrounded by old people, so naturally my arrowhead became my new best friend.  I would carry it around in my pocket, reaching down constantly to reassure myself it was still there.  I would take it out, making up games like The Last of the Mohicans.  I convinced a little girl to play spin the arrowhead, but all we did was take turns spinning it, not really knowing what else to do.  I would take it out and put it back and take it out so many times that the pocket wore out on my jeans.  I would show it to everyone, even if they’d already seen it a hundred times.  Sometimes I would pretend to cry and tell grandma that I’d lost it, and then watch them search all over the house.  I’d sometimes sneak out late at night, after everyone was asleep, and dance around in the moonlight with my arrowhead.  Once, a stray dog wandered up while I was dancing and sniffed my leg.  I held out the arrowhead and he licked it, which I knew was sure to be good luck.

My imagination rolled along so well that summer that I completely forgot about how I’d come to own such a fine arrowhead.  The strange and confusing woman was completely gone from my mind.  Instead of her, I would make myself the hero, the lover, the explorer and warrior and brave archeologist who unearthed the past and made all things possible.  The world revolved around me, and for one summer, I revolved around the arrowhead.

The summer passed quickly.  Grandma packed me up and put me on a bus and sent me flying into the next fifteen years.  I’m sure she hugged me many more times before she died, but for some reason, I only remember that one particular hug.  Maybe it was the arrowhead, sitting in my pocket, ready for its bus ride, that helped make everything so vivid.

But my fascination for arrowheads, like the memory of my grandma’s hugs, would fade over the years, and slowly be replaced by something else.  Arrowheads had been fun to search for because you didn’t see them everywhere.  They had been elusive and mysterious, something you kicked up in the dirt.  Fun for kids.

Money, on the other hand, was incredible.  I suddenly realized that money was all over the place, and just like arrowheads, you couldn’t seem to get your hands on enough of it.  I began to realize that wallets everywhere were filled with the stuff.  I eyed women’s purses and imagined the crisp, fresh bills.  I watched four ton, steel trucks pull up next to the bank, filled with money, and then sat amazed as armed men, whose only job it was to protect the money delivered the money into buildings filled with people whose only job was to count the money.  Banks seemed like churches, where someone who loved money might go to worship.  I started a savings account and pretended I was depositing my soul.  I became a regular at the local coin shop - Coins! Coins! Coins!  I could tell you how many dimes were minted in 1970 and the number of serrations on the edge of a quarter.  I would count dollar bills in my head to fall asleep at night, and then dream that God would come to me:

“How high can you count, my son?” he’s ask.  He’d take out his wallet and run his thumb through a stack of bills that, as far as I could tell, stretched to eternity.

“All the way, God!” I’d shout.  “All the way!” I’d wake up happy and refreshed, knowing that God obviously had big plans for me.