22F – Carpe Diem

Today, I have a spring in my step. I know, can you believe it? Me, of all people. I’m intoxicated, drunk on a sense of purpose. And you know why?

I’ve been surrounded by the most depressing, morbid bastards for such a long time. The quiet, awkward ones that don’t know what to say to you. Won’t even look you in the eye. And they’re nothing compared to the totally upbeat, never say die, I believe in you types. Ready to tell you some unbelievable crap, about self-worth, and belief, and love, and the power of the mind. And they come armed – out of nowhere, they produce books. Thousands of books. Entire libraries. Popular titles that focus your internal energies and harness your positivity and embrace your spirit animal or something. It’s like they’ve all subscribed to some literary pyramid-scheme, dooming them to push books on hapless patients for all eternity.

Hang on a second. See that woman over there? Didn’t she just drop something? Let me just go see if I can help out.

No. She’s fine on her own. She doesn’t need me.

Anyway, yeah, these people will go on and on, and really – I just didn’t need it. I was quite comfortable where I was. Well, comfortable for me. For someone who regularly spends nights in screaming pain, drenched in sweat. For someone looking down the barrel of extended hospital visits, and tests, and more tests. For someone dealing with an ever increasing stream of unanswered questions. For someone who – well, I don’t have to get that obvious, do I?

It’s not a great place to be. But at least I was calling whatever shots there were to call, and that was something.

And then it happened. One of them got to me.

One sec. Hey, you ok there? Need a hand? No? Ok. Well, have yourself a good day then.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. This happy person got to me. I think I let her talk to me for a little longer than I normally would (like, at all) because, well, she was actually pretty cute, and I thought, hey, who knows what a little pity can do here?

Turns out not much.

Anyways, I was just getting ready to tune out whatever drivel she was spouting when she puts this gentle, caring hand on my shoulder and looks me right in the eye. She says, you know, none of us ever know how much time we have. Yeah I say, but I’ve got a better idea than most. And then she says this thing, this weird thing, like all the other encouraging stuff, but different. But she sucks in this little bit of air first, this tiny breath.

And then she says: every moment of your life is valuable.

You’ll laugh, but hearing that was like all the clichés at once – heaven opening, light shining down on my head, a troupe of angels with O faces. Every moment of my life is worth something? Why didn’t someone tell me? Here I was, thinking it was all downhill from here, and that my whole existence had just been some kind of joke. A shitty clichéd walk-into-a-bar joke with a slurred ending that no-one can remember.

And all along, somebody just needed tell me that one simple fact.

Look here. There’s something I can do. Poor guy’s overloaded his trolley, and there’s cans of coke rolling everywhere.

Hey mate, can I give you a hand? Want me to lift these back on to the trolley for you? Well, I’d love to help you out. That’s manual labour, and I can do that for you for fifty-five bucks an hour. Cool?

What’s that?

Ok, I’ll put these down then, shall I?

Hm. He wasn’t too keen, wasn’t he? But this is the revelation I’ve had. I’m on limited time. Every last second I have is worth something. So why not charge for it? See, I’ve got this rate card here. Everything’s listed, itemised.

Helping people across the street is three bucks a crossing, flat rate. Holding a door is a bargain at a dollar twenty. Running to make a lift? I’ll keep the door from closing for you for a mere fifty cents.

Wouldn’t you pay fifty cents to not have to wait another eight minutes for a lift?

Chasing down items that have blown away in the wind will run you fifty-five cents a minute. ‘Cause you never quite know how long that will take. Of course, when you return the item and start discussing rates can get a bit heated. Am I holding their things hostage? That’s a matter of perspective. But you can’t tell me it’s not good value.

Passing tissues I keep down to five cents a sheet. I’ll give you my train seat for two bucks, three in peak hour. Spare change is something I’m still working on, but I’ll offer that once I’ve got the business model sorted out.

But like any fledgling business, you have to think outside the square. I made twenty bucks the other day helping out at a café. You know the one down by the park? I spent two hours there making it look like they had more of a crowd than they did. I showed the manager the rate card, and explained what the go was. Really, it should have been eighty, but they weren’t budging and then mentioned something about calling the police. So I though, ok, I can settle for a twenty.

At this rate, I can keep myself busy all day. This is my job, my purpose. I always thought people who did this sort of thing were a bit lame. But I never thought of doing it professionally. And this is just the tip of the iceberg. Christmas is just round the corner, and that’s well within the eight months. That’ll be my real growth opportunity.

Anyway, I can see you need to get away, so I won’t keep you. Let’s just clear up the bill shall we? That’s been fifteen minutes of quality engaging conversation, which is down here for… yeah, fifteen minutes will run you a hundred thirty-five dollars. Cash ok?