Peter Collingworth’s birthday celebration took place in Pascals, a five-star restaurant, that included his six-year-old son and his twenty-five year old daughter. The little boy watched from Peter’s knee. His lovely daughter, with her tall, full body and large blue eyes, sat across from them, next to his wife, smiling radiantly in her pregnant condition. His brother-in-law, Tom, and his girlfriend, Laura, also attended the party. Good food and lively conversation topped the evening with a profusion of flattering compliments lauding the success of his career as a celebrated artist. His forty-ninth birthday was a well-deserved milestone that marked what had been a productive and rewarding life.
He observed a round-faced man at another table chewing his tenderloin steak. His facial expression bordered on the absurd. The man, who must have had a brain, like everyone else in that dining room, fed his mouth as if nothing mattered but food. He seemed a mutation of sorts, evolved from a long line of privileged arthropods that through a process of gene mutation had formed limbs, teeth sharp enough to chew meat and a round belly covered by soft skin in place of a hardened exoskeleton, topped by an aggressive, warlike nature. Somewhere in his evolution he had become the “fittest” and therefore had survived, whereas the dinosaurs had not. A brain had developed that understood that violence could provide resources, such as oil and steel, enabling him to move through space at great speeds in order to perpetrate even more violence. Gradually, violence had become an end in itself. The species had learned to invade countries, to exploit foreign lands and to relate to other civilizations as “non-people,” along with the habit of attacking those with characteristics that were somewhat different than his; color of skin being one, white preferred to dark brown or black. Lack of social conscience, also the result of genetic mutation, had facilitated his survival in a world of dwindling resources. His species had evolved. Men could be cruel without feeling guilt.
On that particular birthday evening, Peter fit in well with the other guests, as always was the case, a white man in America with no accent and willing to keep his mouth shut. Even if he dared to share his thoughts, little result would come of them. His opinions would have no consequence. Any statement to oppose his country’s aggressiveness would set him apart, but Peter preferred acceptance at age forty-nine, preferred collusion with the lie that surrounded him, too old to oppose characteristic apathy of the majority. As long as Peter was non-committal, he would survive another few decades or so. The question was whether twenty or thirty more years were worth it.
Everyone was in good spirits. He certainly was, eating his sirloin steak, French fries, cake and ice cream for dessert. Peter Collingsworth opened a birthday gift, a collection of Marc Chagall’s paintings and another book featuring Kandinsky’s work. given to him by Laura, his brother-in-law’s friend. As he unwrapped its contents, Peter offered his appreciation for her gift. “Thank you, Laura. Thank you so very much,” he said. He meant it too. Men whose values were founded upon the spirit of creating art were rare these days. Kandinsky’s paintings represented “positive thinking,” as Laura put it. The girl enthusiastically announced that Peter’s paintings, which she had seen only once, also represented a positive point of view. Her well-intentioned speech insisted upon the connection between “positive thinking” and creativity, her voice swelling louder to make her point, her hands shaking vigorously to support her theory - the “outright joy” of Kandinsky’s paintings, compared to the so-called “negativity of Pollack and De Kooning”.
Peter made silly, contorted faces, as she delivered her monologue, feigning agreement as she spoke, prompting laughter from his surrounding audience. Finally he lost his patience.
“Positive thinking has nothing to do with art,” Peter stated in a pointed fashion, so there would be no mistake. “Painters create paintings because they are inspired and nothing more. What guides my hand when I paint is a mystery to me,” he explained further, “but it has nothing to do with positive thought, I assure you. Creation comes from some mysterious, innate instinct that tells me how to put paint on canvass, but making art is not purely emotional. It is objective as well and based upon long hours of work. I always enjoy painting,” he explained, “mainly because it involves child’s play that gratifies me immediately, similar to the pleasure brought to a child when he builds sand castles on a beach. As soon as paint is applied to the canvass, its color gratifies me. Color can do that, regardless of how I think. Positive thinking has nothing to do with creativity. Beauty is ugly and rough, depicting the way things really are.”
This put a damper on Laura’s enthusiasm. Peter made another funny face and she laughed in spite of herself.
Peter Collingsworth preferred silence. He had been a successful painter for decades. It was too much effort to explain his work. The loudness of the room was an obstacle to normal conversation. Thoughts of art and beauty and soul in such an environment, seemed futile. Besides, the notion of “optimistic art” was outright absurd. “What did laymen know of painting? What did they care?” Peter mused. For all of her good intentions, the young lady had missed the mark about the subject. Beauty is beauty, nothing more, nothing less. Enough said about the art, since words confused the issue of creativity, concepts that had nothing to do with laying paint on canvass. Appreciation alone wasn’t enough. Uninformed judgment of paintings came too often from individuals who felt the need to appear intelligent about art. They could be forgiven, however, living in today’s, numb, materialistic world that cared little for culture. Talk about war and how “we should kill Arabs” was a more suitable subject for any American, but fine art was beyond comprehension of the layman and not worth the energy for discussion.
Peter’s life had passed in a wink, but he wasn’t finished yet. A new baby on the way was part of the mood of the evening. That was no small thing, a new child to care for, thereby expanding his brood to three. His wife had been pressing for another daughter for years and unexpectedly she’d succeeded, legitimately too, without the help of artificial insemination, no small feat at his age. Miracles never cease. Imminent parenthood prompted him to hug his six-year-old son’s body against his, a large hand ensconcing the entire length of the boy’s arm. All fathers love their sons. Good things might come to this little person, if Peter had anything to do with it. All fathers have their boy’s best interests at heart; nothing special to promise the best for his young son, along with a chance, however slim, to keep his innocence whole by rising above the indulgence of the crowd in that dining room.
Across from their table was another group, chewing their food like cattle, their mouths moving up and down, gnawing cow’s flesh; carnivorous beasts lined up at the trough unaware they were being watched, a modern day primordial tribe, masticating what seemed a lifetime of well-cooked meat in their mouths. In accordance with his birthday celebration, he too tasted the flavored juices of steak he’d ordered and chewed like the rest. Gold credit cards flashed for all to see, people chewing the flesh of cow, foolish, self-congratulatory chatter, all represented a wide comfort zone for human consumption. Their chewing and swallowing mouthfuls of food described a bored, besotted bunch, oblivious to their government’s rape of the world, vacuous minds, existences based upon feeding bellies, greed for money and ignorance.
The group represented the typical American family out to dinner; a minor spat here and there, nothing major, a touch too wealthy for their own good, complaining about the price of gas, unconcerned about their violent government that was in the process of enslaving whole nations of people. Anything disagreeable was avoided at dinnertime. “Let others deal with it,” was their policy, while they busily chewed with a dulled look in their eyes. Peter chewed too, while Laura yelled one more time about the “positive energy” of Kandinsky’s paintings. No comment from him. His mouth was full. Very little was worth the effort of conversation when there was tasty steak to eat. What was on his mind would have been impossible to communicate anyway, something about the “have nots” blowing themselves up in public to fight for the rights of their children. One of those ‘have nots’ might enter the restaurant tonight with a bomb strapped to his waist. Then all those mouths would stop chewing. That would be an occasion to remember.
Peter couldn’t possibly make such a statement. No, he couldn’t say that.
His daughter was no exception, aside from her kindness. That kindness couldn’t be denied, but basically he’d failed as a parent. She was one of them, addicted to immediate gratification. Teaching her values that opposed the ‘universal lie’ was impossible at that late stage of her upbringing. Values having to do with peace, mind, body, spirituality were foreign to her. The very mention of these meant nothing in their war-mongering country that had unjustifiably invaded nation after nation in her short lifetime; Nicaragua, Panama, Granada, Afghanistan and Iraq, not to mention earlier horrors of Vietnam. The nightmare of war was integrated so firmly into the weave of their country’s moral fiber that people barely noticed it. Americans were in a habitual state of numbness, as long as there was an abundant meal to devour, a birthday to celebrate at an expensive restaurant to occupy their thoughts.
Peter searched the room for a spy, while attempting to appear part of the crowd, smiling as he chewed, behaving agreeably, as if he were a full-fleged member of a system founded on conquering and devouring the spoils of war. Someone might have been watching him. So long as he ate meat with a knife and fork and chewed with his mouth closed, he wouldn’t be discovered. A concern for protocol at that dinner table tempered his more primitive instincts. Using a knife and fork for eating meat was accepted behavior among the herd. Mutated genes had given birth to sociability. Over centuries, the norms of how to behave in public had been agreed upon. But it was important to hold a contented smile as he chewed to avoid suspicion.
Again he observed the round-cheeked gentleman chewing across the room. The man could be watching Peter Collingsworth. But no, the taste of his food had sedated the fellow, judging from the manner in which he savored the juice of dead calf. Tenderloin beef was the man’s fetish, after a long day of playing the survival game at his corporate job. He was understandably tired and hungry, unaware of Peter’s perusing gaze, and pleasantly preoccupied with masticating his meat. So very fulfilled the round-cheeked man seemed. The unflattering shape of his face with its mouthful of meat enhanced the vacuum that shadowed his countenance.
The same was true of the man’s wife, who seemed besotted by heavenly juices extracted from her well-done piece of meat, also unaware that she was being observed. The blank expression of her puffy face and pinched lips, mobile from chewing, convinced Peter that he’d not been discovered as a voyeur. Chewing food was the sum total of the couple’s focus, the slow, rhythmic rising and falling of jaws, the stretching and puckering of lips, as bites of meat were slowly ground into digestible pieces. Good for the bowels that chewing; corpulent fellow and his overweight wife. Their mutual numbness adapted well to surroundings that catered to the carnivorous American family.
Life was good, more than good; it was great, more than great, it was fabulous. The dinner was Peter’s birthday celebration, age forty-nine, not too old and not too young. Numbers didn’t mean much anymore. He still wished to live, but more than merely living, to surpass expectations, to fulfill more than what had been predicted at an earlier stage of life. Success originally had not been expected, after numerous setbacks, a nervous breakdown in his youth, bouts with anxiety and a nasty divorce in his twenties, as well as numerous professional choices that had been ill-advised; gallery representation with their shady dealings. Any level of achievement that had measured worth of the man came by surprise. Oh, but today, the taste of success, the feel of it in his bones, the warm overlay of security that came with money in the bank, a sound roof over his head, a future marked by freedom of choice. Good fortune in that.
At the moment, Tom, his brother-in-law, was holding court at the table, claiming that he’d never drunk a cup of coffee in his life; small sacrifice, Peter mused, typical, perhaps, of the fellow’s anal personality, to boast about such a mild sacrifice. This was a man to fear. Genetically he’d been made ambitious, wished very much to control the fate of large groups of people. This was a political animal, who, in the world of honeybees would surely be queen. But he was human, so the next best thing, considering his genetic makeup, was to be elected to office. His personality was predictably calculating, probably stemming from a common gene pool with his successful father, the CEO of Gulf Oil, who inherited the same mutated gene sequence characterized by ambition and greed. Smooth on the outside but calculating on the inside, Tom knew by virtue of the very nature of his genetic composition what to say and how to say it.
Apparently, Laura, his girlfriend, who had vehemently contended that “art should be positive” and who sat by his side, disapproved of his “ lack of commitment,” whatever that meant. Under their breaths, they were mumbling contentiously. Peter strained to overhear the details.
“That’s your way, Tom, to use up women and push them away,” Laura accused. “It’s a chronic pattern in your case, born from an incessant need for new conquests and fresh sex. You prefer variety to family and children.”
“I’m holding out until I find the right one?” he quipped with a devilish grin.
“Who cares about drinking coffee, Tom? Have you so little on your mind beyond exploitation and random sex,” his friend parried. “Never drink a cup of coffee, my ass, as if that were some sign of purity.”
“I’ve never had a cup of coffee in my whole life,” he repeated.
“So many things Tom hasn’t done,” Laura announced to the table, as she rose to her feet. “Being conscious is one. Being a man is another,” and with that statement Tom’s girlfriend took a dramatic exit from the restaurant’s main dining room. Apparently she’d had enough of Tom. Decorum was restored quickly. Tom, who refused to drink coffee, remained seated across the table slightly embarrassed by Laura’s exit.
“Well, wonder what that was all about,” Tom said before taking his last bite of meat. Peter watched Tom pick up the tab for the party’s dinner, making a dramatic effort to pay for everyone at the table. There would be a string attached to any favor offered, similar to nepotism so typical of the human species.
Deserts for everyone had been served. His little boy sat on his knee, eating cake and ice cream, sweet child, so very innocent. The boy had never seen a marine fire a machine gun at his parents, knew nothing of brutality among men, the daily atrocities that Iraqi children endure. Iraq was literally tearing itself apart. Everyone at the table was aware of the war, feeding their faces with rich foods, while Iraqi children were dying from the mayhem perpetrated by American bombs. The boy was growing up under the umbrella of American security, shielded by its wealth and military might. Having thrived from his country’s wealth, the youngster was advantaged but not entirely safe from the moral values of its citizens. America’s influence would either stultify him or alert him to the injustices of the world. Peter hoped for the latter.
The father hugged his youngster’s fragile body close to his chest. The boy’s future lingered apprehensively, and what would he be exposed to? What pitfalls would come upon him? Evolution had already altered gene sequences in human DNA. That was a fact. Millions of years earlier, smaller jaw muscles had encouraged the skull to grow outward, thereby enlarging the human brain and enhancing human intelligence enough to invent more efficient killing machines. His little boy could so easily become part of the routine brutality that had become the norm for the human species. Weaponry would became more sophisticated, as mutated DNA produced exaggerated aggression in the human personality, transforming every thousand years to the most highly developed killer-culture ever produced in the history of living beings. Homo sapiens were both cunning and cruel, both primitive and sophisticated, both driven by basic appetites of hunger and sex and yet stimulated also by art, theatre and music. All of it was part of the same package that could create or destroy at will, depending upon circumstances. As evolution progressed, choice in either direction leaned towards the extreme. That was the paradox, the ability to destroy entire cities in one atomic explosion or to create the Eiffel Tower in another burst of creative genius. After millions of years, the variables were too overwhelming to gauge, the beast in man too unpredictable, the species having mutated into a myriad of forms and corresponding idiosyncrasies that had characterized its creative, destructive and unpredictable behavior all at once. Plainly, man was his own enemy, and Peter’s six-year-old would someday be a man.
Chatter among the birthday guests, desserts had been eaten. People lounging, enjoying each other’s company. The birthday party had been a rousing success. But anxiety lingered everywhere in that room; expressions on people’s faces frustrated by an ineffable emptiness. Stomachs had been filled, but something was awry, a tension in the air that was a genetic trait of the species as well, anxiousness for no apparent reason, especially when food was abundant, when a home was provided, when the children were safe. Meals had been eaten and there was, in the wake of that feast, a lack of certainty about what would come next. An lingering anxiousness clung to the ambiance of the table. What might happen if their guard should be let down? The satisfaction that calf’s flesh had brought to their bellies was insufficient. There seemed nothing left beyond the paying of the check and returning to an empty home.
That wasn’t enough. Evolution had broadened their horizons to want more than meat. The question was, “What?” With brains large enough to appreciate birthdays, teeth and jaw muscles strong enough to bite into juicy tenderloin, and an ingenious ability to construct structures in which to work, live and play, public birthday celebrations in fancy restaurants would be commonplace in the future; that is, if the planet would survive. Perplexed expressions, saddened faces once bellies were full, women wistfully looking to men, as if to say, “What can we do, husband, to feel better now that our hunger has been satisfied?” The husbands said nothing. If only to sleep, to rest; yes, rest would be best, to return home and rest after a gorging themselves, but not before wishing Peter Collingsworth a happy forty-ninth birthday and a prosperous life to come.
