"Arthur, you're getting hysterical. Shut up!" Ford tried desperately to think, but was interrupted by the guard shouting again.
"Resistance is useless!"
"And you shut up as well!" snapped Ford.
"Resistance is useless!"
"Oh, give it a rest," said Ford. He tweisted his head till he was looking straight up into his captor's face. A thought struck him.
"Do you really enjoy this sort of thing?" he asked suddenly.
The Vogon stopped dead and a look of immense stupidity seeped slowly over his face.
"Enjoy?" he boomed. "What do you mean?"
"What i mean," said Ford, "is does it give you a full, satisfying life? Stomping around, shouting, pushing people out of spaceships . . ."
The Vogon stared up at the low steel ceiling and his eyebrows almost rolled over each other. His mouth slacked. Finally he said, "Well, the hours are good . . ."
"They'd have to be," agreed Ford.
"Ford, what are you doing?" he asked in an amazed whisper.
"Oh, just trying to take an interest in the world around me, okay?" he said. "So the hours are pretty good then?" he resumed.
The Vogon stared down at him as sluggish thoughts moiled around in the murky depths.
"Yeah," he said, "but now you come to mention it, most of the actual minutes are pretty lousy. Except . . ." he thought again, which required looking at the ceiling, "except some of the shouting I quite like." He filled his lungs and bellowed, "Resistance is . . ."
"Sure, yes," interrupted Ford hurriedly, "you're good at that, I can tell. But if it's mostly lousy," he said, slowly giving the words time to reach their mark, "then why do you do it? What is it? The girls? The leather? The machismo? Or do you just find that coming to terms with the mindless tedium of it all presents an interesting challenge?"
Arthur looked backward and forward between them in bafflement.
Vogon discontentment in the workplace. Even an alien with the intelligence of a horned toad can be unhappy with its life, I guess. Unfulfilled. Not everyone can be Oprah Winfrey, a billionaire who loves what she does, lives out her dreams every day. In fact, I would say that, for most people, work is simply an end to a means. Punching the time clock is just a way to buy food and clothes, pay the bills, maybe (if you're lucky) go on a nice vacation every once in a while.
I am not quite Vogon in my attitude toward my jobs. I work with nice people who appreciate me, for the most part. I get to help people make their lives better, through medicine and education. And I get to write poems, give readings, perform on the radio, and organize charitable benefits. I guess that's a pretty good gig.
For example, this evening, I have put together a little event to benefit Bay Cliff Health Camp, a place where children with physical and medical challenges can go in the summer to feel like every other kid in the world. Swimming, playing games, laughing, singing. It's a wonderful organization. And these kids are in need of a new playground.
So, I've pulled together some of my writer and musician friends, and, in good old Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney fashion, we're putting on a show tonight at the Joy Center in Ishpeming. It's going to be a wonderful time. Music, poetry, and food. And, best of all, I get to hand a bunch of cash to Bay Cliff at the end of the night.
That is one of the most fulfilling things I do with my life. Helping other people out. I do it with the patients I meet. And I do it with my students. Sure, I have money problems. Struggle to pay my bills sometimes. But then, there are moments like tonight: where my friends and I can make kids with a lot of challenges a little bit happier.
Resistance is useless. Saint Marty is giving in to hope.
