A Message From a Friend

18 November 2011

8:49 p.m.

It was a short day, but it looks like a long night. Nights always are when spend them with your feet up on your desk, thinking through a case. I’ll go to sleep in the morning, same time the crooks do.

You don’t know me. Maybe you never will. After all, I keep a low profile. And I’m fictional. But that’s neither here nor there. The name’s D. B., and yes, I’m a private eye.

It’s not common for people in my line of work to send a letter to the masses like this. We try to keep as out-of-sight, like a stick of wood at a public campground; it’s the safest way to not get burned. But this life’s a capricious lover, and it’s hard to say when you’re going to part ways. So I’m going to reveal bits and pieces of my gumshoeing career to you, the public, that way it can serve as a warning to neer-do-wells everywhere even after I’m gone.

Why is a letter from like me on the blog of a respectable enough college student? I know that’s what you’re wondering. I’ll say only this for now: when you ask someone to “let you know if there’s anything you can do for them”, there’s a chance that years later they’ll think of something. There’s an even smaller chance that they’ll then call you up at 2:00 a.m. and subject you to a series of vetting questions, then arrange to drop off letters for publication at inconspicuous locations. It’s unlikely, yes, but there you go. Sometimes strange things happen, kid.

Gabe did raise the concern that people might have trouble distinguishing between his own posts and my humble contributions. Well, anybody smarter than the floor they’re standing on should be able to immediately recognize that my cooler tone of voice–you could say that my words have more of a five o’clock shadow to them. Anybody else can watch for the different fonts.

It’s still night. Maybe I’ll go for a walk and stare at the neon sign of the Blue Line Café. The biggest P.I.’s have nice office space in dilapidated old buildings, and can see flickering neon right from where they sit with their feet on the desk. I’ve been doing this a while, but not long enough yet to have that luxury. For now, I’ll stick to what I’ve got, and send out occasional updates about my investigations to this website, which Gabe assures me is read by thousands every day.

D.B

The White Heat

In the book Physics of the Impossible Michio Kaku that analyzes the feasibility of science fiction concepts.  We all know that teleportation and intergalactic travel is impossible–at least as far as modern science has developed–but its interesting to read a renowned physicist discuss how impossible each one is. He categorizes each concept as a Class I, II, or III impossibility. Class I impossibilities may be possible “within a few decades to a century” (think invisibility and ray guns.) Class IIs may take millenia to develop–like time machines–while Class IIIs are things like perpetual motion machines and really may never exist.

My purpose in bringing Kaku’s classification system up is I want to apply it to something else. Plato said, “Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” Did he mean a Class I, II, or III battle?

There are irritating things that happen to us frequently, like interaction with an unpleasant person or running out of strawberry jam, there are Class I trials. Class II’s are things like breaking an arm, or catching mono (though how you ended up with the kissing disease may not have been a trial…).  Those are definately hard things; we may post something about them on facebook and recieve condolences from our far-flung friends.

Class III trials usually won’t get mentioned on facebook.  I don’t have to enumerate them; they are unique and personal. Close friends may not even know about them–or the worst of them.  That’s okay, because it allows us to maintain a measure of composure and dignity in public. But these trials buckle our backs, bring us to our knees.  They are designed to turn us toward God, who is the only way we will make it through alright. He is there and comforts and delivers the faithful.

These are the trials Plato must have had in mind.  I admire the way I’ve seen some people, such as my parents, handle such periods of life. It is a noble thing to be someone trusted to know about someone’s deepest struggle. And for everone else, we ought to remember Plato’s counsel.

Notes: 
1. Some people say that quote actually comes from someone else; you can go to the website I did to learn about it here.             
2. Emily Dickenson gives a beautiful description of faith amid a Class III trial.  It’s in the public domain, so I posted it below.
                                                     

                                                    XXXIII

DARE you see a soul at the white heat?

Then crouch within the door.

Red is the fire’s common tint;

But when the vivid ore

Has sated flame’s conditions,

5

Its quivering substance plays

Without a color but the light

Of unanointed blaze.

Least village boasts its blacksmith,

Whose anvil’s even din

10

Stands symbol for the finer forge

That soundless tugs within,

Refining these impatient ores

With hammer and with blaze,

Until the designated light

15

Repudiate the forge.