The Dispatcher

Five days a week he got home at 7:30 in the morning. He was a dispatcher for the town police department. After a night of disrespect from younger coworkers it was good to get back within the familiar dirty walls of home. He’d been a U.S. Marine, a Justice of the Peace, and a “gentleman farmer” but now he took minimum wage.

The dented door of his Wagoneer creaked open and then reluctantly clunked shut with a shove. Dew on unmowed grass wet his cuffs as he walked to the door.

He didn’t glance toward the Lincoln. It’d been brand new such a short pair of decades ago. Now it seemed to be trying to sink into the thinly graveled driveway. Unrepaired after a minor wreck a few years back, it had faded from luxury to junk.

In the house she had coffee ready for him. She handed him a cup, kissed him goodbye and left for work. She was a longtime teller at the bank. It wasn’t much fun anymore. These days it seemed like there was always a new system being implemented and a learning curve to go with it.

He was so tired. The October sunshine was too loud for sleeping. All he could think about was how tired he was. He had a couple of hours before he had to be at his other job. He was also a part-time security guard. Leaves needed to be raked. Not today. He picked up the newspaper and wondered if he could justify mixing himself a highball at this time of day.

The Eighth Man

In the mid-1960s our Zenith was tuned to WPIX-TV at 4:00PM. “Tobor the 8th Man” aired at that time. It was an Anime series about a superhero android with the brain of a slain police detective.

It was low budget, so the producers reused sequences of frames wherever possible. When Tobor ran – which was frequently, as I recall – they used a side profile of the hero, leaning into the draft of his own blinding speed. His entire body stayed stock still except for his piston legs, which pounded up and down like diesel cylinders.

One day during gym class in 1st grade we had to race around the perimeter of the gymnasium. All of the first-graders were there, boys and girls, and everybody was fired up for the contest.

The image of Tobor was vivid in my mind. I believed his running technique would give me the edge I needed over my classmates, so I leaned forward and did my best to emulate the quick, hammering motion of his legs.

The athletic kids pulled away in front of me. I was used to that. Then the average kids started pulling away too. This caused me some concern because it was among them that I normally jostled for position.

Soon, I was looking at the backs of the kids who had difficulty remembering how to put their sneakers on. I didn’t like the way things were going, but I persevered. I had faith that Tobor’s technique would prevail in the end if I stuck with it.

When the frontrunners came up from behind and lapped me for the first time, the chuckling began. By the time the rest of the pack had lapped me, the winners had finished the race. They stood along the wall, pointing at me in amazement, and roaring with laughter.

I felt humiliated, of course, but even worse, I felt betrayed by my hero. Why hadn’t Tobor’s technique worked for me?

I should’ve noted the possible complications relative to my not being a cartoon robot. But even allowing for that slight miscalculation, it’s fair to say that I should’ve considered abandoning my failed strategy before the race ended.

I wonder what I’m doing right now that amounts to the same thing as running like Tobor. What are the illusions I insistently persist in pursuing? What glaring evidences of futility am I ignoring?

Perseverance is not inherently virtuous. Perseverance has to be animated by wisdom; otherwise it’s a robot with no brain.