What Will They Say About Us?

“I guess I’ve really always considered myself a bit of a nihilist. Lately I have more than enough reason to. Everyone is either too weak to change the world alone or too dumb to realize it needs changing. But then there’s that third type, the type who benefit from all the bullshit.” He pauses and scratches his chin, yet never makes eye contact with me. “Combine that with the power to brainwash the masses until they fall into that second group and what do you get? What do you get?” he repeats himself. I lift my face from my notebook to answer him.

“Uhhh… I don’t know,” I reply dryly, my eyes scanning side to side before coming to rest on him again, “What do you get?”

“Evil, Miguel. Pure unbridled evil. The truest form of evil. To benefit from the exploitation of billions of people. Billions, do you realize what an insane number that is?”

“It’s a lot.”

“It is a lot! To not only benefit from all that human suffering but to then work round the clock to convince them nothing is wrong? Drink this soda! Eat this cornchip! Consume this pile of ultra-processed nutrient-deficient sludge that we turned into a fun shape! Don’t worry about climate change, you’ll be dead in eight years anyways! It’s evil, Miguel. Evil.”

I think over my next question wisely. I was ghostwriting for Neil, not interrogating him.

“And so where do you see yourself on that scale?”

Neil cocks his neck before he can take another sip of his wine, closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“Well, I’d like to see myself as part of the solution.”

“But just now you said everyone is either too dumb to realize the world needs to change or they realize it does and they’re just too weak to change it. So, where are you?”

He’s still for a moment, his eyes anywhere but on me while he searches the room for words, then he shrugs and says, “You think I can change the world?”

I shrugged right back and took a brief glance at the room we were in. Modern fine-art chandeliers above us, white cashmere upholstered loveseats and couch, a custom-made bog oak driftwood coffee table in front of us.

Even Neil himself was sitting in front of me, cross-legged, donning some kind of flashy white fur vest while taking a sip of a wine that could bankrupt me.

After my moment of quiet contemplation, I said in a softer tone, “I think you could change a few people’s worlds.”

He swallowed his sip and after an ah he replied, “What was that?”

“I said I think you could change a few people’s worlds.”

He crossed his hands in his lap, looked away from me and nodded subtly for a good fifteen seconds.

His blue eyes darted to me suddenly and they went wide in his skull, “I donate. A lot.”

“Right, to, you said you donated to an AID’s research foundation, right?”

“I did, I did,” he continued to nod, nearly looking satisfied until he piped up again, “I mean I do. I still do.”

“And you’ve donated to a few LGBT+ youth organizations, you said there was a cancer research one, uh, dementia?” I started going through my notes from just about thirty minutes back, when he had rattled on and on about all the good he does for his communities.

“Yes, yes,” he continued nodding, “I give my due, rest assured of that.”

I scratch the back of my head, “I know, and I believe you, it’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Well, you get a lot of tax write offs for all of that, right?”

He shrugs again and points his chin to his shoulder, “So what if I do?”

“Well, it just feels to me like it’s not completely selfless if you benefit from it.”

He scoffs at me and rolls his eyes, “So what if I benefit from doing good things? Why does anybody do good things? Because it feels good. Does that make it somehow not selfless?”

“Well, yeah. Kinda. The term selfless would mean you aren’t thinking about yourself. At all.”

He shakes his head and just goes, “Fine. What would you do in a situation like mine? All the money and time you could dream of, what would you do?”

I nod my head left and right before shaking it and shrugging, “Idunno really.”

“So you don’t even know and yet you’re lecturing me for what I do?”

“Well with all due respect, I’m not an Oscar winning actor who lives in a mansion with a private chef.”

He nods along as I talk, and I can tell he’s looking for words to pick up and throw at me to defend himself from thinking further about this.

“How many more sessions of this,” he draws a circle in the air with his finger, “do we have to do before you have enough content for the book?”

“Well, depends on how many more details you think I should have.”

“This is my first big claw back into the limelight. I’m halfway through my life and— I think I’d like to share what I’ve experienced so far with the world.”

“Right, but, how much do you really wanna share?”

“Well, is there anything so far you’d really suggest keeping out?”

“This conversation, probably.”

“What’s wrong with this conversation?”

“Just, doesn’t feel like the kinda conversation you’d wanna share with the world, does it?” he looked almost offended at that, “I mean, nothing is wrong with the conversation, you’re fun to converse with, just-”

“Miguel, have I shown you the aviary yet?”