Socrates

He never truly locks the front door. He doesn’t press that button on the doorframe, so the latch never clicks. His house is always open. He probably trusts people, or it’s his way of encouraging folks to come in. He likes people; he’s an optimist because nothing bad has ever happened to him. In fact, he’s so used to things going well that even when a hiccup occurs, something positive immediately balances it out. Once, he even tested it: he tossed a twenty-dollar bill out the window, and five minutes later, Peremprunner came bounding up, beaming: “I found a twenty on the street! Here, I owed you!” And he sets it on the table. Socrates didn’t even remember he’d lent him the money.

That’s how Peremprunner is. He’s his neighbor and has no boundaries; he barges into the house whenever he feels like it, day or night, without a second thought. And deep down, Socrates is fine with it.

Like this morning.

He lingered in bed; he had to celebrate somehow: the network meeting the day before had gone wonderfully (not that he doubted it!), the ratings are excellent, everyone’s thrilled and ready to renew the show for next season once he delivers the next two episodes polished. No problem at all.

The cherry on top came when he stepped out of the meeting room and who does he run into? Her, TK, the star who reads the news. The moment he sees her, he can’t help thinking: in person, she’s even hotter—a painted Madonna.

No wonder she pulls in the ratings. The public is crazy about her. And look at that—she likes Socrates a lot too.

Well then, one thing leads to another, and they end up sleeping together. Though “sleeping” is just said out of politeness, they didn’t rest much, but they sure had a lot of fun.

And so there she is, uninhibited and totally at ease in his apartment, making coffee in her lingerie, when—unannounced, like a sudden summer thunderstorm—Peremprunner bursts in. He freezes like a statue, wants to say something, but only unintelligible syllables come out when he finds himself face-to-face with TK in all her splendor and lingerie.

She’s not too kindly disposed, to be honest, but at least she doesn’t think he’s a criminal and doesn’t attack him with a frying pan or kitchen knife. Instead, she unleashes a torrent of insults and curses like there’s no tomorrow. Peremprunner smiles, embarrassed yet flattered that TK is actually talking to him, that all that attention—even negative—is directed at him personally.

In an almost touching way, he stammers: “I’ve always been one of your biggest fans,” before receiving a resounding “fuck off.”

TK retreats to the bedroom, and as she buttons her cuffs, Socrates welcomes his guest.

“Good morning, Peremprunner.”

“But she is... You have...” and he wiggles his fingers to make him understand, while Socrates nods in confirmation.

Peremprunner, with a huge and genuine smile, pulls him into a long, deep hug, as if Socrates had achieved some monumental feat for all humanity—like discovering penicillin, something like this.

When he pulls away, he shakes his head: “How do you... how do you...” he repeats, incredulous.

Socrates shrugs; it doesn’t seem like anything exceptional to him: “It’s not that incredible. She’s an attractive single woman, I’m single too, and probably attractive enough for some ladies. It can happen to you, too.”

He shakes his head: “You can’t understand... you can’t understand...” he insists.

Just then, TK reappears, dressed and composed this time, and Socrates takes the opportunity to make introductions.

He points to the lanky guy with the handlebar mustache: “Peremprunner, my neighbor.”

He points to the famous hottie: “TK,” who immediately wags her index finger in Peremprunner’s face: “You know you’re a total rude asshole!”

Peremprunner chuckles embarrassedly, as if she’d said “what beautiful eyes you have and what macho mustaches,” and replies with a hand-kiss and “Enchanté.”

TK, probably confused, leaves the apartment after a quick kiss on the lips and the phone sign—thumb and pinky extended to her ear.

The moka pot gurgles, and Socrates pours two cups of coffee; he doesn’t even ask, since Peremprunner never says no.

“What made you burst in so urgently this morning, my dear?”

Peremprunner frowns.

“I wanted to confide in you. I’m feeling a bit depressed because none of my projects ever come to fruition! I’m full of ideas; every time, it seems like they’re about to take off, and bam! They die before they even start. Everything always goes swimmingly for you—please, give me some advice on how to be more effective. For example, I mentioned it to you earlier. It’s a project I’m really passionate about: scarecrows made entirely of ground meat, based on classic themes from ancient Rome, such as the Sack of Thebes, Brutus Avenged, or the Ides of March. Despite it being a great idea—and you have to admit, totally original—I can’t find enough investors.”

He looks at him expectantly. Socrates meets his gaze, and the meaning should be clear from his expression: Do you realize what you’re saying?

But he doesn’t get it: “How is it that you always get what you set your mind to, while my projects never sail, huh?”

Socrates takes a last sip of his espresso and arms himself with patience: “Look, it’s all very simple. So simple it’s banal. What I do is just analyze reality, break it down, and put it back together. I see how it works, what it needs, I follow the rules of the game, and all the mosaic pieces fall into place. If we start with this method and analyze your project, dear Peremprunner, we’ll see it’s completely detached from reality. First thing: scarecrows. Really! Who cares about scarecrows? At most, some archaic farmer who wouldn’t be intrigued by lofty, rococo themes from ancient Rome. Second: ground meat? So we want to attract the birds, not scare them away.

Now tell me, after this superficial analysis of your project, what are your chances of it succeeding?”

Peremprunner bites his lip, thinks for a few seconds, and finally answers timidly: “Zero?”

Socrates nods.

Slowly, as if mulling it over, walking backward while keeping him in view, Peremprunner exits the apartment.

Now it’s time to get to work.

Socrates sits at his workstation, opens the files from the footage shot in Timor-Leste about the boxers who train every day without ever having a fight. He needs to organize his thoughts and prepare an outline to structure the episode best. But his gaze wanders around the room; he thinks back to the raw-meat scarecrows and starts laughing; the chair feels uncomfortable, and he can’t concentrate. In fact, the classic ancient Roman themes reconstructed with ground meat seem more interesting than the competition-starved boxers in Timor. Even though he knows that’s not true, a certain sense of boredom is growing inside him.

He gets up and goes to the kitchen to make tea.

The front door suddenly opens again, and Peremprunner bursts in once more, fire in his eyes.

He hugs his friend and plants two loud smacking kisses on his cheeks.

“Thanks, thanks, thanks!”

Socrates looks at him, stunned, and he continues: “You’re right, a thousand times right. Now I’ve decided to do as you do. I analyze, break down, and reassemble. And I’ve got the million-dollar idea, the idea of the century, if you’ll allow.”

“Go ahead,” Socrates concedes.

“So, what’s one of the fundamental problems afflicting millions of office workers around the world? Answer me.”

Socrates ponders; it seems like a vast horizon.

“See? I’ve analyzed. Come on, don’t be shy, give me an answer.”

“The first thing that comes to mind is too many hours and pay that’s low compared to expectations?” He guesses, just to humor him.

But Peremprunner shakes his head vigorously.

“Wrong!” he declares. “The most pressing problem in everyday office reality is the snack issue! Let’s be honest: employees always crave snacks, and who can blame them when you’re stuck in your cubicle all day, constantly hounded—not by hunger, but by a certain munchies. True or not?”

“Frankly, I don’t know; I’ve never worked in an office.”

“Me neither, but I know it’s true. So here’s my solution. One word: young models!”

“That’s two.”

“No, even more than two—let’s not limit ourselves. Anyway, young models who roam the offices in a type of dress I designed. What should this dress be like? Never mind if it’s a suit, a pinafore, a sheath—whatever. The important thing is that it’s made by fusing together thousands of American peanuts. Call it Peanut Dress or Peanut Suit, as you like. The models go around the offices selling pieces of the dress to the hungry employees, who, at the same time, don’t mind undressing the models.”

And he looks at him with such a satisfied gaze, uncontainable enthusiasm, and adds: “Genius, huh?”

Socrates smiles and finally nods sincerely. Deep down, he thinks he’s right. Not about the idea, obviously—it’s nonsense that doesn’t stand up to heaven or earth. But in his enthusiasm, he tells him so.

“You know what? You’re right. I’m not sure if your idea will work, but I envy your enthusiasm and optimism. It’s something I can’t seem to find in myself lately. It’s as if I’m navigating on autopilot; nothing excites me anymore, and I no longer feel those butterflies in my stomach. Everything’s too easy now; I no longer feel any satisfaction. I’m sure life has something else, something more meaningful, another level. While now everything seems too predictable and obvious, like playing a video game with cheat codes. Understand what I mean?”

Peremprunner looks at him blankly, and Socrates continues.

“I already know what’ll happen: I polish two episodes, bring them to the network, they’re thrilled, they confirm the show, I start traveling the world again looking for anomalies and oddities, I’ll meet models I’ll take to bed, and after a couple of days they’ll bore me, and so on.

I know how the world works now, I know the trick, I know how to make it function. And I’m bored. Nothing happens without a reason. It’s all cause and effect, and if you control the causes, you determine the effects. And I’m bored.”

He falls silent.

Peremprunner scrutinizes him, as if to check if it’s true.

And declares: “You’re weird.”

And he leaves the house.

Socrates sighs and returns to his desk, tea now cold in the cup.

Seated, he stares at the computer screen, without ideas, desire, or aspirations.

He feels a jolt from the chair, a push upward.

He looks at the chandelier to see if it’s moving, if it’s an earthquake. But everything is still.

Another jolt, another upward push.

He decides to ignore it, clasps his arms, and stretches them upward to crack his knuckles before starting to write. The push is even stronger—practically a bounce; he’s almost sure his butt left the chair for a fraction of a second.

A bit scared, but this time even excited, he tries the motion again. He clasps his arms and thrusts them upward.

He jumps so high that he touches the ceiling.