Some decisions are easy to make.
Staying in, or going out? Excitement, or boredom? Working, or being on holiday? Bognor, or Benidorm? Lying-in, or going for a jog? Gti, or four-wheeled runabout? Spending, or saving? Sunshine, or rain?
They’re easy, they are. Easy-peasy. I mean, they’re not exactly mind-boggling decisions, are they? Not exactly what you might call decisions of any great magnitude or consequence. Perhaps that’s why they’re so easy to make. I suppose, if you think about it, we make hundreds of decisions everyday. Thousands, perhaps. Some of them - I don’t know how many, or what sort of a percentage, and frankly, I wouldn’t like to have turned out to be the sort of person that would – but some of them are so insignificant, or so conditioned, that we don’t even realise we’re making them.
It’s true, that. Mr. Johnson, it was, Mr. Johnson in Biology - I remember it was him that told us. Old beardy-features himself! Some of them, he said, or ‘postulated’, as he would probably prefer to have it put, some of them are conditioned by our biology – things like blinking and swallowing, for example; others, by our contemporary social morés - things like saying ‘Thank you’, or instantly submitting to a request against our better knowledge, in order not to cause offence, for example. Come to think of it, though, what he didn’t say, was whether or not those decisions, the ones we make without realising we’re making them, really are still actually decisions?
That’s what I’d be asking him now, if I were to meet him, wherever he may be. Even if it’s just to show him that I’m no longer the bloody thicko he thought I was back then. Because it seems to me, there’s something about that point he forgot to expand on; something he failed to explain. What I mean is: if a decision is taken without it having to have been thought about - you know, without a due consideration of the facts, without a weighing up of the costs and benefits, without regard for consequences, and that; if it’s all done from somewhere deep inside our subconscious, then it can’t still be a decision, can it?
I’m thinking this because it’s a bit of deja-vu, really. It would be a bit like me getting my own back on him, in a way. Playing him at his own game, so to speak. I don’t hate him, or wish evil upon him, or anything like that; it’s just that, at a time in your life when you’re getting a load of grief from your parents, you just don’t need any from your teachers as well. Come to think of it, though, he probably did it just to impress us. Especially that Helen Mason. But I’d forgive him that. She was gorgeous. And that. It did make him look clever, though. You could tell. The way he asked me why I hadn’t done the essay he’d set, because everybody else had managed to do it, hadn’t they, Jenkinson? The whole class just sort of came to a stop, really.
It’s funny, but I can still remember him standing there in his corduroy jacket, with the leather patches on the elbows, idly tending his beard, something he would perform at any isolated moment of smugness, as if it were some sort of reward behaviour, some victory celebration. Then he stopped twiddling, and pointed his finger at me instead. The next time you don’t hand in an essay on time to me, he said, I’ll give you two hours' detention. So, little old me here, basking in the attention of the whole class, and trying, I suppose, to impress the gorgeous Helen Mason (you would have done, too, believe me – we all did), I stood up – bloody hell, I even stood up! I said, haven’t I been brave, then, Sir! But all he said was, you haven’t been brave at all, Jenkinson. You couldn’t have been brave, he said, because you hadn’t known the consequences of your actions at the time you took them. No; you’ve just been stupid, Jenkinson, he said. Extremely stupid. And that’s when the whole class just sort of came to a stop.
And that’s what I mean, about those decisions. Are they still decisions? It’s the same thing as the point old beardy-features was making about being brave, isn’t it? I mean - doesn’t there have to be some conscious level of understanding, some plane of awareness, or whatever it’s called? Do you see what I mean?
And then there are some decisions that are only easy afterwards.
It’s well before my time, I know, but I believe somebody, some record-executive bloke somewhere, once turned down The Beatles for a contract when they were unknowns; and that some other bloke, somewhere in America, once turned down the opportunity of a contract to make computers, because he thought there was no future in them. I’m sure there’s been loads more examples throughout the course of history, like a General in some war or other somewhere, who didn’t attack when he could have done, and changed the whole course of history, and that. It’s just that those are the two that spring to mind at the moment. Only, I’ve got a lot of thinking to do at the moment. A lot of contemplating. About other things.
Anyway; those are just a couple of examples of the sort of decision-making situations I mean; about it only being easy afterwards. You know - when you’ve got time, and you sit and reflect on what happened, and why it was that you didn’t do what you could’ve done, to have avoided getting yourself into all the bloody mess you’ve ended up getting yourself into.
That’s what I’ve got now. Time. To reflect. Loads of time. And a bloody mess that I’ve ended up getting myself into. I dare say that those two blokes’ poor decision-making on The Beatles and computers lost them an absolute fortune, and, I dare say, the respect of themselves and their peers as well; but I bet they redeemed themselves by making shed-loads of money on something else afterwards. Whereas me, little old me here, I’m just lying here, covered from near head-to-foot in miles of bandages and plaster, punctuated only by an intravenous drip. Without any self-respect. And, I’m bloody-well sure, none from anybody else, either.
Men are competitive and stubborn, aren’t they? And women, cautious and supportive. I think this is something Mr. Johnson would agree with – it’s a sort of biological thing, isn’t it? Something in our genes. Rather than something we’ve made a decision about, I mean. And then it all gets even more difficult. A can of worms (Mr. Johnson would know a lot about them). A big can of worms. It comes down to things like responsibility. Responsibility for our actions; or the taking thereof, to be precise. Should I be taking responsibility for the actions that got me here? I mean, were they the actions of my genetics, or of my decision-making ?
Nobody can deny my bravery, surely; for I knew the dangers involved this time, Mr. Johnson. But that’s where my being a man steps in to the debate, and opens up that can. Biological, socially-moréd, or genetic; however you, I, or Mr. Johnson might describe the nature of my decision-making, that is what took over. The maleness within me, that couldn’t accept the dangers; couldn’t accept, that they were better, stronger, faster than me. Couldn’t accept, that they could beat me.
So, you will say, as you dance confidently around the escaping crescendo of worms; I made a decision, you will say. One based upon an acknowledgement of the circumstances, after a due consideration of the facts, a weighing up of the costs and benefits, a regard for the consequences. And, you will say, one driven by stupidity. Furthermore, I hear you say, as you leave the worms trailing in the dark shadow of your wake, one that I must take responsibility for. And, finally, as you disappear towards a worm-free horizon, that you have absolutely no sympathy for me at all; none whatsoever.
These things and more, this can of worms and many others, the flattened miles of white worms that bind me; I have time to consider them all, now. And to tell you, in your absence, that I don’t really want your sympathy. And that’s an absolute decision, although it is probably influenced by the maleness within me, that decides I must not be seen to be needy, or emotional.
Yes. I could have used crampons.
Yes. I was offered them.
Yes. I do know what they are designed to do.
Yes. I am an inexperienced climber.
Yes. The Alps can be treacherous.
Yes. Jenny did warn me about the consequences.
Yes. Jenny could have refused to continue, and turned back.
No. She can’t take responsibility for my actions.
Yes. I was lucky the trees broke my fall and probably saved my life.
No. I know this is not good for Anglo-French relations.
It’s easy to say that I shouldn’t have declined the offer of the crampons, that it was really just another one of those easy decisions. Easy-peasy. But it’s become just another one of those decisions which are only easy afterwards. After the event. After falling 300 feet. After breaking both my legs, my right arm, three of my ribs and crushing six of my vertebrae. And now I’ve got that time I talked about before, the time to sit – or lie, in my case - and reflect on what happened, and why it was that I didn’t do what I could’ve done, to have avoided getting myself into all the bloody mess I’ve ended up getting myself into.
Time to just lie here and consider the maleness within me. Until Jenny wakes up, that is. I can just about see her out of the corner of my left eye if I bring my jaw down and to the left a bit, before the throbbing, unbearable, searing French pain sets in. She hasn’t moved from that chair for nearly three days now. I don’t deserve such loyalty. She’s resting now, bless her; taking care of herself. That’s the woman-ness within her, that is.
The Madness in Me by Robert Marriot was read by Will Goodhand at the Liars' League Decline & Fall event on Tuesday 8 September 2009 at The Wheatsheaf in London.
Robert Marriott has been writing for a number of years, and is previously unpublished. Most of his writing is short stories, although he would like to find someone to write comedy-drama with - if anybody here tonight is looking for the same, you can either chew on the serendipity and spit it out, or come and introduce yourself to him!
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