The Big Kiss

Knocked down and dazed, I was fortunate to escape the throng with little more than scrapes and bruises. The tumult rumbled away across the great lawn as I brushed myself off, reflexively planning a return to my place with the others. And yet, I was hindered by inertia or self-doubt, or a gnawing distraction I could not quite place.

With a sense of waking from long sleep, I began to scan my surroundings. The throng, a small human mountain, now safely distanced, grunted, punched, grabbed, and yelled. It seemed both familiar to me and deeply disturbing. The number of humans in it was difficult to gauge, but they formed a conical mass, some 30 yards in diameter at the base and ten humans high, foot-to-shoulder, to the peak. There, on top, tottered a sturdy looking woman, face triumphant, silver scarf tossed about her neck, lending a finishing touch to the overall impression of a great, colorful candy Kiss.

What they were doing I knew well enough, having participated in the rite for as long as I could recall (I was mildly troubled to realize I could recall nothing prior): they were struggling to get to the top. I recalled for a moment my adopted strategies: slip to the outside in order to climb with fewer impediments; climb counter-clockwise, always placing weight on several others at a time; husband energies for short rushes; work cooperatively when the opportunity presented; bully, punch, kick, threaten, and bite, when necessary. The thought of intentionally abandoning the mass had never occurred to me. Perhaps familiarity bred habit and retarded the imagination. Or maybe it was just fear.

The woman suddenly tumbled, disappearing sideways into the throng. The struggle seemed to intensify near the peak until another took her place, thrusting out his chest while howling at the sky in exaltation. His shining face turned to search for admiration from those below, but they seemed to barely notice him, preoccupied as they were with their struggles. If their lack of admiration troubled him, it was not apparent. He busied himself securing the scarf and steadying himself, like a proud Viking standing at the prow of his longship. I did feel the envy in me, though, and I began to edge back toward the throng.

My steps were interrupted by the unnatural braying sounds of a young man as he passed between me and the mass. Racing along on his hands and feet, rear end high in the air, kicking now and again, he seemed unaware he was doing anything out of the ordinary. He stopped to munch on the grass.

A sense of indignation filled me as I observed his outrageous behavior. I determined to run over to give him a hearty kick and a tongue lashing. I began to formulate a speech. As I formulated clever thoughts and embellishments, my mood shifted from anger to smug satisfaction at the imagined effect. Then, in this more serene state of mind, I began to consider the possible dangers of confronting a man playing the part of an ass. These new visions dampened my purpose.

I halted and glanced about to see whether anyone was observing my indecision. I was startled to discover other activities on the field which, like the ass, had nothing at all to do with the activity of the great throng.

A young man sat with a young woman on a spread blanket. Caught up in laughter and happy discourse, their eyes locked in mutual bliss. My cheeks burned, disturbed by the intimacy. Then, to my surprise, the girl stood up, took the man by the hand, and led him back into the fray. He glanced back once at the now rumpled blanket, but she tugged on his arm encouragingly and, in a moment they could no longer be distinguished in the throng. I looked back at the blanket, rumpled and abandoned.

Not far beyond the blanket I noticed a similar, larger shape. I cautiously approached to take a closer look. There lay the body of an old man, recently trampled. He was bloody and his body was oddly contorted. I could see no sign of life in him. The rules of the game say you are to avoid being trampled. Had he neglected the rules? Maybe it was just his time. “Poor chap,” I thought.

I had never seen anyone in this condition before, though I had sometimes felt myself stepping on what may have bodies. I had wondered about that at those times…briefly. Focus on the goal was another rule of the game. Mostly I recalled annoyance whenever it happened—it was so difficult to maintain balance on such uneven surfaces.

I wondered what had caused this fellow to fall. I looked at my feet. Dried blood was evident there. I wondered if I had been one of those who had stepped on him. The odds seemed small but I felt an uneasiness…

“What’s the matter, pal? The old man’s had a a rough day of it, aye? Well, if there are winners there have to be losers…god’s will, gods’ will. I was watchin’ ‘im. Not much fight in him…just takin’ up space, really…”

I knew the speaker’s voice somehow, and I knew his themes, but the price the old man had paid seemed rather steep, as I continued to look at his distorted stillness.

I looked in the direction of the voice. It came from a well-tanned man wearing reflective aviator glasses. Deep in cushions, he seemed like he was about to be swallowed by his lounge chair. A too large blue-and-white beach umbrella, with tassels flapping in the breeze, created a shaded circle out of which he peered. Droplets of condensation ran down the glass in his hand. He sipped at it through a long, looping, rather comical, yellow straw. He was dressed in white, though there were no socks between his feet and his white canvas deck shoes. Each shoe sported an embossed blue anchor on the tongue, unfettered by shoestrings.

A woman with exaggerated curves wiggled and giggled, and batted her eyes in my direction. Then she plopped herself onto the lap of the tanned man. He grunted, made a face as if he were about to scold her, and then laughed mightily. She played with one ear while whispering in the other. She giggled again as he raised his eyebrows at her. “Ahem, well, hold that thought, Sweetheart. I must tend to this gentleman, as you can see…

“She keeps me young, you know.” He referred to the girl, but his face had turned to the great mass and its noisy struggle. For a while I watched him. Finally, I ventured a comment, surprised at my own contrarian tone, “I’m not sure I see any point to it any more.”

“Point?” he responded quickly, as if he knew my mind and was only waiting for the words to pass my lips. “You need a point? Well, there’s no more obvious point than that one: that fellow on top there—he makes a rather dashing point. Isn’t he splendid?”

“Yes, but in a moment he’ll be tumbling to the ground, maybe to be crushed like that guy over there.” I pointed in the direction of the old man…but he was gone. Only a little golf cart, partially obscured by a blue cloud of exhaust, could be seen, hurrying away from the spot the old man had lain.

“You see? Clean as a whistle,” the man noted cheerfully. I examined his face, as if that might explain how he could be so cavalier. “Well, I mean, he died honorably and all that.”

“Yes, he died honorably,” I replied automatically, feeling a twinge of shame for abandoning the society of my calling. I felt a second twinge of shame for agreeing.

“And if you don’t like it, well, don’t blame me. I don’t make the rules. I only train the cheerleaders.” With this comment, he swept an arm in a wide circle, and I became aware for the first time that we were located in the bottom of a great bowl, which towered over us to such a height I was not sure I could see its rim. The bowl was utterly packed with passionate observers, screaming themselves hoarse. The cacophony made it impossible to determine what they were shouting about, whether they rooted for individuals, were calling for blood, or even if they, themselves, were being goaded with cattle prods.

“They’re cheering for me, of course,” he offered. I looked at him, wondering if he were out of his mind. He returned my gaze with a fixed, Cheshire grin.

“Who does make the rules?”

“Make the rules? Who cares?!”

I stared at him witheringly. This seemed to unnerve him a little.

“You see that pretentious old fart on the far sideline?” I saw a figure, ancient, erect and androgynous. “Well, that one deserves all your bitterness. This game is his brainchild. You’re right, of course; what a mess. Sad. Sure, everyone eventually loses…” He kept right on talking but I was on the run now, mind focused only on the pretentious one.

I ran as fast as I could for hundreds of yards until I finally stood near him. Breathing heavily, I challenged, “You are the great sadist, then?” My barb elicited not so much as a blink. Perhaps I saw a twinkle in his eye.

“It’s amazing the insight one can gain in the space of one half hour,” he finally responded with sarcasm, though his tone was kind. His attention remained fixed on the competitors. “You can stare at a thing for the longest time, live with a thing, and still have no idea what you’re looking at or living with. It’s the most common thing in the world, really.”

“Is that so?” I snapped.

“It’s not that anything is hidden, really. It’s just that you have to understand in order to see. Pearls-to-pigs and all. I mean, the pig sees the pearl as clearly as you do, but to you the pearl is a thing of beauty, a thing of great value. For the pig it’s just a shiny, worthless rock. And, the pig is right, of course. The pearl is worthless to the pig.

My head was beginning to hurt. “I don’t see what pearls and pigs have to do with it.”

“Exactly. That’s because you’re a pig.

“If so, I’m getting ready to give you a piece of tusk!”

“Yes, I suppose you are. That is, if you could. Okay, let’s try this, then: the object of the game is not to get to the top but to keep others from being crushed.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous!”

He didn’t respond. I felt myself engulfed in a cloud of silence. There were no changes in the surroundings, but the sounds were excluded. His words chased through my head, busy, bright, pushing aside all other thoughts. Each time I mulled over his idea, the more it seemed I had always known them to be true. The thought was utterly perverse and irrefutable. I turned to watch the game with him. It occurred to me that, without players playing by the rules he had just described, it would have been utterly impossible for anyone to climb to the top.

“Can you not detect the heroes?” I was asked.

“I think I see some who aren’t really trying…”

“What? No. Those are the ones who are trying quite the most.”

“I mean, they are not trying to get to the top.”

“Well, exactly. Yes, that’s right.”

“But they seem to be the most miserable of the bunch.”

“You would have to be much closer to the the Big Kiss to see that is not so.”

“But look at them; they’re the ones who are going to be exhausted first. They’re just going to get trampled.”

“It tends to run that way.”

“Why would they do that, then?”

“Well, you can see that the prize is but a trinket.”

I coveted that trinket. “It is the glory of excellence…best in the world…”

“ You have noticed how brief the glory, right? And just what is the glory in being better than everyone else? Tell me.”

I couldn’t think of an answer, though it seemed intuitive enough to me. “Isn’t it intuitive? Isn’t it instinctive?”

He ignored my question. “They want something more.”

“What, to get out of the game?”

“Well, sure, but, really, it’s not about getting out but about actually getting in.”

“Getting into what? Looks to me like they’re getting into broken heaps.”

“A life will be spent. Will you spend it on a silver scarf?”

For a moment I could think of only the crazy guy, jumping about like a jackass. Maybe that was his way out. “I just I want to opt out.”

“You didn’t pick the game; the game picked you.”

“What if I’m a coward?”

“You’re not. The game picked you.”