The Incompetent Competent Man
I’m no longer a competent person. Let me explain.
We sold our house. I have been set loose in the regular world with little more than my wits. Wits aren’t all that useful out here anymore, at least as far as I can observe in the Walmart. For a very long time, I was able to deal with more or less everything of a practical nature using these wits, but also backed up with a substantial practical infrastructure that my wits had blackmailed me into assembling. If my wife told me the stove didn’t get hot, or the toilet didn’t make the brown trout disappear, or there was a doorknob in her hand that was supposed to be affixed to the door, I could fix it. I could usually simply go down stairs and rummage around through the tools and the assorted leftover building materials I kept like a magpie, and make repairs before divorces entered the conversation.
All that is gone now. If there’s a table saw downstairs, I don’t know about it, and I wonder why they’d need one to cut the cupcakes they bake down there. I’m as underequipped to accomplish any practical task as a baby in the bullrushes. We’re shedding everything useful that would differentiate us from the lower primates, like chimpanzees and state senators. I barely have more tools than Pothinus.
I’ve sold a lot of our furniture at the Hallowell Antique Mall. We’ve always liked going to Hallowell anyway. We figured we’d make it pay a little dividend. The nice folks who run the place lauded our selection, especially since it ran out the door quickly and made them some money, too. I mentioned that I made most of the furniture, and by the expressions on their faces, they were disinclined to believe me. Being thought a liar can be a form of compliment, if you squint hard enough. They’re not used to dealing with competent men, and I don’t fit their image of one. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I also wrote the book we’ve been selling in our booth. They must have figured I went to the book signing and threatened to break the author’s fingers if he didn’t sign a big pile of them. But I’ll never make another piece of furniture, and I know it, and when it’s all gone, it’s all gone. What difference could it make that I could, because I can’t.
I think competence is more than intellect. Logistics enter into it. So you’re smart enough to know how to nail off a 4×8 sheet of 5/8″ plywood on some roof rafters. If you can’t muscle the sheet up there in the first place, or you forgot your hammer on the ground, what does it matter? And I appear to have permanently dropped my hammer.
There are many lists of things a competent man should be able to tackle. Feel free to refer to my very own list, called 25 Many Things Every Many Man Should Know How To Do while you’re waiting for your parole officer to finish with the guy in line in front of you. Most lists are like that one. Kinda silly. The most popular list on the intertunnel is one by the science fiction writer Robert Heinlein. According to a guy who had a pencil thin mustache, even though he was never in a silent movie, this is what being a competent man should entail:
A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.
Okey Dokey then. Let’s run it down. I’ve changed diapers. Not my own, yet, thank goodness. On small versions of myself, though. I’ve invaded Maine pretty effectively, so there’s that. I’ve brought hogs to Central America once, and wished they were cows, or maybe goldfish, or anything more cooperative. I’ve managed to sail a 24′ sailboat without drowning anything but my bank account. I’ve designed buildings, of course, and built them, too. I always remembered not to draw the walls in a circle, which is more than Mr. Heinlein can claim, so score one for me.
I’m not too keen on sonnets, but I’ve written things that made strong men and English teachers weep, and beautiful women annoy any husbands they might have by pointing out, “He makes furniture, too, you know,” and show them a doorknob they have in their hand. I’ve not only balanced accounts, I’ve juggled books. I’ve built many walls, one or two that were almost plumb. I’ve never set a bone, but I’ve volunteered to break a few after a few too many beers, mostly my own. I’ve continued to annoy the dying right up until the moment they expire by talking to them, which is much the same thing as comforting them. It may be superior, now that I think of it, because it made them less depressed to choose the hereafter over one more tedious story.
I’ve taken orders, of course. All men can claim that, who are born of mothers. I’ve given lots of orders over the years, too. Several of them were followed. This mostly resulted in disaster, but the point stands. I’ve said, “Jump,” and people have responded, “How come?”
I’ve solved many equations. Most equations remind me of IKEA instructions. You figger and jigger and wrestle with them, and follow along as best you can, but there’s always something left over that isn’t supposed to be. I’ve established an equation junk drawer to hold all these unlikely remainders, a virtual version of that drawer everyone’s got in their kitchen filled with IKEA wrenches and grommets. I call it a computer.
I’ve analyzed many new problems, all of my own making and intractable. But I analyzed the hell out of them. I’ve pitched a lot of manure of various kinds, including to my wife when I first met her. I’ve programmed a computer to meet my particular needs, which mostly entails enough screen real estate to show four hundred folders and pdf icons, all of which I’m about to get to.
I’ve cooked several tasty meals. Then again, I’ve cooked many, many meals, and several is not the same thing as many, many. I know, I looked it up. I’ve fought in the most efficient way possible, which is to ask ruffians to step outside, and then locking the door from the inside when they do. I’ve died gallantly many times, screaming “Leeroy Jenkins!” every time. Other than that, I’ve always ascribed to the George Patton method of letting the other poor, dumb bastard die for his country.
So yeah, maybe specialization is for insects. Then again, I have a lot in common with insects. Both insects and I are often carrying crumbs around on our person, for example. But I also know another quote, one from Thomas Wolfe: “If a man has a talent and cannot use it, he has failed.” So, yeah, Bob, you might say I’m a competent man, but I can’t even find any screwdrivers in our apartment, so I guess I’m a competent failure now. I can live with it. If you can live with that mustache, I can simply move every time a circuit breaker pops from now on.
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