Two Sizes Too Small

That afternoon I knew what I wanted to talk about: I wanted to continue our discussion of force.

Every time we talked about it in the office it made sense, but when it came time to act, I couldn't do it. As attractive as it sounded in theory, in reality I couldn't keep up.

-I'm getting the feeling that if I don't use a little force once in a while, I won't be able to get along with my life. Honestly, I don't see how someone - anyone, achieves that goal.

-You're right about one thing - said the Fat Man - I've spent the better part of the last twenty years trying. I haven't always succeeded. I think it's the same for everyone. Pacifism is a challenge, a practice, a discipline. It takes training.

At first, it seemed impossible. What would they think of me if I started missing meetings? If I wasn't listening attentively to people even when I didn't give a shit what they were saying? If I didn't thank the men whom I despised? If I just refused to do things I didn't want to do? If I only worked four days a week and gave up the extra pay? If I stopped shaving? If I let myself smoke until I couldn't quit? If...?

-I wrote something once about the idea of necessary force. It's a social construct. Part of a fixed ideology which draws a bleak picture of humankind. If we are, in fact, lazy, evil, selfish and neglectful, then it's necessary for us to force ourselves to be better.

But Damian, is that really our nature?

I was fascinated, not just by what Jorge was saying, but by my own fantasy of what it would be like to live life in a perpetual state of relaxation, never fighting myself, calm, never rushing, never questioning myself.

But, what's the first step?

-First - he continued, as if he were reading my mind- you have to rid yourself of a misconception that we are taught from birth - A fundamental part of our culture:

You must struggle in order to achieve anything of true value.

As the Americans like to say: that's bullshit. Anyone, regardless of their perception of reality can sense that, but we structure our lives as though it were an absolute truth.

Some years ago, I described a clinical syndrome. It's never been recorded in any of the medical or psychological journals, but we all suffer from it. I call it "the two sizes too small" syndrome, and here's why...

A man went into a shoe store, and was approached by the salesman.

-How may I help you, sir?

-I'd like a pair of black shoes like the ones you have in the display.

-No problem. Let's see, I'd say you're about a size 12, right?

-No. A 10 thank you.

-I apologize, but I've been doing this a long time, and you might be able to squeeze into an 11, but not a 10.

-Size 10, thank you.

-Please, can I measure your foot at least?

-Measure whatever you want, but I need a 10.

-The salesman pulled out one of those funny devices they use to measure feet, he measured and with tremendous satisfaction pronounced "size 12!"

-Tell me, the man said, who is paying for these shoes? You or me?

-You

-Great. In that case, I'd like you to bring me a size 10.

-The salesman, surprised and dismayed, left to get the shoes. As he was pouring over the boxes, it dawned on him: the shoes aren't for him, they're a gift!

-Here you go, size 10 black.

-Can I have a shoehorn please, he said.

-You're going to put them on!?

-Of course!

-They're for you?

-Yes! A Shoehorn please?

The shoehorn was essential. Without it he couldn't get his foot inside that shoe. After various attempts and as many ridiculous positions, he managed to get his whole foot in it.

He winced and groaned as he took a few paces around the room.

-Ok. Great, I'll take them.

The salesman cringed at the thought of the man's toes being crushed against the fronts of those shoes.

-Can I wrap them for you?

-No thanks. I'll wear them.

The man left and walked, as best he could, three blocks over to the bank where he worked as a teller. At four o' clock, having endured six hours with his feet in these shoes, his face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, and tears started streaming down his face.

His coworker at the next window over had been watching the whole time and started getting really worried.

-What's going on? Are you sick?

-No. It's my shoes.

-What's wrong with your shoes?

-They're tight..

-Why? Did they get wet or something?

-No. They're two sizes too small.

-Are they yours?

-Yes.

-But, your feet! Don't they hurt?

-They're killing me.

-?

Let me explain - he said.

He gulped, and then he said,

-My life doesn't give me much satisfaction. Lately, to be honest, I'm rarely happy.

-Ok

-I am hurting myself with these shoes. It's terrible ... but, in a few hours, when I get home and take them off ... imagine how good that will feel? It will feel incredible! Can you imagine?

-It seems crazy, right? It is crazy, Damian.

This story is made up to serve a purpose. My stance is extreme too, but it's worth the trouble of trying on the suit to see how it feels.

I believe that nothing of true value can be obtained by force.

I left with the last sentence he spoke ringing in my ears, offensive and rude,

Force... is for constipation.

The Doorman at the Horhouse

I was half-way done with my program, and like many students, I suddenly decided to reconsider my decision to study. So, I talked to my therapist about it, and I began to discover that I was the one pressuring myself, forcing myself to continue.

Here's the problem - the Fat Man said - As long as you keep thinking that you have to study and get your degree, it will be impossible for you to enjoy it. And if there isn't at least a tiny bit of joy in it, parts of your personality will play tricks on you.

Jorge had recited this so many times that he didn't believe in force. He said that nothing useful could be achieved by it - but in this case, I think he was wrong. What about the exception that upholds the rule?

-But Jorge, I can't stop studying - I said - In the world that I want to live in, I’m nobody without a degree. It's like a guaranty.

-Could be. - said the Fat Man. - Do you know what the Talmud is?

-Yes.

-There's a story in the Talmud about a common man: the doorman at the horhouse.

No job was more looked down upon or worse paying in the entire city than doorman at the horhouse... but, what else could he do?

The reality was that he had never learned to read or write, he didn't do much else. He had no other jobs. The only reason he had this one was because his father had been the doorman before him, and his grandfather, and so on.

The horhouse had been passed down from fathers to sons for decades, the position at the door included.

The elderly owner died one day, and his restless, entrepreneurial son was put in charge. The young man decided to modernize things.

He remodeled the rooms and arranged a meeting with the staff to reveal his new plans.

This is what he said to the doorman: I want to know how many couples enter each day, and I want you to stop one out of every five to find out how they were treated and what they thought could be improved. You’ll come to see me once a week with your report and your comments.

The doorman was trembling. He wasn’t lazy, but…

-I would like nothing more than to do that for you sir-

stammering – but I … I can’t read or write.

-Oh I see. I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t pay another person just to make the reports, and I don’t have time to wait for you to learn to read and write, I’m sure you understand…

-But sir, you can’t lay me off. I’ve done this my whole life, and so did my father and my grandfather…

The young man cut him off.

-Look, I understand how you feel, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry. We’ll give you a severance, that is, some money to help you until you find another job. Good luck.

And, with that, the young man turned around and left.

The doorman felt like his world had been turned upside down. He never thought this could happen. He went back to his house, unemployed for the first time in his life.

-What am I gonna do?

He remembered that sometimes, when things at the horhouse would break, like beds… or wardrobes, they would give him a hammer and nails and have him fix them as best he could. That might make a good temporary job, he thought, until something better comes along.

He rummaged through his house looking for tools, but all he found was a couple of rusty old nails and a set of pliers. He needed a complete toolbox, and he could use some of his severance to buy one.

When he got to the front door, he remembered that there was no hardware store in town. The nearest one was two days away by mule… “What do I care?” he thought. So he set off anyway.

He returned with a beautiful new set of tools. Before he could take off his boots, there was a knock at the front door. It was his neighbor.

-Do you have a hammer that I could borrow?

-Sure! I just bought one, but it’s for my new job… I just got fired.

-Oh… I’ll bring it back tomorrow as early as possible?

-Fine.

The next morning, as promised, his neighbor came knocking at the door.

-Look, I’m still not finished, why don’t you just sell it to me?

-I can’t, I need it for my new job, and the nearest hardware store is two days away by mule!

-I’ll make you a deal – said the neighbor – I’ll pay for the trip.

That would actually give him a job to do for the next four days…

-Okay

When he got back there was a man waiting on his doorstep.

-Hi, Did you sell that hammer to my neighbor?

-Yep.

-I need some tools. I’ll pay the cost of the trip plus a little extra, on top of the price of the tools. Not everyone has time to make that trip.

-The doorman opened up his toolbox, and his neighbor removed a clamp, a screwdriver, a hammer and a chisel! He paid as promised, and left.

If that was true, a lot of people could use his service.

On the next trip he decided to take a risk and buy some extra tools.

He spread the word around town, and his neighbors stopped traveling all that way to get their tools.

Once a week, the tool salesman would go buy whatever they needed. He quickly realized that if he found a place to store his tools, he could make fewer trips. So, he rented a small storage shed in town.

In time, he widened the door. He added a window with a display. He transformed the shed into a hardware store: the town’s first.

The customers left happy and came back. He didn’t even have to travel anymore. He bought so much from the store in the neighboring town that they started sending him his orders for free.

All of the workmen who lived closer to his store than the other hardware store started shopping there too.

One day it dawned on him that his friend, who was a metal worker, could make hammer heads for him… and pliers and chisels….and screws and nails...!

To make a long story short, ten years later, through honesty and hard work, he became a millionaire manufacturing tools. He became the most powerful businessman in the region.

So powerful, in fact, that one day, to mark the start of the school year, he decided to donate a new school to the town. It would be a modern school where they would teach up-to-date skills, and the arts, in addition to reading and writing.

When it was finished, the mayor and the superintendent organized a ribbon cutting ceremony and dinner in honor of the founder.

Just before dessert, the mayor made a toast and handed the businessman the keys to the city. The superintendent embraced him and exclaimed: It is with tremendous pride and gratitude that we ask that you do us the honor of being the first to sign the school’s charter.

-The honor is mine, he said. Nothing would make me happier… but I don’t know how to read or write.

-You? –balked the superintendent. You don’t know how to read or write? How did you create this – empire of industry – without knowing how to read or write!? It’s unbelievable! Imagine what heights you might have attained had you known!

-I can tell you – he responded calmly – If I had known how to read and write, I would be the doorman at the horhouse.