The Perfect Island

By Joseph Andrew Jones

Set in Chicago at the turn of the millennia, The Perfect Island is the story of four young adults – Stephan, Tom, Kelly and Matt - who join an environmental group with hopes to change the world. Through their experiences they become close friends and endure great sorrow, yet ultimately choose different paths in their lives. In an age of environmental uncertainty and a world in which the truth about climate change is often dictated by politics and the media, the four characters struggle (as many of us do) to understand what is happening to our planet, how much of it is due to mankind, and what they can do to make a difference (if anything). Each character in The Perfect Island represents the different voices in our own heads and the different choices we can make toward our planet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365865510

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The Perfect Island

The Perfect Island

An Eco-Novel

_________________________________________________

Joseph Andrew Jones

2017

Copyright © 2017 by Joseph Andrew Jones

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2017

ISBN 978-1-365-86551-0

Print version: ISBN 978-1-365-71856-4

Joseph A. Jones

610 S. Saint Asaph Street

Alexandria, VA 22314

Follow the author on Twitter @josephajonesphd

To Jennifer

Chapter 1

The airplane tunneled through the clear, frigid atmosphere, its trail a white streak in a sea of blue. Sitting in seat 13A, beside a white-haired, elderly woman who slept peacefully in her blue airline blanket, Stephan looked heavy-eyed out the faded window at the Earth spread below, painted in greens and blacks, reds and yellows. His gaze scanned the treetops, mountain peaks, and lakes, images that appeared to Stephan impossibly existent. His conscious danced, awed by the diversity and mystery of the passive, yet living, geography. The patterns and colors of the organic and inorganic landscape crisscrossed like an impossible puzzle he could only look upon but could not solve.

Stephan’s hovering vision followed the brown path of a grand river that flowed through rolling hills and flat farmland, far underneath the speeding plane, his imagination a raft of thought drifting along its winding course. Among the hills a few random dusty patches of white hinted at the first signs of winter for the Pacific Northwest. Gradually, the river and countryside became a duller hue and a thick shroud of opaque smoke veiled the landscape. Having flown this route more than a dozen times, he recognized the now familiar industrial complex and its soaring, guilty smokestacks that emitted the noxious cloud obstructing his view. The countenance alone of the massive power plant choked life out of the sky, land, and river, sickening Stephan as though the dense grayish air was filling his lungs and poisoning him to the point where he might suffocate.

The sight of the polluting plant unfortunately only added to Stephan’s general unhappiness at being on another long-distance trip. Though he did so several times throughout the year, Stephan never cared much for travelling in airplanes—cramped and uncomfortable seats, bodies forced together in awkward intimacy, inhaling the wretched lavatory air. He cared least for the long-distance flights, monotonous coasting shaken by periodic and unexpected turbulence, where even the least claustrophobic would become cramped and restless. These flights always brought the possibility that he would be dragged into an extended conversation with some stranger, forced to go through social niceties and act as though each moment was nothing but pure agony for him. Yet, he endured flying, as it was a necessary evil for keeping the job he enjoyed and the salary that allowed him the lifestyle he desired, though not extravagant. For him to work on his projects and to meet with his clients, some with offices half way around the world, travelling by plane was the most efficient and therefore the only choice in the eyes of his employer.

With each plane Stephan boarded, one of his few respites was the visage of the vast panorama below, of an Earth that he loved with a passion greater than any he had felt for another human being. It was the type of love often saved, sheltered from the harrowing world, in the hope of one day releasing that love to share with another person. He could excuse as an unavoidable reality the danger and pain caused by natural disaster, or justify it as Earth’s vengeance upon a careless species that has forgotten its subservience to nature as its omnipotent god. The Earth could do no wrong in his eyes. The contradiction of flying in a plane and loving the environment was becoming for him a hypocrisy that was hard for him to justify.

Stephan was jolted from his reverie when the plane dipped slightly. Every sudden bump of intolerable turbulence caused Stephan to clench the muscles of his abdomen, grabbing white-knuckled at the fake leather armrests that feigned safety in the face of pending doom. He glanced at the peaceful blue bundle next to him, mystified at her ability to sleep through such jarring motion. As he fought through his discomfort, Stephan peered out his small porthole at the planet below, and his eyes grew wide with inspiration. He envisioned himself floating outside the plane, above the world, like an eagle, or, more delicately, like a cloud. Free from his cell, he could fly about, able to choose where he traveled, able to select those parts of the planet that were least damaged by humanity, green places absent the scars of roads and blue oceans without boats, oil slicks and floating debris.

He daydreamed of being on the ground, traveling across great expanses of wilderness and climbing jagged peaks, discovering lost caves and pristine lakes while hiking hidden, forested paths. He imagined enduring challenging terrains to find incredible scenes of the Earth, places rarely viewed by the human eye, following the path that Lewis and Clark trekked west across the continent nearly two hundred years earlier.

Like a cherished gift from an adored mother, he believed he owned this Earth. It was his, and he needed to protect it. He hoped to never lose this world of absolute beauty and splendid adventure and unending youthful life. To Stephan, the Earth was the meaning of life itself, the holder of purpose and immortality, the source of all of our power and meaning. He grew ever more dismayed with each passing day at the damage caused to the water, to the air, to his passion, by humans and their creation of lifeless products, their never-ending consumption, and their unceasing production of waste. A malignant sadness resided within him, entrenched in his heart, a cancer, fed by Stephan's mistrust of the human capacity to feel empathy for Mother Nature, and driven by the belief that most of the people on this planet could care less what their actions did to the world around them.

Hours later, far beyond the toxic power plant, past hundreds of other plants and factories and sprawling highways and strip malls, past a multitude of cars and illuminated refineries, past gutted and abandoned buildings and acres of treeless lots, Stephan thought ahead to what awaited him at the end of this horrid flight. As his plane bumped and skidded like a skipping stone across the drifting clouds, shifting ever downward toward O’Hare, Stephan envisioned the jammed traffic along the Dan Ryan, with its black-stained snow and gray mist of exhaust rising like clouds of freed demons from cars and buses. They would be joined by thousands of little power plants spitting out their own choking smoke into the rivers of precious oxygen that flowed through the lungs and veins of the millions of human bodies that populated the Earth.

What kind of a world do I live in? He thought, his whitened fingers clenching the cold and lifeless armrests as though his survival depended on it. What kind of hell have we created? When we will no longer be able to survive this pollution? Will we wake up from this nightmare in time?

Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve begun our initial decent into Chicago and expect to have you on the ground in about 15 minutes. The co-pilot’s words parted the mists of Stephan's reflections, pulling him out of his circuitous thoughts. We thank you for flying with us today and hope that you have a pleasant stay in Chicago or wherever your travels take you.

Where the bobbing and shaking of the plane had failed, the deep alto voice of the co-pilot succeeded, causing the blue bundle beside Stephan to stir to life. A tiny head ventured out, its turquoise eyes turning to look at the young man to their left.

What a pleasant flight. I am so sorry that I drifted off to sleep as you were telling me about your work. I find it so easy to sleep while in the air these days. It was nice flying with you, Stephan, the now awake and smiling woman said.

And with you as well, Ms. Rice, Stephan answered, lowering his head and briefly closing his eyes, bowing in courtesy as though to a woman of nobility, displaying an act of chivalry that Stephan felt was nearly dead in today’s society. After hearing about your visit with your grandchildren, it sounds like you needed your rest. I wish I could do that—just can’t seem to relax on planes.

Oh, was it a bumpy flight? I had no idea. Well, anyway, try when you are in your 80s. It's much easier. It’s much easier to fall asleep almost anywhere, Ms. Rice said with a laugh. I hope you enjoy your return home. Be careful out on those roads. Chicago winters can be wretched.

You as well. Is someone coming to pick you up? Do you need a ride?

Yes. And no. But thank you. My niece is coming to get me. Well, she and her husband Bill. What a bore that man is. If only she had met you 5 years ago!

Stephan blushed. You are too kind. But I suppose I can be a bore as well sometimes. I’m glad they are coming to get you. I’d hate to see you try driving tonight, or take a cab or ride the L.

I can assure you, the man is more of a bore than you could ever be. I suppose that is her choice and she loves him, though. You have someone you are returning home to?

Well, not at the present moment. No, I’m single and am heading home to my bachelor pad. But that is okay, I suppose. I’m not sure I could handle being in a relationship right now. Stephan said, knowing full well he was not being completely honest. He was in no rush to be in a relationship…that was true. But the idea of returning to an empty apartment did bring him down a little.

Well, Stephan, I just realized that I need to write ‘Thank You’ cards for the family I just visited. I want to be able to send them out first thing in the morning. Have a pleasant rest of your flight and safe travels home, Mrs. Rice said, reaching under the seat in front of her to pull out her bag.

Absolutely. You as well. Stay warm. It was very nice to meet you.

Stephan turned and peered through the frosted window once again as the jet broke through the floating cloud-line, the glittering twinkle of the mysterious Chicago night blanketing the land below like a golden web. His tightened stomach relaxed as his breathing eased into a more normal pace as the possibility of being once again on the ground settled in, and the fear of plummeting 23,000 feet retreated into the dark recesses of Stephan’s mind. The plane glided downward toward the runway, then landed gently, followed by a reverse thrust that pushed Stephan and Mrs. Rice slightly forward in their seats. As the plane taxied, Stephan killed time skimming through an article on bourbon in the complimentary airline magazine as Mrs. Rice continued to write her cards. Once parked at the gate, Stephan gathered his things to debark, thanking and saying goodbye to Mrs. Rice once again. As he walked along the aisle and through the jet bridge, his thoughts turned toward his drive home, his return to his apartment, with no one there to greet him and ask him how his trip was.

But as he hurried through the airport to the long-term parking shuttle stop, his thoughts shifted again, away from returning to his lonely apartment and back to the gray image of the toxin-spewing power plant that was affixed in his mind like the gruesome scene of a destroyed animal lying lifeless on a deserted highway shoulder. Stephan saw both the plant and animal as haunting images of mankind’s acceptance of the new reality of the industrial age; life and death now intertwined with the necessities of a modern world, a price nature must absorb for the sake of human prosperity and comfort. In Stephan’s eyes, it was a culture accustomed to looking away and receiving fate as the destiny it had no power, nor care, to change.

More than ever, on this night, for this acceptance, this impartial indifference, this ignorance, Stephan Alexander Powell was angry. He had reached his breaking point and could tolerate no more of this attack on the Earth. He was livid at a lazy, greedy society that didn’t give a damn about anything but winning and getting ahead and making money, obsessed with survival of the fittest, with owning and consuming. He was even angrier with himself for not being brave enough to fight back against the oblivious, or worse, malicious world around him. For continuing to fly in planes, ride in cars, work in a job that supported this world view. Yet, he knew that he couldn’t be alone in feeling this way. He refused to believe that he was alone. Someone else out there had to care as much as he had just discovered he did.

Pulling into the parking lot behind his apartment, turning off the man-made vehicle constructed of metal and plastic, run by electricity and fuel, he realized that it was time for him to change.

Chapter 2

It was November of 2003, and Thomas Butler and Matt Sanders sat at their customary corner booth at Sal’s, a seedy local pub near Loyola University that was their most frequented and enjoyed meeting place. The pub’s interior was built from a shadowy, soulful wood, maybe hickory, or black oak, with soft lighting and sparse decorations, mirrors and faded brass and copper trinkets layered in gray dust, giving it the safe and aged appearance of a secluded British inn. It smelled at once smoky, wet and dry, like a fireplace doused weeks ago to kill its flames. Sal’s was a place of quiet, familiar comfort, where patrons embraced a perception of timelessness.

Tom and Matt preferred it for that very reason…at Sal’s, they felt like they had stepped back in time, and that their relationship was one that could have existed 50, 100 or even 400 years ago. Its emptiness created a discreet coziness, and the few faces they did see were familiar ones. Both Tom and Matt could picture themselves as patrons in a tavern during medieval times, when there were fewer people roaming the earth and you knew everyone because they never left your village. For winters in Chicago, it was a comfortable hideaway from the cold lake winds.

Their meeting time—five in the afternoon—was purposeful. This particular time happened to be the second hour of happy hour at Sal’s, a term that Tom found ironic in such a dark and sedated setting. He had tried in the past to use that irony to his advantage by including happy hour as a part of an often unsuccessful, and droll, pick-up line with female patrons. He would sometimes, on the spur of the moment, disrupt his conversation with Matt, interrupting him mid-sentence to stand up, walk over to the bar, and test to see if his pick-up line would work on some alone and unsuspecting woman. During one of these dice rolls, one woman actually came up snake eyes, to Tom’s astonishment. But as they continued their flirtation, he soon discovered that she only accepted his proposition because she expected to be paid for a night with him. Tom liked spontaneity, but spontaneity that he could control. He did not enjoy surprises. And yet he was about to throw one at Matt.

Leaning back, arms crossed in a defensive posture, prepared for push back from Matt for having shifted to a more serious, and political topic, Tom tightened the lids of his drained eyes and peered through the remaining slits at Matt. "You know, as Americans we don’t even try to pretend that we aren’t killing our world. The thing is it never even crosses most people’s daily thoughts. The world just goes on. We can throw out our garbage, drive our SUVs, run our sprinklers over our fertilized lawns, and not even once think that we are contributing to our rapidly approaching apocalypse," he said, tapping his finger on the wooden tabletop to emphasize his argument, like Larry King or a coached politician.

Umm…‘apocalypse’ sounds rather extreme to me, Tom, Matt responded as he frowned and squinted back, turning his blond-topped head ever so slightly as though suspecting Tom of another one of his hidden agendas. Matt was used to getting trapped into agreeing to some outlandish act by Tom, and wasn't letting him get away with it this time. No way. Even though Matt had recently begun worrying as well about climate change, he was here to drink a beer, have a few laughs, nothing more. "Even if that is true, even if that is what America has come to, what does it matter? If you don’t believe in God…which you say, Tom, that you don’t…and if you don’t believe in life after death…which, again, you say that you don’t…what difference does it make to you? Why do you care about the future, if all the future is is the lack of existence?"

It matters a freaking lot, Tom said, shaking his head.

Through the mists of growing intoxication, Matt found himself astonished that Tom had begun what appeared to be a meaningful and thought-provoking discussion. Usually, unless it served as a prelude to some sort of prankish behavior, he and Tom held rather simplistic male conversations—about movies, women, craft beers, or sports. Stereotypical in their truthful way, these talks allowed both men to escape the standard drudgery of politics, problem solving and analysis that weighed them down outside the peaceful walls of Sal’s. It helped them to feel connected to someone else, without creating an unbreakable, permanent bond. A mere grasp at a human connection with no expectations. And Tom was shattering that relationship, despite environmental issues being a new, though minor, concern of his own.

Matt leaned back as well, shaking his head. You are talking out of your ass. He took a sip of his beer as if to emphasis why they were there and to pull them back towards safe topics. He understood that Tom did not hold much faith or belief in the existence of a supreme, omnipotent being—no trust in God, no need for religion. Beyond that, however, Matt knew dreadfully little about his friend’s viewpoints regarding anything of real substance—social discontent, international relations, economics—the more serious things that fill culture with purpose and direction. The more he thought about it, Matt wasn’t certain he really wanted to have serious conversations with Tom. He enjoyed their shallow and non-binding relationship—just two gentlemen who savored beer, sports, Clint Eastwood movies and women. Especially women.

The idea of knowing Tom’s inner thoughts and life history was somewhat frightening to Matt. Satisfied in the uncomplicated nature of their relationship, he felt little motivation to change it. He was rather content that if one of them moved away and they were no longer able to meet, he would be, for a brief time, saddened by the loss but he would be able to pick up his life and move on. He could find another Tom, and Tom, he believed, could find another Matt. Their friendship was simple, a TV show relationship that didn’t exist away from the box that it was played within each week.

Unbeknownst to Matt, Tom sought a more entrenched connection. He had a growing hope to dig deeper into his friend’s world, to find out if they shared common beliefs, to be able to paint a more realistic picture of Matt. Like the tangled branches of a mangrove forest, Tom needed his relationships to feel interconnected, built upon a common desire for meaning in a meaningless world. Although Tom found their conversations entertaining, he often wanted to talk about things more substantial. Yet, he held back, afraid of where such a change could take their relationship.

Tonight, his deepening and increasingly urgent concerns about the environment emerged as a topic he needed to address, and to use as a catalyst to determining the true extent of Matt’s friendship. He knew he could not go into this fight alone, and he needed people he could trust to stay committed to the cause. Plus, once he made this change in his life, if Matt did not join him, any type of friendship that they had would be over. Tom running around doing things that the powerful people of the world didn’t like, while continuing to have drinks with someone who bought into the system, would not just be hypocritical, it would be risky.

The foundations for that friendship, if that ultimately was to be the name for this sharing of space and time, were based in the world of capitalism, as Matt and Tom had met through work. Matt's company paid astonishing amounts of cash to hire Tom’s employer, a large international consulting firm, to implement what—years after both had left their respective firms—turned into an epic financial failure for both organizations.

Matt worked for Safire One—a fledgling company that designed synthetic—and Tom hated Matt’s company because he regarded it as a parasitic business venture. Matt, for his part, hated the project that Tom managed, seeing it as a waste of resources he could find more practical applications for. After working for weeks together as contractee and contractor, Matt learned that he and Tom felt the same way about the project—it was a colossal pit into which both companies poured money and that was destined to collapse of its own weight. It was also a project that neither had the power to shut down. Matt learned as well that Tom loved drinking beer on rainy Friday afternoons while scoping out Midwestern co-eds, an activity that piqued his interest and offered a relief from his stressful weeks. All of which had brought them to this moment and this unexpected conversation.

"It makes all the diff-er-ence to the quality of my life, Matt, Tom said. He frowned while he considered whether his friend shared his anti-corporate, down-with-the-man" sentiments. Although he knew that Matt hated his project, he had never asked him why he hated it. The fact that Matt held, at such a young age, a rather high-profile position in the organization that Tom despised suggested that Matt held alternative sentiments. However, Tom continued on, deciding to change his game plan a little with Matt. Tom felt the way he felt about the environment and corporations, and so what if Matt didn’t currently share those beliefs. Tom still had to voice his concerns, and if Matt didn’t come to see things his way, then maybe their relationship had no future after all. Instead of trying to find a common connection with Matt, maybe he could get Matt to feel the same way that he did.

The weakest among us, Tom thought, are those who speak what they believe others want to hear, and do not speak what they themselves truly believe. There is no greater good than showing the world what it truly looks like. I have to tell Matt what I think. I have to tell the world what I think. Maybe they won’t agree with me now, but how can I ever change the world if I don’t get others to see the world differently.

How can I enjoy my short and meaningless existence to its fullest, Matt, if as I get older, the air gets more poisoned, there are fewer places for me to be outdoors, and there is less fish for me to eat? And I really like seafood, Tom said with a wink, attempting to lighten the conversation enough to draw Matt into it. Not to mention the affect that this will have on the collective human psyche as we fight against drought, the greenhouse effect, and the loss of natural resources. Don’t even get me started on what will happen when we begin to kill each other off due to fear and need. Who’s to say that hasn’t already started to happen?

Well, that all sounds pretty damn horrible to me…damn horrible. Matt smiled, and then said in a more sarcastic tone, I hope you aren’t considering killing me out of need and fear. You’re not telling me this because you’re gonna kill me, are you? Seriously, though, what are you planning to do about it? This was one of Matt’s favorite questions to throw at Tom during their normal conversations; it always brought on a most interesting answer, particularly when the conversation was about the quest to land a woman (or two) in the sack. And Matt preferred to talk about doing things and not just ideas. Ideas were fine but a waste of his time if not given a clear plan of action. Matt knew that Tom was more of an idea man, especially when the action involved trying to bang women.

I am going to be a full-blown environmental activist that is what I am going to do…a modern-day John Fucking Muir. I’m going to fight for our mother fucking Earth, I am. A male Rachel Carson. I’m going to do whatever it takes to get people to understand that we are destroying our world. I hate this shit…

Matt waited for Tom’s give-away half-smile—his tell—to appear on Tom’s face. Tom usually had the look when he made grand statements or promised extreme actions, such as those that he thought he might do but that deep down he knew he would never accomplish. Like the time that Tom said he was going to tell a woman at the bar that he wanted to take her away to Paris and marry her; he ended up drinking too much trying to build up his nerves and passed out on the bathroom floor.

But Tom had no half-smile. No glint in his eye that he was posturing. This was not just his usual bravado. He was, it appeared, serious.

You’re totally serious, aren’t you, you freak?! You mean to quit your stupid job completely?

"Hell yes, I’m serious. I have to do something. Anything. You know me—a man of action. You should think about it yourself." A broad and mischievous smile spread across Tom’s face and he nodded his head, pleased with Matt’s reaction. He tapped at his empty glass, indicating to Matt that they should refill their beers.

Matt stared in disbelief at his bottle of beer, as though the bottle itself was presenting him with this idea of quitting his job and fighting for a cause. As his blank stare turned to a frown of pained confusion, he asked, Who’s John Muir?

He’s like the greatest environmentalist of all time, except maybe Carson. I think he lived out west somewhere in the early part of last century. I’m not completely sure. I just know he was a famous environmental activist. There might even be a society or club named after him. I don't know. And who cares? I’m going to be a bigger fucking deal than he was!

Matt ordered more drinks. Um, that sounds great to me. Become an activist. Why not? He asked. Trying to sift through the sands of Tom’s façade, Matt still wasn’t sure if his companion was being serious or trying to be clever. However, becoming a volunteer to campaign for the environment was something Matt also had been interested in recently. He just never thought to bring this kind of topic up with Tom, since he considered their relationship to be rather shallow. He didn’t hold quite the gloomy, pessimistic view that Tom did about the direction the planet was taking, but he did want to do something. Maybe. He was just tired of hearing the depressing news about the impact of man on the environment and that most people were doing little to nothing to change that. He had considered other types of volunteer work—donating to a food pantry, tutoring, designing websites for non-profits—but none of these seemed to hit home for him like the environment did. And if Tom wasn’t really being serious, then Matt had no desire to continue talking about it with him.

You really think that the world is falling apart? That humans are destroying the world and there will be no life left on earth soon? Matt asked, trying to get a real answer from Tom. How long? 50 years? 100 years? Come on, we have survived awful things before—the plague, WWII, parachute pants. What makes you think that we can’t make it much longer? He could not convince himself that Tom would be willing to give up everything he had to take this steep a plunge into the waters of anti-establishment and uncertainty. He was probably just being the same old Thomas the Dreamer, always coming up with fantastic innovations and plans, only to find an easier and safer path through the woods. And yet…Matt really didn’t know that much about Tom. All their interactions had been so superficial. Maybe Tom had just been playing him all along.

Of course I don’t know; I just have this feeling. Nuclear energy and weapons, class warfare, the Gulf oil spill, overpopulation, over watering…it’s all just coming to a head, Tom replied. I give humanity no more than 75 years at the present rate. Something has to give. Did you hear about those scientists warning the members of the G8 summit that if things aren’t done now, the world will become a lethal oven by 2050? I don’t know if that means we all kill each other off or we all starve or we run out of water, but it just seems like it’s going to happen. Sure, maybe many of us will survive, particularly depending on what wipes us out, but a whole lot of us ain’t…gonna…make it. He stressed this last point by leaning forward towards Matt as if sharing a classified and important piece of insider information. His voice soft yet stern, as though trusting in him could mean the difference between survival and destruction.

That is a pretty bleak outlook. Don’t you think people open their eyes on their own and start overcoming these things? If it really gets that bad, won’t people and organizations come together and change their behavior, without a bunch of people getting in their faces and telling them how horrible they are? Don’t you have faith in people? Once these things start to hit organizations’ bottom-lines, won’t that be enough to make them clean up their acts?

Matt was starting to lose interest in the conversation. He wanted to be connected more to Tom, he wanted to care more about the environment, but Matt also wanted to have fun, to fill his life with pleasure. He looked around the bar, seeking out something that would draw him back to his hedonistic side. He glanced over at the longhaired, tanned, Italian bartender while the bartender, in turn, watched a television screen, his eyes focused on a soccer match between Germany and Estonia. As the bartender reached up to adjust the TV’s volume, several of his tattoos caught Matt’s attention, a shapely nude woman, a wizard with a crystal ball, the Italian flag, and the word Firestarter written in cursive. Matt found himself envying the bartender, wishing that he felt as carefree to cover his body with tattoos that would offend many, but would also attract women to his sexuality. He wondered what it would be like to be a bartender; talking to strangers all day, serving them something that made their minds, and oftentimes their hearts, numb. Listening to worries and stories and grievances and successes, all the while not caring, not letting it get personal, and leaving each night with a clean slate. Matt also wondered if the bartender and the waitress had ever fucked.

Just listen to yourself…how ridiculous you sound. Greed is a powerful motivator to change, but an equally powerful motivator not to. Do you really think that the powerful and wealthy will reverse their environmental policies and everything will get better before it gets really, really worse? The problems with the environment will only slowly chip away at their profits. No, they need a catalyst. They need something to push them over the edge. They need to be scared. Right now, the environment doesn’t scare them. Someone needs to scare them. The only way to make them change is fear. Fear that the end is much closer than they ever imagined. Tom said. Come on. How about it? Why don’t you join me and fight for our future?

Tom was now beginning to get agitated. He had hoped that by putting himself out there, by the fact that had been grabbing drinks together for so long, and by their possibly shared value system exposed through their common dislike of Tom’s project that he could build up in Matt at least somewhat of the same passion and anger that he himself felt. But rather than getting a rise out of Matt, he instead sensed defensiveness and doubt. He could tell that Matt was concerned, but what he wanted was fire…a fire like his own. Matt seemed more interested in the bartender and waitress now than their conversation.

Turning back to look at Tom, and recalling the point of their conversation, Matt indeed felt cautious, but he also felt a strong need to be optimistic. Sure, why not? Somebody has to change things, damn it. We all have to. Otherwise, if I don’t, what is the point? And if it as bad as you say, the powerful and wealthy will have to help as well. Eventually, won't eminent doom outweigh the wealth that feeds their greed? Matt looked back over to the bartender, who now filled the bar with a boisterous, forceful laugh while holding the slim, tattooed shoulder of waitress. Despite his interest in what Tom had to say, Matt felt guilty that he could not escape being easily distracted by the erotic image of the bartender and waitress.

"Exactly…what is the point? Is the point to try to fix these things? Is the point to go along thinking someone else will eventually fix these things or they’ll fix themselves? Is the point to realize there isn’t a damn thing we can do about