Fishing for Friends

Fishing for Friends

Burning an effigy, tossing white flowers into the lips of waves as offerings to the Brazilian Goddess of the Sea: Lemanjá, and eating 12 grapes in time with the chimes of Spanish clocks – New Years has transformed itself into a season of hope and change for the consecutive year, enticed by traditions and self-made lists that aim at improving our life-style. But as the dazzle of confetti concludes its debuts and falls to its inevitable grounding, we too end the glamorous festivities and resume the tedious nature of our regular routines. The regularity of my day is the only constant I can be assured of. The cornflakes and banana that stew as I watch the morning news report, the corner-office square that houses me nine-till-five, the colleagues that attempt dreadful small talk and the drive home complicated by the opinions of self-righteous radio hosts. Home is my sanctuary undisturbed by others. It is not my intention to avoid people; rather I wish to leave them also undisturbed by the mediocrity of myself - a defective trait my ex-wife seemed to point out all too often. She was an English teacher, an absolute destroyer of the original craft. She’d call me her ‘Prufrock’. Mary was her name, and she was the muse for my love song. She dared to eat peaches, and question the universe as well as my misanthropic, minutely-aloof persona. My memories of her have warped over time but her last words rang ever so clearly:

‘The problem is all inside your head’ she said to me, as she rolled on her side and pulled the pallid sheet closer to her chest as the gusty winds of the smoky metropolis waltzed in. ‘It’s quite simple if you take it logically. There must be fifty ways to fish for friends.’

***

Today is Saturday. A regular, ordinary Saturday. The first day of the year.

I began my walking route through the streets to a small grocer that opened early, as to escape the hustle of midday and hostile strangers who would rather walk directly into you than side-step half an inch. As I approached the automated doors of the shop and a blast of cool, conditioned air swept over me, the shine of a new sign next-door caught my wondering eye: ‘Blake’s Bookstore’. For a single moment I dabbled in the thought of exploring the new installment, but that would entail a range of complications and interactions I would rather not endure. With the intention of resuming my grocery shop ordeal, I became consumed by eagerness and found myself within the doors of the bookstore. Dazed at my own spontaneity, I took a breath to collect myself, and began strolling the isles…Cook Books (My diet was composed of tinned beans and thick-cut whole meal bread), Fiction  (I’ve never been one to dabble with the fake and misleading – there is enough of that in reality) and Self Help Books.

‘Napoleon Hill gives lively illustrations on the mechanics of the mind in his Think and Grow Rich novel. ’ an alluring feminine voice called out from the isle behind. ‘It’s quite a fascinating read.’ A thin young girl with brown locks and golden tints revealed herself as the mysterious voice.

‘But I’m not too convinced its money that you’re after.’ She said as she assessed my ironed shirt and polished shoes as black as licorice. She announced herself with an outstretched hand:

 ‘I’m Blake, the new kid on the block.’

(Oh how I do condemn social formalities of handshaking to complete strangers.)

With the most respectful discretion, I declined her handshake and instead gave her a passing wave, and returned to my browsing. A few titles appeared intriguing. ‘You are a badass’, ‘Make your bed’ and ‘Who moved my cheese?’ all stuck out like a sore thumb. I leaned towards a yellow binder that read: ‘How to Win Fr-’

“How to Win Friends and Influence People” chimed in Blake, attempting to be an honorable hostess but instead became intrusive. ‘Carnegie’s fundamentals allows you to almost edit someone else thoughts. It’s actually really intrusive and I’m not sure that kind of manipulation can be…’

I discontinued listening to the girls antics and began flipping through the pages:

TWELVE Things This Book Will Do For You

1.    Get you out of a mental rut; give you new thoughts, new visions, new ambitions.

2.    Enable you to make friends quickly and easily.

3.    Increase your popularity.

4.    Help you to win people to your way of thinking.

5.    Increase your influence, your prestige, your ability to get things done.

Carnegie’s words spoke to me, as if they were written for me. Like all my New Year’s resolutions since I was just a young boy rolled into one yellow-bound, crisp-jacketed, problem-solving book. The imprinted characters were spell-binding as I continued to study the literature before me. This was my resolution, my aim for the coming year: to fish for friends.

‘What’s the cost of it?’ I asked bluntly, ending her unwanted review of the novel.

‘Well the cost of this book will leave you ultimately lonely as you surround yourself with brainwashed friends – no, rather, acquaintances – in which you will never truly share a connection with.’ After a few blank moments and unsatisfied by my lack of humor, she said:

‘Twelve dollars and ninety-five cents’ and sternly walked towards the front desk.

Emptying my pockets out at the counter to squabble together the asking price, Mary’s words echoed through my mind again ‘there must be fifty ways to fish for friends’, and maybe, just slightly, with the slimmest glimmer of hope, Carnegie’s self-help book may give me fifty ways to silence the doubts and introduce myself into the world as a, popular, influential and (finally) a valued member of society.

***

Today is Monday. A regular, ordinary Monday. The last day of the year.

The study of this fine craft has led to my promotion (who knew that suckling at the teat tenderly could divulge such endorsements)? Who knew that with this kind of power I can now ‘win over’ whomever I choose? This type of control was absolutely life-changing, mind-blowing, eye-opening…and…absolutely wrong. These skills I had perfected gave me the capacity to project the most flawless and charismatic person I could be, but [oh, how we all love the infamous and most ironically placed ‘but’], this preferable persona is not me. It’s a fake. A phony. An impostor who’s manipulative nature even blind-sighted myself.

So, as NEW Year’s Eve nears once again, my lack of party invitations and my meal-for-one re-heatable lasagna reminds me that resolutions are never truly resolved. That the future we seek may not even be possible with the aid of the wise words of Carneigie. That New Year’s resolutions are not for me.

By Georgia Mace