What About Bob

    “What are you doing? We have to be there in half an hour.”

    “Be right there. Just jotting down a few thoughts.”  

    “We are going to be late, because you are writing down a few thoughts to use in a story that you won’t’ let anyone read? What is the point? What is this new marquee of yours about?”

    “We are supposed to write a story about one of the reviewers who look at our stories and decide if they have more merit than other stories, and can then be deemed, a winner!”

    “Do you know any of the judges?”

    “Well, no.”

    “How are you supposed to write about someone you don’t know?”

    “It is called fiction. That is where most of the stories you read come from.”

    “Who you going to write about, if you don’t know any of them? Do you even know any of their names?”

    “I think one guy is named Bob, but can’t be entirely sure. They don’t broadcast their names, probably for personal safety reasons. I’m pretty sure though, that one of them is named Billy Bob.”

    “Thornton?”

    We are in a hurry to get to an event that I can’t be late for, for a reason I can’t fathom, and now I know will be overshadowed by my minds inability to let my thoughts go; what about Bob, will haunt me for the remainder of the day.

    “You coming?”

    It has begun. I haven’t left the house, and Bob I know is standing behind me, watching my every move. He’ll be taking mental notes to throw at me later as I attempt to conjure his look from the millions of looks on the planet. His attire, his voice, his attitude; I don’t even know him, and yet he will be following me, recording my every thought and mood in an effort to be as judgmentally fair as one bestowed with the responsibility of weighing another’s ability to see, hear, and absorb the thoughts and actions of other’s; then to record them in an effort to capture a measure of the human experience. 

    All the admirable qualities embodied in what is demanded of a nonjudgmental judge, somehow don’t in my fertile imagination describe Bob in any demonstrable way. Not knowing Bob personally, I can only assume as much about him, as he can assume about me. The one difference, however, is he is in a position to judge me, and I am not in the similar position of judging him. 

    How much do we really know about what a judge considers when casting his yay, in favor of, or nay, against, about what we have wrenched from our being and displayed for all to examine, regardless of how we question their ability to do so.

    I don’t intend to impugn the integrity of Bob, a person I can’t know and who can’t know me.  I can only hope he is as capable of questioning his own objectivity, as I am of questioning my own subjectivity. 

    I believe all we can ask of our judges is that they adhere to the hypocritic oath of all who judge: “If emotional devastation must occur, let it occur to someone who can withstand the trepidation of judgement from the point of view of someone like Pontius Pilot.”

    “Judge, lest ye not be judged,” an admirable statement if it were possible, but sadly, it is not. “There is no place to run to, no place to hide,” another admirable sentiment that although well meaning, dismisses the reality of being judged daily for everything we do. If we are not judged by others, then we will not be satisfied until we judge ourselves. 

    We all know that self-examination is the most critical and often crippling type of judgement, as we know all our dirty little secrets no matter how deep we have buried them in our subconscious vault, our mind. 

    At times we succumb to the pressures of judgement, and turn to the cerebral switch that derails our objective assessment of our own abilities, usually with spirits of some kind, until we relent and accept, that we need a guy like Bob to keep us focused, centered, and not go off laboring under the illusion we are capable of the Great American Novel, or Poet Laureate accolades. 

    The Bobs of the world, I have come to understand are necessary and essential.  They provide us with the mirror we often fail to appreciate, in keeping us seeing ourselves and our flaws. The Bobs share with us their view of what they see. We may not welcome their supposedly objective views in their attempt to describe what they see, but it does provide us with a view not tainted by our own subjectivity. 

    I do not know Bob, nor do I expect to ever meet him. I however do hope he has the compassion to realize that flaws are what make the story of our lives interesting. Beauty has its flaws, ugliness its charms, and judges their opinions based on what they take from other’s offerings. Empathy is born of experience, and sustained by observations of the communal success and failures of everything and everyone that surrounds us.

    “We are going to be late!”

    Come on Bob. No use you pretending I can’t see you back there. Might as well get up front here with me, get a close look at what you are being asked to scrutinize. Look at it, as if you are my Guardian Angel. You aren’t an angel are you? I don’t really mind being judged by a fellow…whatever you are, but an angel? I don’t think I’m up for that yet, although you could provide an interesting perspective. 

    You aren’t going to tell me, are you? That plaid suit and floppy hat, I assume are meant to put me at ease, but they don’t. Your overall appearance, to be truthful, makes me nervous. I would feel more at ease and accepting of your judgement, if you were more presentable. 

    The next time you come around, would you mind terribly looking more like St. Peter, or Gabriel perhaps, without the trumpet though. Noise makes me anxious as well, unless I can’t think of anything to write about and need an excuse.

    “I’m leaving!”

    Well friend, we’d better hit it. You never know at these kind of things what useful material might be there, just for the taking. 

“Coming!”