#fictional competence

Oh, imagine being

a working-class nobody

in some distant age,

when poverty

and lung disease

could still be viewed

with romanticism.

A Charles Dickens

sort of wretched life,

yet somehow

to be lived with pride.

Soot in the lungs,

filth in the fingernails,

and just enough misery

to make future generations

call it character.

The rich would pity you,

the novelists would adore you,

and everyone would agree

you had a certain grimy charm

right up until

you coughed yourself

into an early grave.

Still,

there’s something to be said

for a life so appalling

it eventually becomes

picturesque.

No, I should be protesting injustice. But not the injustices of today. People complaining about TV and TikTok influencers.

No, real stuff. Paris, 1968, in some arrondissement where the air smelled of rain, tear gas, Gauloises, and history trying to kick a door open.

I should be standing shoulder to shoulder with exhausted philosophers, angry students, dockworkers with trembling hands, and a communist puppet named Gérard who hasn’t slept since De Gaulle spoke on the radio.

The sort of protest where everyone believes the world might actually change by morning.

Not because they are optimistic. Because they are desperate enough to try anyway.

And somewhere in the crowd, between the red flags and existential collapse, there I am: a middle-aged felt revolutionary with a damp tweed suit and the vague suspicion that I missed my historical moment by about fifty years.

And as far as hobbies go, I know one thing: vegetarians shouldn't hunt.

But there must be something I could do.

Birdwatching, perhaps.

Though every time I identify one, it turns out to be a plastic bag caught in a tree.

Woodworking seems dangerous. Gardening requires optimism.

Stamp collecting is really just paperwork with better publicity.

No, if I were a Muppet, I'd probably become a trophy hunter.

Not of animals.

Of awkward moments.

Which would explain why my own head is already on the wall.