A story...
“This is interesting,” Waldo said. “A few ounces of
alcohol—I’m partial to gin, myself—relaxes certain neural areas of the brain,
diminishing the ordinary behavioral controls of the cerebral cortex.”
I watched him grinning to himself without any
self-consciousness. Waldo was clearly having fun. We’d been sitting in my
living room talking, and it had been clear to me that he was one of those
aliens inhabiting the body of some poor human who’d had the misfortune to die
just when they were attending to
things, and he was getting used to the complexities of the human mind. “He”
remembered things the former inhabitant remembered, and I could see the
contortions he had to go through to be “in” the body.
He continued, “The
world does, indeed, look differently through this lens.”
I just grinned, I gathered from his response to me, which
was, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I didn’t say anything. I’d been here before, and I didn’t
have any particular feeling about them.
I’d never met one who seemed threatening in any way. To me it was more comical
than anything. They—if they are in
any understandable way “plural”—have been having a hard time understanding
human beings. It’s like a retriever struggling to understand its first command
“fetch!” Waldo and I’d had some long conversations that day, and our
relationship was casual and friendly.
“You’ve been developing this chemical compound over
centuries,” he said, “What a grand time it is, watching the subtle differences
in effects of various combinations of the distillation processes. I’ve tried
several psychogenic compounds, and alcohol seems the most entertaining.”
“It works for me,” I said, sipping the vodka martini I’d
poured for myself. Waldo had turned up his nose at first, but he drank one
down. I was curious what it would do for him.
He had sort of invited himself to my place after we met in
the bar down on State Street that afternoon. The Red Fox was crowded, and we
couldn’t hear each other very well, so I suggested that it was quieter at my
place.
It seems that his previous incarnation, if that’s the right
term, was a college professor of marine biology who had died from a heart
attack in front of his class. “He” woke up in the E.R. and insisted upon
checking himself out before the next of kin were even notified.
“You know, you humans have pretty much taken over this
planet,” he said. “With your communication media, nothing can get past you.” He
downed a second martini like it was water. “Still, you have no idea of what
other creatures do with their environment.”
“Gimme a forinstance,” I said, aware that I was slurring my
words.
“Do you know that the blue whale’s brain could contain
everything your species has ever thought?”
“Well,” I said, “why hasn’t it?”
He looked at me in a funny way, like he couldn’t understand
where I was coming from. “How do you know it hasn’t?”
“They just go swimming around out there in the ocean. What
else do they do?”
Waldo sighed. “Jesus,” he said, and kinda closed down.
A little while later, he looked up at me and said, “What do
you know about your planet?”
“I don’t know much, but I’ve seen the earth with Google
Earth. You can almost see individual people on the beaches at Del Ray. What can
a whale see? What’s he know about, say, Saint Louis?
“You humans think that because you can kill every other
creature on the planet that you’re ‘the top of the food chain,’ as you claim.”
I shrugged.
He squinted slightly. “What you call wisdom is just an
accumulation of information by your species, disseminated in various languages
over time, about how stuff works.”
It was amusing for me, even as muzzy as I was feeling, to
watch his struggle for control. Obviously, the human part of him was having a
ball, but the alien part was in over his head. “You sound like a pontificating
professor emeritus,” I said. “Wisdom isn’t just information.”
He grinned. “I know more than I can tell.”
“How is that working for you?” I asked, draining the last
three drops from my beautiful little triangular glass and peering at him
through its side.
“Tacit knowledge. A man named Michael Polanyi explained it.”
I shook my head and grinned back. “You learned that from me,
three hours ago.”
Waldo looked confused at first, then smiled. “I did, indeed,
didn’t I?”
“Good thing whales don’t drink alcohol,” I said. “They could
do some real damage, with all they know.”
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “I
wonder,” he finally said, “how much of a whale’s knowledge is tacit knowledge.”
“Maybe all of it?” Something hit me. “I would have thought
that you or your kind would have inhabited whales by now. How do you know they
have so much knowledge?”
He sighed. “I believe that was tried, about five hundred
years ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems that their brains are so much more complicated
than those of humans. Impervious, almost, to inhabiting.”
“You mean we aren’t much of a challenge.”
He sat up. Picking up his glass, he signaled “more.”
I wasn’t sure, by that point, whether “more” would be a good
idea. He was about two hundred pounds, close to my weight, but he was—or had
been—younger and with a much better build. Some guys get unpredictable when
they’ve had too much booze. Sober, Waldo was a pussycat. Never hurt a fly, I
think.
“Alcohol can be toxic in too high a concentration,” I said,
trying to sound erudite.
He put his glass down.
“Sorry, Waldo,” I said. “Maybe that’s where human experience
just might be significant, even to you.”
His eyes were slightly bloodshot. I had to laugh. “You look
like a boss I once had,” I said, “who used to invite his customers out for
lunch, you know, to get in their good graces.”
Waldo smiled. “I understand.”
“Well, my boss used to drink a lot at those lunches. I guess
the customers did, too, but he would get so drunk we’d have to lead him out to
the car.”
He frowned, and began to stand up. “Whoa!” His arms went out
as if to steady himself.
I laughed. “Where did you hear that word?”
“I don’t know. It just came out.”
“More of that tacit knowledge,” I said. “Anyway, I guess
you’re feeling the booze.”
“Quite unsteady.” He sat back down.
I went into the kitchen and returned with a box of Triscuits.
“Eating something might help,” I said, dumping a few of the crackers into the
decorative bowl on the coffee table.
“So tell me more about whales,” I said.
“The adult sperm whale brain is four hundred eighty-eight cubic inches. Our brain,” and he pointed to his own head,
“is about seventy-nine cubic inches. It took a lot of brain power to transform
the whale from a mammal something like a hippopotamus into a totally aquatic
mammal.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “but that doesn’t account for the
present size of the whale’s brain. Neuroanatomical evidence suggests
that the large whale brain supports a complex intelligence that is driven by
the socially complex and highly communicative lifestyle of these predators.”
Waldo leaned back and smiled at me.
“Wow,” I said. “I have to hand it to you. You’ve got a lot
of Wikipedia stored in your seventy-nine cubic inches. But I can’t imagine why
they need all that power for just swimming around in the ocean.”
He looked down. “Yes,” he said slowly, “that’s why I’m here
talking with you and not out there in the Pacific Ocean communicating with
another whale up in the Aleutian Islands.”
“You took the easier class.”
Waldo frowned. “That’s putting it rather strongly, isn’t
it?”
My face felt hot. “Sorry,” I said, “My social skills are
diminished by martinis.”
“Actually, humans were the obvious choice to study at this
moment in time.” He studied his empty martini glass.
“Why is that?”
Looking directly at me, he said, “Because you are indeed at
the top of the food chain here, but you are also capable of destroying all life
on the planet. Perhaps that could be diverted somehow.”
“You want to save us from ourselves?” I was thinking about
pouring some more vodka.
“Save not only you,” he said. “Those whales, for example.”
I nibbled on a Triscuit. “Whales shall inherit the earth? I
thought that was to be the roaches.”
Waldo looked at me—shocked or merely puzzled, I couldn’t
tell.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was being funny.”
“I once knew a fox terrier who was funnier.”
We both laughed at that.
“So,” I began, “I’ve met a few ‘people’ like you, but I’ve
never found out just why you’re doing what you’re doing.”
“I’m here to learn,” he said with a slight smile.
I sighed and mixed myself another martini. Holding the
bottle of vermouth up, I looked at him questioningly.
He nodded. I mixed another one.
“You just said you wanted to save the planet. You’ve got an
objective, then, right?”
He shrugged and sipped at his drink.
“I’d better fix us something more substantial than
whole-wheat crackers.” I got up and headed for the kitchen. Over my shoulder, I
said, “Do you eat meat, or are you a vegetarian?”
When he didn’t respond, I stopped and looked back at him. He
had sloshed a bit of his martini on his shirt front.
“What?” I asked.
“I’ll never get used to you humans.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘Yes, you’re a vegetarian.’ ” I went to
the refrigerator and dug out a mac-and-cheese casserole left over from two days
ago. Loading it into the microwave, I returned to the living room, where Waldo
had finished his martini.
“It’s not vegan,” I said. “It’s got cheese in it.”
He slumped back and closed his eyes. “I know it’s not,” he
said, “but it feels as though the room is spinning.” He smiled at the mixed
meanings.
I dashed for the hall closet and brought back a bucket.
“Just in case you feel like you’re going to vomit,” I said.
I shouldn’t have given him that last martini.
We sat for a few minutes until the microwave dinged.
The food helped both of us. I watched him closely as we ate.
As I said, he looked to be younger than I (which isn’t saying much), and in
pretty good shape for somebody who had “survived” a heart attack.
“I’m curious,” I said, “how you happened to get into this particular
person.”
Waldo was curiously nonchalant in explaining. “He was
clearly gone, but not damaged beyond repair. No close relatives.” Like that
explained everything.
He paused, then went on. “Afterward, I took a leave of
absence from my academic post ‘to recuperate’, and they generously allowed me
to disappear for a while. Maybe after I put his recent life back together in my
mind, I will return to teaching. If I don’t, I have the resources to do other
things.”
“You said you’re here to learn. Sounds to me like you have
more agenda than that. You mentioned saving the earth from us, or something
like that.”
He smiled. “Wouldn’t you? If you saw some creature about to
cause a major catastrophe and you might be able to prevent it, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “There’s also something to be said
for allowing the creature to figure out for himself or herself what needs to be
done, provided I’ve already satisfied myself that they have the wisdom to
recover from the situation.”
His eyebrow went up. “You think humans have the necessary
wisdom?”
“I think from what you said earlier that you don’t—maybe
don’t yet—understand what ‘wisdom’ really is.” I was feeling on thin ice. This
man, or creature, or being—whatever it was—could run circles around me in
knowledge and intelligence. But something was lacking.
Waldo just looked at me.
“We know,” I said, “collectively we know what needs to be
done to prevent catastrophic destruction to ourselves and the earth.”
He looked skeptical.
I laughed. “I know, I know, we don’t even know what’s in a
whale’s mind. Maybe we have a lot to learn, but there’s enough of us who know
already how to solve the biggest problems that threaten us and the rest of life
on Earth.”
He continued to eat the mac and cheese. But I could tell
that he was thinking. Maybe he or they really are here to learn.
I was warming up. “There’s an old term—‘faith’—that’s used
to justify various religious assumptions. It means trusting something, some
philosophy, some generalized notion that has very large implications. I have faith
that we humans are able to resolve most of the problems we have encountered or
even caused ourselves. I’m willing to go with that faith rather than hope that
some outside force—even yours—will come in to save us, because that would leave
us in a place of—”
“Subservience?”
I was surprised by his word. He was hearing me. Frankly, I
was embarrassed, because I wasn’t all that confident that I knew what I was
talking about. But he heard me. I just nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve learned something.”
We sat for a long while without talking. I felt as though I
should continue, but something told me that I should stop there. What else
could I say that would make how I felt clearer to him? Or to me?
Finally, he scraped the last of the food from his plate and
looked up at me. “I need to process,” he mumbled.
He stood up carefully. Smiling, he said, “I seem to have
recovered my balance.”
We shook hands as he went out the door. I poured another
drink and sat and thought. That he and I might never see each other again
seemed almost pre-ordained. You know, “ships that pass in the night” kind of
thing. I was only slightly curious about him, where he was going, how he had
come about.
I didn’t touch my drink. Instead, I pulled out my laptop and
started a new document. There was something I needed to write, but my mind was
still foggy. At least I needed, right then while Waldo was fresh in my mind, to
begin something.
I typed: It’s Up to
Us.
Then I leaned back on the sofa and thought about what I had
said to Waldo, that I had faith in humanity, despite the current sorry state of
the world. Of course we don’t need a
messiah to save us from ourselves. If we can’t do it by ourselves, we don’t
deserve to continue.
Perhaps whales, with their tremendous brains, know things we
don’t yet know. Still, they don’t have history and books that can survive the
inevitable passing of individuals; maybe they need all that brain power to
store the wisdom that we keep in our libraries and database servers.
With our opposable thumbs, we have created vast
civilizations—literally extensions of the seventy-nine-cubic inches of storage
each of us carries around in our skulls, not only extending the reach of our
individual minds but collecting everything that our uber-compatriots have
generated over the years. The wisdom that one person collects in a brief
lifetime compounds exponentially in contact with that of other persons.
A whale may not feel the need to know that she has evolved
from some land mammal for evolutionary reasons millions of whale lifetimes ago.
Perhaps what she can communicate with others of her kind across thousands of
miles of water is enough. With our minuscule brains we’ve figured out how to do
that, too. And much more.
I thought of an essay I read in the Times that morning, “We
Are Not Born Human,” By Bernard-Henri Lévy, where he said:
“Humanity
is not a form of being; it is a destiny. It is not a steady state, delivered
once and for all, but a process.”
I went back to the Times for more,
and happened on another piece, by Ai Weiwei, a Chinese expatriate, on the same
subject:
“There is
no such thing as a human being in the abstract. Only when we see people as
embedded in their experiences—their own social positions, their educations and
memories, in pursuit of their own ideals—can the question “What is a human
being?” fully make sense.
. . .
“Simply to avoid the question is a terrible
mistake. We must ask it, and we must do so repeatedly. The debates and
judgments that led to human wisdom in the past were responses, each in its
time, to essentially the same question, asked in the political and social
context of that time, and it is relevant at every social level: individual,
community, family and nation. Many of the political and cultural disagreements
that we see in the world today arise from a reluctance to face this key
question squarely, and to arrive at clear definitions with regard to it.”
“Waldo should read that,” I said
out loud. I didn’t know how I could put any of that into my own words. (Do
whales have anything like words, those magical little bits of language that combine
so readily with each other to allow one to say just about anything about
anything?) Words, like the little blooms in my lover’s flower garden, come and
go, but remind me, over and over, about what’s important.
I must have dozed off. The laptop screen had gone dark, gone
asleep like me but, like me, not lost. I hunched over the keyboard and pressed
a key…