At least I’m being honest, right?
Thing is, why or how I got to be some guy living in a remote mountain cabin writing the next great American novel is besides the point. Perhaps the hustle and bustle of big city living got to be too much. Perhaps I couldn’t concentrate with the constant fly-overs by commercial airliners. No matter. The reason for being there would be a moot point the minute your hungry lost abandoned-by-your-guides self showed up at my door.
At which point, if I’m being honest, I probably wouldn’t give you any food.
Being honest apparently ruffles people’s feathers. Awhile back I had written a post about how if you had caught yourself on fire and I had just bought a pretty expensive coat, that I probably wouldn’t use it to fan out the flames on your body cause…well, new coat! It hit some people on an emotional level — a tragic emotional level, and they wrote to me with their hearts on their sleeves, proclaiming that my insensitive lack of coat-givingness was abhorrent.
To which I said…new coat!
But while fanning the flames out with a coat is one of those adrenaline situations, you coming to my remote mountain cabin after losing the rest of your “rich-bitch entrepreneurs on a mountain” party is a bit of a different situation. Because in order for you to end up alone, abandoned or just plain lost in the middle of a high-altitude mountain range means one of two things:
- You strayed too far from the party when you went to take a crap.
- You saw a pretty butterfly and chased after it in an attempt to capture it for a shadow-box.
Those two examples, of course, can work for myriad situations — bottom line is had you listened to the rules as outlined by your experienced tracker, you would have never left the safety of your group. And had you decided to go hiking all by yourself in the first place — that too would have been an idiotic decision.
For what happens to hikers who go it alone?
They get eaten by bears. They get abducted by aliens. They fall into a chasm of sharp rocks and have to cut off their own arms to escape. They drown in a river. They get bitten by a snake. They fall into a hive of bees. They die of sun stroke. And let us not forget that some of them… An isolated bit of the bunch… They show up at remote mountain cabins where reclusive authors are putting the finishing touches on the next great American novel, and they’re refused food as a result of their stupidity.
And they die.
Most of you are shouting at your screen just about now, “Just give the lost hiker some food, Pauly D! What’s it to you!? Save a life and get back to your ultra-important life-changing book after you’ve done a solid for another human being! Give him some of your cold cuts and a bottle of water and let him use your satellite phone so he can get a chopper in there ASAP! What kind of human being stares into the face of another in need and turns their back so coldly?”
The kind of human being who has a novel to finish, and limited Lunchables to keep him alive. That’s what kind.
And while I’m sure you’ve been through a lot with the burrs in your pants and the branch scratches and the hot burning sun on your shoulders and the lack of food and water thing, I really just need you to understand that my decision has absolutely nothing to do with you, who you know, how much you make, where you came from, where you’re going, that you were your high school’s newspaper editor or that you were a Varsity football player.
It’s not you. It’s me.
That being said, if I was living in a remote mountain cabin writing the next great American novel and you had been lost in the mountains having not eaten for twenty days, I probably wouldn’t give you any food.
Cause, well…new book!