Exegesis

I went to a party this weekend, a friend turned twenty-eight. I haven't hung out with him much recently, but we were roommates when we first moved out to Berkeley. As a matter of fact, Clint and I both lived with Darryl at the time, each answering his ad for a sublet. Little did we know that between the two of us, Clint and I were paying all but five dollars of the rent. So Darryl had it sweet.

Naturally, Darryl was there too. I see him even less than Clint, but he does pop up now and again. As usual, he's either being deep or being stoned. I can never tell.

"You know," he says, "I'm not even really here. I'm just some guy you use when you're getting all pretentious and literary. You want to push some sophomoric philosophy on your readers and don't want to take the blame. You should stand up for what you believe in, man."

I can't take that, when my own figments get out of control. "Look man, you exist. You're out there somewhere, the man himself, who stole from me and my friends and made me pay your rent while you spent your time at the flea market selling car batteries. Don't give me this crap. Just because I use you to illustrate some points doesn't lessen you or your existence in any way. As a matter of fact, it heightens it in a way. I'm making you far more agreeable and interesting than you ever really were."

"But," counters he, "my soul is at stake here. This is like voodoo or something. You're taking advantage of my generosity. I need this head space to think about important stuff, like the nature of God, and you have me all used up on my own nature. This dual existence is wearing me out. I need a break."

Tough for Darryl. He owes me one, so I will continue to use him. At least he is in good company. So he wanders off, grabs two beers and shares one with this other guy with the improbable name of Horselover Fat.