“So, how do you think this is going to end?”
“Haven’t a clue. I’m not even sure how it began. Do you know?”
“It started a long time ago, I think. Long before we were born.”
“That long? Sounds like it might continue long after we’re dead and buried.”
“Depressing to think of, but I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“But it can’t last forever, can it? Everything comes to an end, doesn’t it?”
“I know those chili dogs I ate last night – I’m going to feel the effects of THEM forever.”
“Maybe you should’ve stopped at three. But I guess you learn something new…”
“Every single day. And yes. Everything comes to an end. Eventually.”
“But I guess if people really do learn from the past, then you’ll stop at two chili dogs next time. Maybe?”
“Knowing me, I’ll probably dive right in again, thinking this time will be different. That is, until I’m in the thick of it and remember, oh yeah, this was a bad idea. Just like last time.”
“So, I’m guessing that’s how we got in this mess again? Someone thought it’d be different this time?”
The two were silent for a moment, drinking their coffees and watching people as they walked past the coffee shop. Everybody walking. Nobody running for shelter.
“It’s funny how words change over time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take the word ‘bad.’ It used to mean not good. And then it meant really good. And now some other word means really good. Not sure what. But the meaning of words can change.”
“I guess. So what’s your point?”
“‘Obliteration.’ It used to mean the total annihilation of something. Destroyed in such a way that there’s no way you could pick up the pieces and put them back together again. If Humpty Dumpty had been obliterated, he’d be completely scrambled. No need for the king’s horses and men.”
“And your point?”
“If obliteration meant obliteration, then none of this should’ve ever begun. So I’m guessing the meaning has changed. Maybe now it’s just trash talk. Like if Conor McGregor ever said ‘I’m going to obliterate you.’ He really can’t. He can hurt you a lot. But at the end of the fight, you’re still going home in one piece.”
“Conor McGregor. Haven’t heard that name in a while. Is he still fighting?”
The waiter came by their table and asked if they needed anything else. “Just the check, please.” No slice of homemade apple pie? “Well, okay.”
“Just for a moment, imagine what it would be like if we were over there, sitting at a cafe drinking coffee, eating apple pie, minding our own business, then all of a sudden — WHAM!”
“WHAM?”
“Yes. WHAM!”
“It would be horrifying.”
“And now imagine what it would be like if it happened right here where we’re sitting.”
The waiter came back with the apple pie and the check.
“It really needs to stop. All that WHAMMING. There are other ways to solve our problems than to WHAM everybody, isn’t there?”
“If there isn’t, there’s no telling when this will ever end.”
Hanging on the wall across from where the two friends sat was a framed version of a John Donne poem: “No man is an island entire of itself. Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less; as well as if a promontory were. — Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
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