Charity

There's no accounting for taste, which is a huge tax loophole

He had wanted to impress a girl at work. That was the big idea. The idea was, he’d play a little bit on the piano in one of the conference rooms, and she’d overhear it – or someone would overhear it, and all the waitresses would gossip about it. Even if just one person thought he was interesting, it would trickle down socially and reach her. Hey, did you know so-and-so plays the piano? He’s kind of hot don’t you think. He would go up and talk to her, sure, later – but this way he’d have something to talk to her about. Hey actually that day I was just secretly trying to impress you. Do you want to go out sometime.

Just a little fantasy, a little thing to pass the time, doing mind numbing work he’s morbidly overqualified for. The girl was cute, yes, exactly his type, but the situation had been exacerbated by the fact that he had 8 hours to kill every day, and said hello to her in the morning sometimes. Flirting in 5 second increments over a period of months, one passing sentence a day – then thinking about it all day because he had nothing better to do.

“Garfield, you were the guy playing piano the other day right?”

The only problem was, it wasn’t her. Instead, it was his boss. The owner. Middle aged, female. Maybe 40-something, 50-something. He’d spoken to her only once before, during the interview process. Staunch, stoic, businesswoman. She’d never been rude or strict with him, or anyone he’d known about, but the word “bitch” came to mind regardless. A bitch with power. Once she had come to work in clothes a woman in her late twenties would wear to feel young – much much too young for her. Garfield had in that moment thought about having sex with her.

She was doing her usual march through the restaurant she would do every morning, like a military drill. She’d walk around saying good morning to everyone. It was more than a question of politeness to smile for her, much like all the other little pointless niceties that makes any industrial process run smoothly.

He was instantly worried he had interrupted something. He wasn't that good anyways, and maybe his expressionist genuine human emotion had interrupted some meeting or something. He was very insecure about his playing – he didn't get nervous when playing in front of other people, he didn't get stage fright. He was just worried that people wouldn't like his music, since it was improvisational and personal, and when he played his own compositions, he always thought they were supposed to sound bad – course, rough, - it was supposed to hurt a little bit.

“I’m sorry-”, he said, by force of habit.

Instead, she offered him a job. He couldn't believe it.

Garfield had started playing the piano after a breakup. He knew a little about music and could play the guitar. He’d just lost both his girlfriend and his job, and having an old piano standing in his apartment, he had decided on a whim to just start practicing until he felt better. This had then turned into about three months of doing nothing but. This then turned into several years of daily practice.

He played a kind of free-form jazz. Expressionist, minimalist and musically very self aware, you could even say anxious, self-conscious. Self-reflective, post-modern.

His dream, or ideal, sitting down for the very first time in that breakup-depression had been something like, “I’d like to be one of those guys who can just sit down at the piano, and then completely improvise a piece of music”. Recently he had become exactly that.

And now he had been discovered.

She passed on his phone number to a charity organization that she was on the board of. They were arranging a charity dinner and auction, and when she had heard him play, she’d thought that it would “fit really nicely”.

He couldn’t believe it – the big break. Until now he hadn't even seriously considered stuff like this – He hadn’t thought he wanted a big break. The music was always for his own sake, indulgent. It was always this little private thing, about expressing his emotions – his shame and grief and loneliness, from the breakup. A way to express things he couldn't otherwise express. Wanting to impress the girl was contrived, it was just because he knew that women like musicians – it wasn't honest. He didn't “think” he was a good musician, and if it had worked, he would have considered it him seducing her by trickery, because she’s too stupid to know either way.

But now – now there’s unexpectedly validation. Economic validation. People are willing to pay him. That – that means that he’s actually good. Right?

The organizer called him just as he was getting home from work. He negotiated poorly, being very tired from working with his hands all day. Some girl, office person. She didn't work with her hands.

“I’d imagine just, you know – like, some quiet background music-”

“Minimalist jazz,“ he offered.

“Yes exactly.”

They agreed on 3 hours, with breaks here and there. She explained the plan for the evening: she’d very much like for him to be playing as people arrive, during the dinner. Then there would be various speakers, dessert, then finally the nights big event: the charity auction.

“Oh and I think it would be very nice if you prepared something to end on, if you want to. Then we’ll take a minute to give you a spot in the program, and you can like, play something that’s a little more, you know, POW, you know. A little moment where you’re front and centre.”

He couldn't think of anything to play.

“Thank You”.

***

The show was on a Tuesday evening. He worked a full morning shift in the kitchen, and he had another one in the morning. When he got off work, he just went home, showered, ate, and got dressed in his one nice suit. His “burial” suit – he didn't go to a lot of weddings. Strategically, he choose a vest rather than the suit jacket, for shoulder mobility. Then he took a 25 minutes bus ride to get there.

The place was an old university buildings of some kind, large, heavy industrial structures. Something built in the 80’s, gray and modern and square. It had been closed for years, and the various rooms, rented out for events like this. Garfield hadn’t been to this part of town in years – not since he failed the entrance exam for the course he had applied for there, long before even the girl that drove him to play the piano.

Everything surrounding the main hall was under reconstruction or demolition – it was difficult to find an entrance, since the front was blocked by heavy machinery. He walked around the back and found an open door.

Inside, a long red carpet guided the path to the dining hall. It was adorned on the sides with little lights – electronic substitutes made to look like candles. The sun was already down.

Following the illuminated path, Garfield arrived at the dining hall. A handful of people were walking around talking, and the hired kitchen staff were busy in the back.

He met with the woman he had talked to on the phone – and having met her, he now thought about her as a “girl” instead. The picture he had had in his head of this young professional, was shattered as he was suddenly intimately aware that he was almost twice her height, and the neurotic energy of a girl preparing her birthday party. She was a lot younger than him.

They shook hands – which he always felt strange about, now. It was one of those things – He didn't particularly care or think about the virus stuff, but he was aware that it was a pretty big deal to most people – supposedly. In fact it was like the virus didn't exist in here at all.

She was giddy and nervous, which in turn made Garfield feel more in control. She showed him to the electric piano they had procured for him, and he in became giddy to try it out – fiddling with electronics and exploring new instruments is a great treat to all musicians.

It wasn't part of the deal – he had been told there would be a separate sound guy who would set everything up ahead of time. But since he was already there, he figured, he might as well start setting it up. Can-do attitude is important for return business, and its kind of fun to fiddle with anyways. The piano was a decent piece of technology, weighted keys and decent sound, and a single pedal. Bare-bones, but meeting minimal standards of being an instrument and not a toy. Of course non-music nerds would hardly be able to tell the difference, but it pleased Garfield. He was however missing a sheet stand. And a bench.

Rather than complain about it, he went into the back of the building and just started looking around for a bench he could steal, and eventually improvised one at the right height by stacking some cushions he found, and making a makeshift note stand.

Having everything in place, or, as good as it was going to get, Garfield began warming up. The organizer came over and was extremely pleased with the whole situation – “yes, yes, this is exactly how I imagined it!” - he blushed, and didn't say anything, excusing himself in his head that he was too concentrated with playing, to respond.

The sound guy finally arrived. He was not really a sound guy, but just a guy who happened to know a thing or two about this stuff – the director of an opera house. Clearly dissatisfied with having to work out any of it, he asked if everything was set up OK and working. They talked for a bit.

“If there’s anything you need, just let me know”, Garfield said, to be polite and professional.

“well, do have some weed?”

***

He opened with his favourite songs. The big hits, the ones he felt most comfortable with and considered to be the most pleasant. Old Jazz standards, nothing too experimental or personal. The guests started pouring in. He didn't pay much attention to them directly, and soon entered into a kind of flow-state of pleasant directed concentration. No stage fright.

When explaining the gig to his friends, he had ironically called it a “fancy pants rich people dinner”, with “people whose last names starts with “von” and ends in “something-berg”. This turned out to not be ironic at all. And yet, still, no stage fright. The music protected him, extending a barrier between them of something that was incomprehensible to them, yet comprehensible to him. Within the music, he was in control and he was the authority.

About a hundred people arrived and took their seats at tables around the hall, over the course of half an hour. The vast majority were old, grey and strangely, fat. Hotel chain owners, opera house directors, and literal nobility. A single table in the middle of the room was reserved for the “young people”, and Garfield made a mental note of - once he got the spotlight and his big moment later - he would crack a joke about giving his number out for future business contacts – and for any unmarried heiresses, wink wink.

The job went well and Garfield enjoyed himself immensely. “This – if I could do this for a living, instead of being a line cook”, he thought. “I could be happy. It would have been all worth it.”

One of the waitresses asked if she could film him a little bit. He said of course – but this made him a little nervous, and he played false for the first time that evening. She didn't seem to notice though. There’s a great disconnect with music, in what people are able to perceive. Music is all about attitude – the audience don't know what it’s supposed to sound like. If you play false once, that’s improvisation. If you play the same mistake twice, it’s jazz. If you play the same mistake three times – it’s art. It’s a new paradigm.

After the first course, the conferencier signalled for him to stop, then brought a middle aged woman to the stage. The “charity” part of the “charity dinner and auction” was in the name of homelessness. The NGO nonprofit that organized the whole event had a long history, being initially a Christian initiative run and created a member of a particular Lutheran sect, who had happened to be very rich, in the 1800’s. In the early days of the organization, it had been an anti-alcohol temperance movement, which functioned by sending out agents out to pubs and bars, to try to dissuade working class people from drinking, and converting them to the “inner mission” brand of Protestantism. This had worked as well as you might expect, and over 150 years it had gradually changed it’s focus from the abstract concept of inner jihad and piety, to the practical problem of homelessness – presumably because the latter is easier framework to quantify success in. In a roundabout way, of course, they were still trying to make the working class stop drinking. And of course, they got rid of the religious baggage, and re-articulated their goals as humanitarian, to keep up with the times.

The woman brought to the stage was a 45 year old homeless™ woman. She was very proud of that fact. In fact, she might have been the most successful homeless™ in the whole country – she wasn’t just, any homeless™ woman – she was the leader of a movement. Organizing “Homeless™ Walks™”: events to “raise awareness”, about the plight of her fellow homeless™. She held a small speech about her situation, and finished off by expressing how thankful she was for the chance to speak, and of of course, for doing the event which would raise a lot of money for vulnerable groups she represented.

She had a lot of money, things were going pretty well for her all things considered. She had the funds to live permanently in hotel rooms, while traveling around raising awareness. She of course remained homeless™, out of solidarity to her people.

After a round of applause for being so brave and honest, she returned to her table and the main course was served. Garfield tried in vain to catch the attention of the waitress who had filmed him before, to ask for a glass of water. He took off the vest after all, it was getting a bit hot.

After three hours, he was beginning to feel strained physically. But at the same time he was still in the flow-state, and it was in a very cold and calculated manner that he observed that he was getting tired and his back hurt. This was already exceeding what they had agreed upon, but he figured it wasn't that big a deal. Yes Sir can do attitude, repeat business. Don’t be a prima dona, you’re trying to make a living here.

He played a piece of music one of his friends had written for him, when they lived together on a loft, just out of high school – a little mood piece that Garfield had always liked. It held great significance to him when he finally was able to play it himself – improvise over it, make it his own. No one listening knew or understood that, of course. But he hoped they did – Garfield believed that some things were transmissible, exactly, only in music, and not in plain language. Sometimes certain things that were impossible to articulate in words, could be articulated in music. That’s why he started playing in the first place – as an outlet for such things. Articulating things in language always carries it’s own negation; to say anything at all is to doubt it. All men are liars, and all that is ever said, is saying too much; Mylady doth protest too much. Best to have nothing to say, and say nothing at all. Music is indirect – and thus honest. Much like a joke.

A second break – the conferencier took the stage, and introduced the auctioneer: A fat, sweaty man, with an endearing false self-deprecation, and a las vegas host attitude, snapping jokes at the audience. It became clear to Garfield that all of these people knew each other. No longer focused on his work, he could for the first time focus on the people in the room - The auctioneer knew all of them by name. As he succeeded in warming them up, they would all yell out to each other with rowdy jokes and roasts. They were all very familiar. It reminded him of the kind of events his parents would go to, when he grew up in the countryside. Nothing like anything he had had in his own life. Such closeness – he felt a tug of envy in his heart.

A certain man grabbed Garfield's attention. He was very old – at least 70. Possibly much older. Clearly retired. From listening to the back and forth, he deduced that he was the owner of a particular restaurant chain – or that was at least how he had gotten started. A very wealthy old man – he quickly become the center of attention in the room, simply for the fact that he won a great many of the auctions.

He was un-escorted, no plus-one. He did not wear a wedding ring. He was seemingly well liked – the auctioneer made a lot of jokes about him, and everyone seemed to be having a good time.

“Remember”, the auctioneer said, “that we’re all here for a good purpose”.

The old man smiled like Garfield's grandmother, when he would visit. Such sincere gratitude that it hurts to look at – it makes you feel guilty.

Garfield thought about the heiresses he would joke about later – the old man didn't seem to have any. No wife. No kids. Just lots and lots of money. And a charity dinner in which he was the centre of attention.

“Remember”, the auctioneer said, “that all donations to charity is tax deductible”. Roaring laughter.

A set of children's clothes sewn by hand by a homeless person and “donated” to the event. Sold for 6 months of Garfield's salary, before taxes.

“Remember”, the auctioneer said, “it’s for a good cause”.

A painting, made by a schizophrenic homeless man, and donated to the event – zero artistic value, no skill, the equivalent of a child's finger paint to be hung on a fridge. 2 years of Garfield’s net worth.

Having a moment to think and rest his hands, Garfield thought about the economic implications of making charity tax deductible, and he wondered whether, it could still be considered “giving” something, if you don’t “lose” something. Was it really charitable to give someone a hundred dollars of someone else’s money? If it’s tax deductible, well, aren’t the “actual money” that these people are “donating” to the homeless, the literal coins and bills that they physically receive – aren’t they the money that HE pays in taxes? Aren’t they really donating HIS money?

More art. Insanely overpriced. Every 5 minutes, someone spent more money than Garfield made in a year. It might just be having worked a manual labor job all day, and it might just be being tired from working a manual labor job right that very moment, but regardless, Garfield began to feel faint. He hadn't had enough to eat, and since he was working, he couldn't do anything about it. Not that he was offered.

Nevertheless, Garfield tried to remain professional and focus on doing his job. He rested as best he could for the final stretch coming up. He told himself, “Garfield, you’re just tired, don't worry about it, you have a job to do, focus on that. This is the big break. This is the moment it all turns around for you. If you do a good job here, and frankly this is already going really well, and you make a little advertisement for yourself once you get the mike, that’ll lead to more jobs, and that’ll lead to not being in a place where you feel this economic anxiety and class resentment in the first place. Just ignore it and focus on the work. Just focus on the money. We’re all going to make it.”

Then, before he knew it, the auction was over. The auctioneer return to his seat, sweating and out of breath, and the conferencier returned to make a few statements: Thank you to the kitchen for graciously donating the meal – for free! Thank you to x for graciously hosting, thank you to y for graciously organizing. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh, and finally thank you to Garfield, for graciously donating his time to play for us tonight – for free!

Then there was dessert. A strange feeling began to take root in Garfield. He could have sworn they had agreed on a price for an evenings work. He was pretty sure this was the case, as he had joked that, “since he was pretty poor himself, paying him was kind of charitable and very fitting”. Maybe she hadn’t gotten the joke.

***

He had now been playing for four and a half hours and his back was giving out. He was deathly tired, and as he was repeating some of the old jazz standards he had already played twice, he almost fainted in his makeshift chair. In a way it was good that he didn't get a chance to speak, he thought, because he wouldn't have the energy and pathos to pull of the jokes he’d prepared.

His attention kept drifting back to the old man, now sitting surrounded by a bunch of worthless shit made by literal slave labor, which everyone was too desensitized to even understand.

And then it hit him. It took being humiliated and treated as a slave-caste, combined with extreme physical exhaustion and hunger – but then he finally understood. He was finally reduced to the level of animalistic existence, his humanity ripped away, he was finally humiliated enough to get down to his level – to understand him.

The old billionaire was the most lonely man in the world. All of this was an exercise for him to attempt to buy love. Buy connection. Human connection. They were trying to use their money to simulate this experience that poor people generate naturally. Of course, no one present gave the slightest of shits about the homeless – that much was obvious - not even the homeless woman. But the old billionaire, in particular – an old man, with no family, no love, no connection. He was throwing all this money around like it was nothing – it was nothing to him – but he wasn’t doing it to “feel charitable”, or to “do a good deed”. He was doing it, so the people at the next table over would crack a joke about him, buying yet another one. He was doing is so someone would talk to him and he had a reason to get out of his house.

He was not paying 5 years of Garfield's net worth for a painting because he liked the painting, and he was not doing it to feel good about himself for being charitable – he was just a old man paying people to talk to him. Everyone else in the room was a social prostitute.

And in that moment, infinite madness and compassion filled his heart; he stopped playing. Overcome with emotion, Garfield began weeping, and genuinely, truthfully, without a single speck of doubt, pitied him. A transcendental force of ultimate Love awoke in his heart, and he was instantly converted to Christianity - just as Nietzsche had been when he saw the Turin horse being beaten on the street.

Then, they all raped him to death and ate the corpse.