Author Topic: 713B - Or Why Philosophers Won’t do the Dishes  (Read 915 times)

Description: By Darien Smartt

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713B - Or Why Philosophers Won’t do the Dishes
« on: July 22, 2014, 05:33:17 PM »
Or Why Philosophers Won’t do the Dishes
Darien Smartt

Humorous Work
Original Work

“Besides, you can’t just expect everyone to agree with one idea just because it was popular for, like, fifteen minutes. Take my brother for example. When he got married, oh my God, his fiancé was sure she wanted doves because everyone and their dog wanted them at the time. But did she regret that decision, let me tell you.” The woman sitting towards the front of the classroom continued to talk, attempting to back up her opinion on the topic with some real world example that Oliver was only half paying attention to.

Having arrived late for the lecture, he wasn’t quite sure what was going on and focused on desperately trying to copy the current layout of the whiteboard into his notebook. The professor liked to move around a lot while she spoke and the result was her marks on the board rarely made sense as a whole. Doing his best to decipher the layout before it was erased to move on to the next topic, he barely noticed when the woman stopped midsentence as a young man in the very first row gave a very loud, very fake, sneeze.

The professor looked over from where she leaned against the desk overseeing her students as they reacted to the lecture. “Something you’d like to add, Richard?”  she prompted.

“No, nothing,” the student replied, a smirk in his voice. “I’m just allergic to Fukuyama.”

While the rest of the class laughed, Oliver did his best not the looked completely and utterly lost. Fukuyama? Where was that written on the board? Dammit, he was never going to pass this course.

Seeing the professor pick up the eraser, Oliver scrabbled to write down what was left when she nodding to someone sitting just behind him. “Yes, Amy?”

 “While I do agree somewhat with her.” Amy lost no time, quickly rushing in. “I can’t help but think this is an issue Hobbes would have had a better opinion on.”

“Interesting.” Oliver tried not to groan as the sentence he was in the process of copying was suddenly wiped away. “Why do you think that?”

“It’s just that, in Hobbes’ State of Nature, it’s a war of all against all. His theory is that government is in place to promote peace. As that would require the government having absolute power, he’d be against anything that would threaten that power. Including our Second Amendment rights.”

“Exactly the opposite of Locke,” added another student.

Exactly opposite is right, Oliver thought, giving up on notes for now and just clicking his pen absentmindedly. Hobbes is monarchy, Locke is democracy. If Hobbes says peace, Locke says property. When Hobbes turns Penny Dreadful on, Locke wants to watch Doctor Who. And if he could figure out what the opposite of Thai food was, Locke would insist on ordering that for dinner, too.

“What do you think, Oliver?” The incessant pen clicking had put him on her radar and the professor swooped in for the kill. “What do you think some of the philosophers we’ve covered this semester would say about the debate over gun rights?”

Setting his pen down, Oliver tried to stall for time, glancing up at the clock. Not, however, because he didn’t know what they would say. He knew all too well. Because of that damn apartment.

His gut had said the ad was too good to be true. Oliver should have listened. A high rise apartment in a prime part of the city, located just blocks from campus. Utilities included, fully furnished, washer and dryer, free Wi-Fi, with an open room that he would have all to himself. The asking price on rent was unbelievable, much cheaper than it should have been, but then he would be having a few roommates to share the cost with.

“But where’s the harm in that?” he asked himself.

“That’s what collage is about,” he insisted to himself.

“Meeting new people. Sharing new ideas. Growing as a person,” he justified to himself.

“How bad could they be?” he jinxed himself.

With a single cardboard box holding all his worldly possessions in his arms, ready to start his life and get his first taste of freedom as a college student, Oliver walked through the door of apartment 713B. The first roommate he met was a man named Aristotle.

“You must be here for the room.” Oliver watched as the old man pushed himself from the paper covered table, taking in his appearance. To say his sense of fashion was outdated would be an understatement. The man was literally dressed in a toga. “Right this way.” Trying to determine whether this man was ironic or crazy, Oliver followed, down the hall where they passed another gentleman with a mustache that would put Yosemite Sam to shame.

“Nietzsche,” Aristotle called, stopping him for a moment. “This is Oliver, the boy here for the room. Oliver, this is Friedrich Nietzsche”

Fairly certain he hadn’t introduced himself yet, Oliver couldn’t decide whether or not he should try shifting the box and offer to shake the man’s hand. It didn’t seem he had to. Nietzsche gave Oliver a look, said something that sounded controversial and continued on his way.

“Was that German?” Oliver asked, moving to catch up with Aristotle.

“Was is?” he asked, stopping at a plain white door. “It’s all Greek to me. Here we are. Augustine!” Aristotle barked when he pushed open the door, seeing a balding monk scribbling out texts on the floor. “Get out of here. This is the new boy’s room.”

“But I like working in here,” the monk replied, sitting up. “It’s quiet.”

“Try the library,” replied Aristotle. “Get on with you. Go write about your cities.”

“I’ve changed them, you know,” Augustine said, allowing himself to be ushered out. “Rome is very cultured now. I feel it would be better if I used this modern Las Vegas instead.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure your god would be very pleased.” As easily as he moved the monk out, Aristotle managed to guide Oliver into the room. “Here we are then. All yours. Feel free to decorate, but don’t paint the walls. It violates our lease.”

Still slowly processing what was happening, Oliver looked back at the old man. “We have a library?”

“I wouldn’t recommend trying to get any work done in there,” said Aristotle, turning back to the door. “It’s a mess.” And he was gone, leaving Oliver fairly certain he was being Punk’d.

When he was finally brave enough to leave his room, Oliver ran into several other people on his way back to the kitchen, each claiming to be Plato, Immanuel Kant, Niccolo Machiavelli, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, respectively. Only Kant spoke with him longer than to just say his name, but that might have been because they were walking in the same direction. The logical assumption was this being an elaborate hoax put on as a publicity stunt by some preforming arts groups. However, for some reason Oliver found this to be unlikely. He knew very little about who these men were supposed to be, save for the fact that they were all philosophers of some kind, but the way they interacted seemed genuine. By genuine he meant they all had bold ideas and nothing ever seemed to get because they were all too busy debating on the hows and whys of it. For example, the morning of the third day, when Oliver finally got up the courage to comment on the sink full of dishes.

Kant took the floor first. “It’s a categorical imperative in play,” he said, attempting to eat a mug of Cheerios with a fork. “Each person who used a dish had the choice to clean it once he was finished. At the time, he can be mistaken, believing it’s only hypothetical, and it was his dish and his dish alone. But it in fact affects all of us. If that first man, when setting that very fist dish in the sink, and looked at the principle through a more universal scope, he would have seen the result; that we would all suffer for lack of proper utensils while a mountain of dirty dishes grows and grows.”

“That is completely wrong.” Plato shook his head, stirring a cup of coffee with the handle of a spatula. “A man need not be responsible for something as mundane as cleaning a dish if his purpose of mind is meant to be elsewhere. Think of a noble jockey. His job is to race the horses. He must understand the track, know what must be done to get the beast to move at its fastest while on the course. Can he be distracted, wondering if the animal was given a proper amount of food? No. If he is distracted, he will lose the race. It is the job of the stable hand to care for the horse. He must make sure the animal is fed. When he fulfills his purpose, the jockey can fulfill his, and all is well with the world. So long as each man knows his place.”

“You suggest assigning one man wash all the dishes for the benefit of another.” Karl Marx looked up from trying to cut up a plate of pancakes. “One man would be able to enjoy any greasy meal, any cheese based snack, and know the hard part is forced onto the shoulders of someone else. A man who does not get to partake in to delicacies of fine dining because he knows the hard work it will turn into. He would get no peace, no time to himself, to enjoy what human life he has, for he would always have to be ready to clean the dish of the man above him. Eventually, he has no choice but to overthrow that system. The next stage would be one in which all share the burden and all reap the rewards.”

“I have to go to work.” Rousseau dropped his own paper plate in the trash on his way out of the kitchen as the conversation turned to who was preparing this food and what their role would be in the final act of cleaning. By this time, Oliver had stopped listening, having loaded the dish washer himself only to realize they were out of detergent. Grabbing his coat, Oliver took the excuse to buy some as a good reason to leave.

Despite how exhausting it looked, trying to sound smart and opinionated all the time, they all managed to keep this up as the semester progressed. More philosophers would appear as time went on.  Some hung around, watching TV or arguing about theory in the living room.  Others Oliver saw only in passing, like Machiavelli, who would nod politely in the hall, then disappear into his own room. Aristotle once said he was “working on his resume.” When he finally accepted this wasn’t some elaborate prank, Oliver developed two possible conclusions.

First, he was a full-fledged paranoid schizophrenic who knew way more about dead philosophers than he thought he did. Despite how real the world was when he was outside or at campus, once he walked into 713B, the hallucinations started. If not schizophrenia, then maybe there was something wrong with the air inside the apartment. Either way, Oliver was content to continue talking to walls until Thanksgiving, when his sister was scheduled to come visit and would, hopefully, have him admitted to the nearest psychiatric ward where he would be heavily medicated.

Then there was theory number two. Slightly harder to put into words, but Oliver assumed it had something to do with wormholes, time fluctuations, and the Bermuda Triangle. Black magic and ancient Native American burial grounds may also be involved. If this turned out to be the case, Oliver hoped a friendly, bow tie wearing alien would eventually show up and sort all this out. If not, he accepted this might be some divine punishment for crimes done in a past life, though he wasn’t sure what he could have possibly done to have every episode of Firefly he tried to watch turn into an argument about the merits government and the purpose of mankind.

However, despite how difficult the living arrangement was, how utterly upside-down it made his life, Oliver had a reason for not moving out. It turned out to be the same reason the others had for staying in an apartment that shouldn’t hold so many people comfortably, but somehow did. An apartment full of other philosophers they only ever fought with. Where every little event turned into a full scale debate that would, on occasion, deteriorate into classy, yet creative, name calling.

The rent was good.

There was one man who was the exception to that rule, and after Oliver had gotten over to urge to call him “So crates,” he found that the old Athenian philosopher was one of his favorite roommates. He didn’t often participate in the many trivial debates that filled the apartment day and night. It was like he saw the other philosophers the same way a grandfather would view children arguing over who got to draw the hopscotch lines on a playground. Amused, but happy to let them have their fun. He looked to Oliver like a wise old baboon who knew all the secrets of the pride lands.

That being said, it was very hard to talk to Socrates. Every conversation Oliver ever had with him always ended up being about some other, much deeper subject entirely, but Oliver would only realize that much later. Like when the kitchen sink was leaky and Oliver dared have the audacity to suggest they just call a plumber.

“That is one option,” Socrates agreed, holding a cup of coffee he never seemed to drink in his wrinkled hands. “Why do you say that, Oliver?”

“Well, it needs to be fixed,” he replied, knowing he should have kept quiet and let Rousseau and Locke debate the faucet into working again.

“Why not fix it yourself?”

“I don’t know how to fix a sink.”

“There are several of them in the apartment,” Socrates continued. “They could become faulty at any time. It is wise to be unable to take care of your own home?”

“They’re just sinks. It’s not like I need to call someone over every little thing.”

“No, I suppose you don’t.” For a moment, Oliver thought that might be the end of it, but then, “What if the heater starts to malfunction?”

“I guess I would have to call the repairman.”

“And if the cable box were to break?”

Oliver’s shoulders slumped down. “I’d have to call the cable company.”

“If the locks on the door got stuck?”


“If a wall were to crack?”


“It seems that there are numerous circumstances in which you would have to call for help. Why do you think you need to rely on others so often?”

“Just to fix things,” he argued, knowing there was no chance of winning here, but unable to help himself. “I don’t know much about fixing things.”

“What do you know about?”

“I’m a forensic science major.”

“And that means you know a lot about forensic science?”

“Well, I know more than most people.” Oliver knew he was jumping around, grasping at any answer he thought would satisfy the philosopher. It was very frustrating, though, seeing him sitting there so calmly. “I’m going to school to learn more.”

“And why learn more about that? Why not learn how to fix a sink, or a door, or a cable box? Would that not be a more useful skill?”

Standing with his mug, Socrates left the kitchen, leaving Oliver to stare at the blue and green stripped table cloth, coming to the realization that he should abandon his life’s dream and become a plumber.  Without looking up from his chocolate mousse cheesecake, Hegel spoke from where he sat across the table.

“That’s his way of saying he won’t help pay for it.”

With little things always becoming major events in apartment 713B, Oliver realized very quickly that the real, hot topic issues had a way of going nuclear. After a week or two, he stopped bringing the paper back or checking the news online while in the apartment. Actually watching the news became an extinct past time. And Oliver did his very best never to mention controversial topics around the philosophers, including gun control, same sex marriage, or Miley Cyrus at the VMA awards. As interesting as it might have been, it wasn’t worth having to spend the next several days making sure Hobbes didn’t try to poison Locke’s Red Bull.

Maybe it was a wasted opportunity. Some people would say this was the chance of a lifetime, to hear the opinions of the most brilliant men of their times. Men whose ideas could have reshaped the world. Geniuses who saw the world for what it was and saw ways that it could be so much better. Oliver knew each of his impossible roommates had their merits, that they’d earned their ways into the history books. But everyone has a breaking point. For Oliver, that came while watching an episode of The Walking Dead.

“This is what the world is like. Without structure, there is only anarchy.” Hobbes held power over the remote, though he treated it like a microphone. “Keep chipping away at the government’s power and this is what life becomes. Nasty, brutish, and short.”

Oliver was all but mouthing the words as the philosopher spoke, very familiar with this speech. He could have timed it perfectly when the next one chimed in with their antithesis: Rousseau, claiming that the version of the world presented by The Walking Dead was much more similar to that enjoyed by primitive man and, therefore, more ideal. And it would grow, veering off on a different track entirely until the show was completely forgotten and Oliver was stuck in the middle of a bunch of philosophers arguing about what an perfect world would look like and what conditions there would have to be for that to come about and how everyone else’s theories were flawed and their own was the only real solution to the world’s problem and would someone please turn down the heater and rewind it, I didn’t hear what that character said, but I’m sure it proves me right.

It was enough to make any man loose his mind eventually.

“Will you just shut up?” His tone didn’t get any louder, yelling wasn’t an effective tool, but Oliver stood, turning to face the couch.  “Yeah, that’s a lot of great ideas, but that’s all they are. Ideas. You can’t prove anything you say. And yeah, some of what you guys have to say is really wise, very insightful, and probably right. Others,” he looked pointedly at Plato. “Just use some really great examples. But beneath your clever thoughts and well written papers, what use are you?” Oliver pointed to the front door. “Out there, we’re all on our own. Everyone, regular people, politicians, we all have to figure it out as we go along. Some of your ideas can be helpful, but you aren’t writing handbooks.” Machiavelli opened his mouth to speak, but after the glare Oliver gave him, decided to be very interested in the armrest of the couch instead.

Closing his eyes, Oliver took a deep breath, taking a step back. “I’m not asking you to change. I’m not asking you to stop fighting. Get enough geniuses together and they’re going to blow something up. I’m just asking for tonight. One night. To watch the end of the stupid show. To order pizza, without making it a philosophical debate, and have one calm night.”

The philosophers on the couch that, same as the apartment, should not have fit so many people comfortably, but did, stared at Oliver for several long moments. Slowly, Kant and Hegel slid over, making room. Trying to mask his surprise, Oliver thanked them, sitting on the couch for the first time. For one blissful evening, there was peace.

And then Game of Thrones started.

“Oliver? Are you still with us?”

Three seconds passed before Oliver pulled his gaze away from the clock and looked back at the professor. Some other students in the class turned in their seats, looking back at him. Most others stilled looked ahead, waiting to get a chance to share their own thoughts.

“I think any one of them would die of terror at the sight of the technology we have at our disposal today.”

With a collective laugh and an approving nod, the professor moved on to acknowledge another comment, allowing Oliver to sink back into his chair. Of course, that wasn’t completely true, and Oliver made a note to bring the issue up tonight. Or instead leave a copy of the Hunger Games laying around and see where they take it. Perhaps over pizza.

As long as Rousseau hasn’t hooked up with the new delivery girl yet.


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