The Saver
My old friend Mosby is the most active campaigner against waste I have ever known, and for that reason I no longer see him.
Mosby is a conservative: he believes we are given a set amount of everything in our lives, and that no effort should be spent on any endeavor not highly valued. That may sound admirable in conversation; in practice it works out strangely.
Ask Mosby a question, and, if possible, he will nod his response. He knows his words are numbered. He will read only the books trusted friends recommend, fearful of wasting one of his selections on a worthless volume. He won’t even walk unless he feels he must. Deep inside he knows that someday, right in the middle of going someplace important, he will be struck immobile, his life’s allocation of steps used up.
As I said, strange.
When we were both young, still in school, he was quite a missionary. Once he charged onto the field before a football game to admonish our kicker about practicing field goals. We developed the habit of arriving precisely on time for all manner of events so he would never see anyone-from cellist to pitcher-warming up. “That man,” he growled, when he accidentally arrived early enough at a basketball game to see a player practicing foul shots, “is using up his baskets.”
As he grew older, Mosby mellowed, being content to run his own life and leave strangers alone. But he was always eager to take a hand in correcting the folly of a friend or relative. I have seen him stop his wife from sniffing at an obviously inferior rose, and I have watched him caution his son about eating between meals, explaining that a snack of cookies now would someday cost him an evening of veal cordon bleu.
It was this very fervor that, after nearly thirty years of friendship, caused my break with Mosby. He was married and a father—I was still single—and he would occasionally stop by on his way home, less for companionship than to see if I were ready to be saved.
One evening, as I was dressing to go out, he suddenly lost control. “You get just so many orgasms in life,” he said, indulging an uncharacteristic flood of words, “and you can’t continually waste them like this, night after night. Someday you’re going to meet a woman you really love, and you’ll be used up.”
We stood there, staring at one another, Mosby shaking with anger and I stunned. Someone should have said something, but no words came.
Mosby left my house that night, and I have not seen him since. I’m sorry about that; I miss the silly old fool. I often wonder about him, as I am enjoying an extra drink or picking up a book that might or might not be brilliant. Or, more commonly, just pursuing a pleasant conversation wherever it may lead. Waste is one thing, but to be so concerned, to watch every step and every word is, well, madness. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times, life is…