The Folded Lie

A few minutes into their meal, a black shadow crept from its hiding place behind a fiddle-leaf fig and jumped onto the back of the sofa just over Aristotle’s shoulder. From this position Snowball dipped his head forward for a scratch behind the ear. Each time Aristotle stopped scratching so he could eat, the cat would lower his head and rub it against his person’s cheek. Garrison knew by now he was still allergic to cats and was taking a nightly antihistamine to keep his condition under control, but having to watch this display of human-feline contact made his skin itch.

Finally, after finishing his food and washing it down with what was left of his Bud Light, Aristotle put his empty plate and bottle on the table, pulled his pet onto his lap, and looked at his friend with wide-awake eyes. “How’s the job search going?”

“No success yet. I think my expectations may be too high, but I’m looking for something that would provide a nice lifestyle”—he scanned the room with his eyes—“I could have fun doing, and wouldn’t own me, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, sure, I know exactly what you mean. You need a job like mine.”

Not wanting to put his enthusiasm about this idea on display, Garrison paused. But then, realizing this was his chance, he pushed restraint aside and asked the question that had been simmering in the back of his mind since the two had met. “Maybe so, but what exactly do you do?”

Aristotle gently dropped Snowball onto the floor, went into the kitchen carrying the plates and bottles, and brought back two bowls of ice cream. He handed one to Garrison.

“It’s a bit complicated … It involves sales … You’ve said you’re good at that, and I’m convinced you are. You’ve certainly managed to sell yourself to my friends. The Landmark crowd is asking when they’re going to see you again.”

Garrison smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

Aristotle sat, blocked Snowball from resuming his place on the sofa, and continued. “Lots of smart people have concluded that life’s a game, right?”

Garrison was pretty sure he’d heard that idea expressed somewhere before. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, I completely agree with that metaphor. And what my dad and I do to win in this game is set up our own smaller games—little private games within the bigger game of life we all play. The advantage we have in our little games is that our opponents don’t know they’re playing.” Aristotle smirked. “We call our business the De Silva Game of Life.”

Garrison didn’t completely understand, but it seemed his new friend was saying his family made their money by taking advantage of people. He’d had bosses who did that, but they’d never acknowledged it, even to employees like himself who were making it happen for them.

Aristotle ate a few spoonfuls of ice cream. “It’s like this. We all start from different places in life and want to move forward. But there are obstacles everywhere that try to hold us back. Would you agree?”

Garrison knew from his own experience that this was true. He nodded.

“Well, if we don’t develop and use our gifts in ways that allow us to overcome these obstacles, we get left behind. We lose. It has nothing to do with fairness. Life just happens the way it happens, and the rest is up to us.”

While Garrison ate, he applied what had just been said to himself. Had he been one of the people who get taken advantage of because they don’t know they’re playing? Had he not used his gifts creatively enough to be a winner? Was this guy saying he should blame himself for his current financial situation?

Aristotle licked his spoon and placed the bowl beside him on the floor where Snowball could finish the job. “I’m not just talking about keeping up, though. I’m talking about going ahead, coming out on top, winning over and over again. I know from personal experience that winning can be addictive.”

Aristotle directed his gaze toward the window and watched a distant plane disappear into a bank of clouds. He nodded as he watched, as though confirming to himself the truth of what he’d just said. Then, after a moment, he looked back at Garrison. “But the real question for anyone is about goals. What are they? And what is a person willing to do to achieve them?”

Garrison wanted to understand. How could he not want clarity when he was seeing the tangible results of Aristotle’s ideas around him every day?

“My dad thinks that the real winners in life are the people who can outsmart their opponents by whatever means they come up with—short of bodily harm, of course. He says the mental antagonists of the world do a service to humanity by keeping everyone on their toes. They drive growth in individuals and progress in the world. It’s like Nietzsche says, ‘What does not kill me, makes me stronger.’ Dad’s responsible for turning me onto Nietzsche.”

Garrison focused his attention on finishing off the rest of his ice cream as a way to avoid immediate response. He could see as he thought back over his life that each defeat had stripped away a little innocence and brought him to the place where he was now—a place of being willing to see the merits of a new perspective and maybe finding a way to fit in with it.

Aristotle went on. “Dad’s the family philosopher. But, of course, he’s also the architect of our projects. I just follow along, help him with his game stories, and reap the benefits. It’s a great life.” He looked down at Snowball, who was still licking the bowl, and then back at Garrison. “Of course, there are risks, but they’re not too great if you know what you’re doing. And anyway, that’s where the excitement comes from.”