Wyatt: “How we feelin’ today, Doc?”
Doc: “I’m dyin’. How are you?”
Wyatt: “Pretty much the same.”
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I had a great conversation last week. It was so great that I remember every word. It went like this:
Me: “Hi, Jim.”
Jim: “Hi, Cordell.”
Isn’t that great? In case you missed it, the great part is what Jim didn’t say. He didn’t say, “How are you?” or “How ya doin’?” or “What’s happenin’?” or “What’s new?” Which means that I didn’t have to (1) come up with some pleasantly vacuous and dishonest reply and then ask him the same perfunctory question, or (2) freak him out with the truth, or (3) ignore the question.
It was a rare reprieve from a plague of questions-as-greetings. I’m not sure when or why it started, but the standard American greeting has gradually changed from “Hello” to “How are you?” And I’m not happy about it.
Here’s why. If someone asks me a question, I feel some obligation to answer it. But few people are willing to accept anything other than a cheerful answer to “How are you?,” and in my case cheerfulness frequently bumps up against honesty. During a particularly grim period a few months ago, I briefly adopted a total honest policy and change my standard how-are-you answer to “Bad. How are you?” No one even noticed—people heard what they wanted to hear, apparently inserting their own “not” before “bad.” I found that unsatisfying.
Still, I’m not here to rant about chitchat. Although I’m the first to admit that phatic conversation is not among my talents, I understand that it has its place. You call a friend on the phone, you start by asking how she’s doing. Then maybe a comment about the weather. Even I understand that it can seem brusque to move directly from “Hi” to “I’m thinking about putting everything into soybean futures.” So you open with “How are you?” If she answers, “I came home today to find my husband in bed with my brother,” then maybe you save the investment consultation for later in the conversation, or perhaps even another day.
That’s fine. I’m not saying I like it, but I understand it.
Nor does it bother me when someone comes into my office, has a seat, and asks, for example, how my weekend was. The circumstances suggest that the person genuinely wants to know. So I can reply, “No shots were fired, and all hostages were released unharmed,” and I know he’ll be glad he asked.
That works.
Here’s what doesn’t work: I’m out for a run at lunch time, and I meet a runner coming the other way, who says, “How ya doin’?” as he zips past me.
Why am I condemned to live among these people?
“How ya doin’?” It’s a question, right? What kind of brain defect causes a person to ask a question—to a perfect stranger—and run away before the interrogee can even open his mouth?
And it’s not limited to running encounters. Several times a week I pass someone on the street or in the office who says, “What’s happenin’?” and keeps right on walking. I have no idea what to do. In response to “How are you?,” I’ve learned to say, in 0.03 seconds, “Goodhow’reyou?” But there is no short answer to “What’s happenin’?”
Wait.
Maybe there is. The dialogue quoted at the top of this column, from the 1993 movie Tombstone, suggests a solution. Doc Holliday, bedridden and wasting away from tuberculosis, is obviously referring to his physical condition when he says, “I’m dyin’.” In contrast, Wyatt Earp, in perfect physical health, is referring to his own emotional state when he says that he’s pretty much the same.
Or is he? That’s the beauty of it. “I’m dying” can mean so many things. It could mean that I am, literally, on death’s doorstep. Or it could be a bit of hyperbole, referring to some physical or emotional struggle that I’m waging. Or it could be a neutral recognition of simple reality: the fact is that I am dying. We all are. I’ve been dying for 48 years. Although I haven’t obtained an opinion from my own physician, the experts all seem to agree that I have, at best, 40-45 years left. (I dispute that, by the way. I expect to live to 105, but that’s a subject for another day.)
“I’m dyin’.” That’s my new answer. I love it.
I especially love it because it fits as an answer to almost all of the standard greetings. True, it’s not so great for “What’s new?,” since if I was dying yesterday, it’s not exactly news that I’m still dying today. However, there is some news in the fact that I’m one day closer to death. That’s good enough for me.
“I’m dyin’.” Perfect. It’s factually accurate, and, better yet, its elegant crypticity catches the questioner flat-footed, leaving him to wonder whether he has just committed a faux pas comparable to “When’s the baby due?”
I tried it out for the first time a few days ago. In the throes of a battle with influenza, I staggered to the counter at CVS, sweating, shivering, coughing, and clutching four varieties of medicine. Other than the fact that I wasn’t visibly coughing up blood, my condition was indistinguishable from Doc’s. The cashier smiled and asked, “How are you?”
Well, come on. If anyone ever deserved it, she did.
“I’m dyin’,” I croaked.
She stared at her feet until I was gone. It’s a memory I’ll treasure forever.
So get ready, people. I’m a firm believer that one should not ask a question if one doesn’t want to hear an honest answer. If you don’t like mine, you know what to do.
I’m dyin’.
Have a nice day.
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Editor’s note: Yes, yes, I know, I promised a fortnightly and I seem to be delivering a quarterly. Well, first of all, I’m dyin’. Second—okay, I don’t have any other excuses. I just haven’t been into it. I think I’m coming out of the fog, though, so don’t lose hope. The Johnston Papers is alive and well, even if its author is dyin’.
