The Iceman Cometh

Dear God,

Do you in your all remembering-ness remember the Eugene O'Neil play "The Iceman Cometh"? A colorful assortment of impractical, deluded men and women hang out in Harry Hope's bar, bolstering themselves with booze and "pipe dreams"—ideas of the honest folk they will become, not today, but someday. Tomorrow. Meanwhile, in the more immediate future, they're looking forward to the loads of fun they'll have "once Hickey gets here." Hickey is a traveling salesman. He sells ice. He always buys drinks. He'll come any day now. Any minute. Maybe that's him.

And then Hickey comes, but he's not the loveable drunk he's always been. He's sobered up, and with him he brings a message about facing up to the truth. He tells his truth. A few years back, he murdered his wife. But, as he explains, he did it out of love for her. Apparently, his whore-mongering had always driven her to tears, so, with noblesse oblige, he'd relieved her of her misery. Or that was his story, anyway. As the play progresses it turns out that even that story is a lie. He'd killed her because she'd cheated on him, too. No nobility to be found, not anywhere, in what Hickey has done. As he reveals his story, other characters reveal theirs.

They're all poseurs.

Ok, so there we've got a story about people doing harm to others by enmeshing themselves in fantasy rather than acknowledging their motivations and their actions. And when they come clean, there's no real cleanliness to it. That's us, right God? Lies on top of lies on top of lies. Then there's the "pipe dream" analogy that could be drawn between O'Neil's play and the last few weeks at Vermont Yankee. But don't make me say more about that. It's all so painful. Maybe I can pray about it someday. Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow. Anyway, I am sorry we mis-communicated about those pipes. Won't happen again.

Lord, I've become weepy and unnerved. Things are unraveling here. Our fantasies are being pierced, and our hopes are only confusing us now. And guess what? The most awful thing has happened.

The iceman cometh.

Really. A guy delivered ice, and he didn't get stopped at the checkpoint.

We must kill the fantasy of tomorrow and face the realities of today. So said Eugene O'Neil. So say the activists. So say the media. So say Governor Douglas and David O'Brien. So say the legislators, even Paul Hodes from New Hampshire. So says my conscience.

But my conscience I can quiet. Always have.

Hey, Lord, this all reminds me of a good joke:

Husband says to his wife, "Honey, has the iceman come yet?"

Wife says, "No, dear, but he's breathing hard."

Amen,

Fake-Rob