Dead Man's Thoughts Read Free Page A

“when I realized that it really doesn’t matter so much what you do in life as how you do it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThere’s a Zen story,” he began.
    â€œOh, no. Not another Zen story, Nathan, please,” I begged. Zen stories are the Oriental version of Christian parables, only more obscure. “You’re plucking my last nerve,” I joked, quoting Lily, Nathan’s secretary, whose last nerve was plucked at least once a week.
    â€œThere’s a Zen story,” he repeated insistently, but with a smile. “However, I’ll skip the details and go straight to the punch line. The point is that you must bring two things to whatever task you set out to do in life—concentration and compassion. Concentration on the thing you’re doing and compassion for the people whose lives you affect by doing it. That’s what it’s all about, for me anyway. Doing my job the best way I know how but never losing sight of the fact that I’m dealing with people, not just cases.”
    â€œWhat if you don’t want to do that job?”
    â€œBut that’s the whole point, Cass,” he answered. “You can’t go through life picking and choosing: I’ll walk through this part of life, but I’ll give myself heart and soul to that part. You either give all you’ve got to whatever you’re doing at the moment, or you’ll find you have nothing left to give when the ‘right’ thing comes along.”
    â€œThat’s crazy!” I retorted. “You mean in order to be a good photographer I have to be involved in law?”
    â€œInvolved is involved,” he shrugged. “Do you realize you’d be one hell of a lawyer if you ever decided to stop holding back and go for it?”
    The waitress brought our main dishes. I started eating my lamb stew, partly because I was hungry and partly to forestall further conversation. It didn’t work. Nathan asked me a question.
    â€œWhy did you go to law school?” He asked it conversationally, like a guy coming on in a singles bar. Then, before I could answer, he said, “Because you wanted to save the whales, end the war, and stop pollution, all in your first year of practice?”
    â€œSomething like that.” I smiled in spite of myself; it had been exactly like that. “After the shootings at Kent, which the legal system did nothing but cover up, I decided to learn the language, get my union card, and do what I could.”
    â€œFunny,” he said. “You went to law school to be a more effective rebel. I went to law school to get respectable. My old man was a Communist. Really,” he added, as I gave him a skeptical look. “Guys in long black cars followed us around. He took me to party meetings all the time. Even as a kid I could see that half the people there were poor deluded schmucks and the other half were FBI agents. It made me sore, what a schlemiel he was, believing in the glorious revolution. I went to law school to get away from that, to get into something normal.”
    â€œYou’re saying that’s a better reason?” I challenged.
    â€œI’m saying it set up fewer expectations,” he replied. “When I came back to law after my hiatus, I could set limited goals for myself. I couldn’t save the world, but I could get, maybe, one kid into a program and on the right track. I try to do what I can and forget about what I can’t.”
    â€œWhat’s this got to do with my becoming a photographer?” I asked.
    â€œSame thing,” he said. “I get the feeling photography for you is an escape. Taking pictures at block fairs on weekends. But nobody makes a living doing that. Can you accept the idea of becoming a working photographer—the kind who does weddings and takes high school graduation pictures?” He smiled. “Or is it Ansel Adams or bust?”
    I smiled back, a little ruefully.