by Mark Patterson
Something of a scoundrel-albeit a charming one-my dad played the ponies throughout most of his adult life. Please consider that this was long before legalized sports-betting slapped a veneer of legitimacy on the sort of “financial speculation” that sometimes results in dining on Kraft Mac & Cheese (the kind in blue boxes that contain those powder packets) and has compelled more than one happy family to draw the shades and make like church mice when the landlord comes knocking. Horse bettors were at best seen as misguided neer’ do wells-and not infrequently as on societal par with pimps and junkies.
To counter such negative stereotypes among fellow mill-workers (Jones and Laughlin, Aliquippa plant-if you’re curious) and pass break-times more companionably in the “coffee shanty,” one Charles “Pat” Patterson assumed the role of loveable loser, routinely recounting sad tales of gut-wrenching defeats, (completely fabricated) tirades at jockeys, and coasting down hills with the gas tank on empty. THEY ATE IT UP. His popularity soared.
Perhaps not so innocently, however, “Ole Dad” (his moniker at work, as senior member of a welding crew) stumbled onto a mind-altering discovery-one he grimly related to his portly 9-year-old son and that said offspring long ago stopped denying the truth of. A mischievous and mildly Machiavellian student of human nature, my father one day flipped the narrative with a story about winning. Winning BIG. Cups of Joe were left half-consumed as the coffee klatsch adjourned immediately. Working molten steel on 15 minutes of their OWN time, it seems, was unanimously preferable to hearing about somebody’s good fortune.
“They couldn’t STAND any story about me winning,” dad said. “People do not wish you well.” Unsure of exactly how this revelation might apply to, say, third grade art class (I can’t draw a stickman) or the little-league diamond; I must have appeared flummoxed. “Only your family roots for you, Markie,” he continued. And sometimes, not even them. (That last part is my own hard-learned addendum to Pat Patterson’s immutable “Law of Quantum-Envy.”)
The late Gore Vidal, celebrated writer and “public intellectual,” put this uncomfortable truth succinctly: “When my friends succeed, I die a little.”
In a similar expression of cynical wisdom, some other scribe, whose identity has since been lost to history (no doubt erased by persons jealous of his insight), had further expounded to want it BOTH ways in stating: “It’s not enough that I succeed; also, my friends must fail.” Fail HOW, then becomes the cringe-inducing question. Fail, as in not receive that promotion at work? Or perhaps get stumped on a crossword puzzle? Or are we talking about something just a bit more consequential, such as failing to navigate a hairpin curve, perhaps with passengers (Whom someone likewise wishes misfortune on?) in the car? Just asking.
Ever practical, Germans reduce this projection of bad wishes to a single word- schadenfreude, for which there is no English equivalent. But Webster’s definition-“to derive pleasure from another’s misfortune”- makes it sound like some sticky rite of puberty best confined to the bathroom.
Sadly, I think I “schadenfreude” (Yeah, I realize it’s not a verb.) quite a bit. As a Steelers fanatic, I sure schadenfreude the Dallas Cowboys. The calamities I would have cruel fate visit on them, trust me, FAR surpass simply missing the playoffs or suffering a spate of ACL tears. (Not that AT&T Stadium actually COULD cave in, moon-roof and all…) And the dept. head that last spring dismissed my son mere days from the completion of his “trial” period of employment? Well, I’m not sure they MAKE that much schadenfreude. And is there some super-potent brand of it, like the way green kryptonite can outright END Superman? Some of THAT stuff, while we’re at it, for any cig smoker who lights up in my air space.
And come to think of it, can I wish (profound) ill on a non-sentient thing? If so, how about some biblical plague on the 14th hole at Turkana? I’m sick of triple-bogies. And I hope bad things can somehow befall most condiments, lemon ice cream (long story, and not a pleasant one), and soccer.
Got a news flash for you: the entire media industry runs on schadenfreude. Or do you think that folks who bring you the ACTUAL news bank on your sense of good citizenship and empathy? No, they pitch to a less noble aspect of our makeup. The part of us that feels better about our own lives, or at least comparatively fortunate and secure when they show us segments about church bombings, familial murder/suicides, and those always self-affirming “Mr. Bigshot is going to jail” features-NAH, NAH, NA,NA,NA..And I’LL be walking around freeeeeeee, we think (Don’t even bother to tell me you don’t.). Seeeeee, I could have been JUST as rich and famous, we assuage our own stunted sense of accomplishment by thinking. Except I have morals and principles. Of course you do.
Lots of movies, horror, in particular, shamelessly pander to our desire to see others suffer-or worse. Or maybe the Scream franchise took in nearly a billion dollars because audiences were rooting for all those perky college kids to NOT get their entrails dressed out like it’s deer season. Or take The Exorcist, arguably the apex of cinematic sadism-In what other context would it be socially acceptable (or even legal) to find gratification from watching an innocent (albeit uncomfortably provocative-Linda Blair lived as an emancipated minor by the time of filming) woman/child purge green bile, have her noggin twisted backwards, break out in boils, and violate herself in a manner not suitable for relating in this good publication? We sure don’t pay $3.99 to see Father Damian run laps in those ancient Knute Rockne sweats, now, do we?
And sports? You guessed it: s-c-h-a-d-e-n-f-r-e-u-d-e. The NFL, for instance, more rich and powerful than entire nations, fuels more hate than the Taliban-and profits beyond measure from it. Obsessive fans-and when it comes to pro football, in the memorable words of the great Jack Nicholson’s Colonel Jessup: “Is there another kind?”-never get mushy about more than one team, but can burn with enmity towards all the others (31 these days, to be exact). That’s a lot of motivation to watch a lot of games. You would not BELIEVE the reasons I can dream up to wish defeat, injury (There, I said the quiet part out loud.), and, if possible, soul crushing scandal on every NFL franchise besides my beloved Steelers-even teams in other divisions whose wins or losses could not conceivably impact the Pittsburgh club’s fortunes. I invent cause to hate them, passionately, and am thus compelled to tune in their games. In many instances, it just kills me that BOTH teams can’t lose.
If I do feed on the tough breaks (a euphemism, to be sure) visited on others (as, like it or not, probably IS the nature of our species) I must want to feast throughout the house, since I have a tv in almost every room-and nary a one is tuned to the Disney Channel. (I do dig me some Bob Ross, but hey, one does not live on schaden..whatever alone.)
Taking this truth to a very dark place: If we desire to outlive certain persons, does that mean we wish them to be deceased? Not quite, I would fervently hope, because I just happen to have several in mind. Before judging me, be honest. Isn’t that one reason we gobble up the obits? Kind of puts a new twist on Tom Hagen’s somber disclosure that “The Don insists on hearing bad news at once.” We LOVE to get the bad news at once-just as long as it’s somebody ELSE’S bad news. In fact, some of us outright celebrate that type of news-especially when it concerns political foes (just in case you’ve been living in a cave).
Like any self-respecting highway, however, these sentiments run both ways. I’d like to imagine a world that would relish my hitting the Powerball, shooting my age at Firestone, and never, ever, running out of unleaded. But dear daddy sure yanked THAT wool from my mind’s eye. So someday-hopefully far, FAR in the future- should you come across MY obituary (Although, for full transparency: I’d much rather read yours.) and it makes your day just a little bit brighter, don’t feel guilty. Not even a smidgeon. It’s human nature. They call it schadenfreude.
Sent from Outlook
