© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 75
There is a saying that ‘no good deed goes unpunished’. Consider this circumstance: you see a beggar on the street with a rather interesting goiter that makes him resemble one of the characters from Star Wars. Out of pity, or an ill-judged sense of amusement, you hand over a couple of cents, perhaps just enough for a loaf of bread or a cup of coffee.
The next time you see the person you are again expected to hand over money. Gradually this becomes a contract, at least on the part of the person with the goiter. Your contributions are judged by the amount and regularity. If you don’t have anything, you are treated with bitterness. Eventually you have to find a new way to walk through town.
Now consider this circumstance: you do a small favour for someone a couple of times. This almost immediately becomes ‘behaviour that is expected of you’ and a chore to be checked off on that person’s list of things that ‘you should do’. If you don’t do it, slurs on your character begin to circulate: you are unreliable, feckless and so on. As I said, ‘no good deed goes unpunished’.
Everything comes at a price. There is no exception. Even the smallest act of altruism involves a donation of time and at least a bit of physical exertion. Beyond that you are giving away the tokens of your earnings, and these two represent time and effort as well.
What do you expect to gain? Perhaps altruism is a deal with Heaven for a better spot amongst the Host, or a pact with a genetic imperative that says the species, your peer group or family unit must survive. Perhaps the little favours that you do for people are subconscious a way of buying a bit of better treatment for yourself.
I have never thought much about the cost to myself of what I do. I have either worked from the point that there has to be a sacrifice of time and effort in order to gain, or have adopted the altruistic approach that giving to the less fortunate is a way of life. But as I examine it, the more apparent becomes the other side of the equation.
In fact, I am now at the point where I realize that if I enjoy the luxury of sleep and whatever dreams it brings, I will pay for it with overtime on whatever tasks I had on hand before I went to sleep. So even a dream comes with a bill.
Considering the cost was never a feature of the sermons with the message ‘give selflessly without expectation of reward’. Yet it seems that in order for what one gives to be appreciated, you too should extract a price for what you give.
The few cents given to the beggar might be accompanied by a half hour harangue on personal appearance, looking for a job and the benefits of iodated salt. In this manner, the beggar gets the money, a bit of knowledge and the certainty that he or she should think twice before asking you for money again.
You on the other hand get the cosy feeling that you have done some good but without the prospect of long-term dependency upon your wallet. After all, the beggar now knows how to mend his or her ways, and if he or she doesn’t, ‘well it just goes to show…’
The small favour done for an acquaintance might be accompanied by a short, cynical speech on how ‘nobody does favours anymore’. This will draw attention to what you are doing, develop a sense of obligation towards you and ensure that the recipient of your words never asks you for a favour again.
I can’t say I like this sort of behaviour. I prefer to give, rather than to take. But sometimes, as the cynicism of demands builds up, I wish that I could find it in me to better extract a price from those to whom I give.
On the other hand, there is a certain happiness to be found in not expecting something in return. More often than my cynicism has permitted me to mention here, I am pleasantly surprised by acts of giving on the part of others.
I do not want to exact a price from others for everything I do: it’s just that sometimes I wish that what I gave would be appreciated as a moment of pleasantry, not just a signature on an unwritten contract.
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