There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.Jacob is sitting on the back steps of the church, beside the ramp. He has one leg on the step below where he sits and the other is stretched out straight almost down to the ground. He's in worn jeans and a flannel shirt that only has two buttons still fastened. He has his head back, eyes closed, elbows propping him up. He is soaking up the sun. It is three hours past the service and he is worn out but satisfied.
~Edgar Allan Poe
Sam doesn't think this should be so exhausting, he says without opening his eyes.
And what did you tell him? I pause, looking up from where I have been furiously scribbling in my journal, stuffing raspberries into my mouth every fourth word, unable to stop eating them because they are warm from the sun.
That if it doesn't wear him out he's doing it wrong.
Maybe he is confusing being worn out with being worn down.
Think there is really a difference?
I don't know, Jake. Maybe there isn't and he's right.
Then I'm in the wrong line of work.
What would you be if you gave up your post here?
A carpenter. No, wait. A mailman.
Seriously.
A mailman. Outside all day, petting puppies and chatting up the neighbors? It's be perfect.
What else?
Professional surfer, maybe.
I like that one, but it's so dangerous.
So says the queen of falling down the stairs.
The stairs are dumb.
Yes, they are, princess. He is laughing now. But you also don't pay attention. Ever.
I have it, then. You can be my keeper.
Oh, geez, Bridge, that's a helluva responsibility.
I know. But you would be perfect because you know me so well.
That right there would prove there is no difference between being worn out and being worn down.
Gee, thanks.
Anytime, beautiful.