NO SYSTEM AT ALL TO THE HUMAN SYSTEM
I think I'll tell you about myself. Maybe it's the same way with you.
Anyhow, it's a mighty queer thing. And we ought to try to get some light
on the matter--why there is, apparently, no reason or logic at all about
our systems.
You see, I go along a pretty fair amount of the time feeling all right;
nothing wrong with my system; nothing, at any rate, that I can notice.
Everybody says: "How well you're looking! Great color, you've got." And
so on.
Then, maybe, I see in the paper that there is an epidemic scheduled to
devastate the city pretty soon. This news lays hold of me right off. The
paper goes on to say that it behooves all citizens to take thought to
fortify their systems against the ravages of this terrible disease which
is rapidly approaching.
Or I read, say, that Thrift Week was such an enormous success (for
everybody else) that a campaign is under way to inaugurate a Health
Week, which (I read) will greatly reduce the mortality in the community.
The way to reduce my own mortality (I read with considerable attention)
is for me to Stop, Look and Listen in the matter of my health. And To Do
It Now! I don't like those profane words, like mortality. They disturb
me. And occasionally get me into no end of trouble--as you'll see.
Or, perhaps, I notice around in cars and places an unusual number of
advertisements instructing you what firm to consult in order to
"safeguard the interests of your heirs." A died (one of these cards may
say) and left his estate to B, his widow, naming C as executor. C died
suddenly shortly afterward. B (the widow) met E, with oil lands in
Hawaii--and so on. The advertisement winds up: Are you A?
Not yet; I'm not! But I'd better watch out. I know this is a good
advertisement because it gets into my mind the way it does.
Or, again, perhaps there are just a number of little things that I come
across. A gentleman one day tells me at luncheon, we'll say, that he
can't drink tea because it gives him uric acid so bad. Good gracious!
And I (maybe) subject to uric acid!
An octogenarian (we'll suppose) is interviewed. He attributes his
longevity to abstemiousness in the use of inexpensive cigarettes. (I at
once put mine out.)
A chemist (very likely) gets a lot of publicity by declaring that you
are to Look Before You Leap in the matter of drinking water. (And but
the night before I drank from the spout in the kitchen!) And so on.
Well, things such as these set one to thinking.
I say to myself when I get that way (to thinking, I mean) a stitch in
time saves nine; there's no loss so bad as the loss of your health,
because if you have that you can obtain aught else; a word to the wise
is sufficient; make hay while the sun shines; little drops of water wear
away the stone; take heed for the morrow while it is yet May; be not
like unto the foolish virgin who spilt the beans. And many other things
of this kind, which (doubtless in wise measure) are both good and true.
Well, in short, I determine to "build up," to get myself in thoroughly
"good shape."
I swear off smoking. I put away the home brew. I do not eat fresh
bread. I procure myself overshoes against the rain. I rise with the
lark. I (religiously eating an apple first) go to bed betimes. I walk so
many miles a day--also skip a rope. I shun all delicacies of the table.
I take those horrid extra cold baths, for the circulation. I do "deep
breathing." I "relax" for twelve minutes each day. I shun the
death-dealing demon "worry." I "fix my mind on cheerful thoughts." I
"take up a hobby," philately, or something like that. I eat the skins of
potatoes. I watch the thermometer at the office, and monkey continually
with the steam radiator. Everything like that.
When you undertake a thing (even if it's only shelling peas) be thorough
in it, that's my motto. I don't, indeed, in this regimen get much work
done, but it's better to be slow and sure.
Well, what happens?
When I set out to build up this is what happens to me: First thing,
maybe, I get pimples. No; no maybe about it. I sure get pimples. Then,
very likely, I get a carbuncle. (I have just asked my assistant how you
spell that word. She inquires if I mean the gem, or--or the other. I
have told her I mean the other.)
Next, very probably, I "contract" (as they say) a cough. This cough
"develops" into a cold.... You have (I trust) had that sort of cold
which hangs on for months. Nothing recommended is of any help to you.
You become resigned (more or less) to the idea--just as a man who has
lost a leg (or his mind) must resolve to do the best he can with the
rest of his life without his leg (or his mind), so must you adapt
yourself to the stern condition imposed by Fate of always having a cold.
That's the kind of a cold I mean that I get. (Only worse!)
My cold branches out into several little side lines, such as acute
neuralgia and inflammatory rheumatism. Stiff joints impede my agility in
getting down the hill to my morning train to the city. I slip on the ice
and break my glasses.
Not having my glasses causes me at the office to greet Mr. Sloover as
Mr. Rundle, and this sort of error breathes a chill upon the nice
nuances of business.
Or in my personal correspondence (if I were that kind of a person) I
might put my letter for Penelope into the envelope for Pauline. This,
when I had discovered the calamity, would doubtless perturb my thoughts.
My thoughts being perturbed, I might walk out of the restaurant without
my change of three dollars and eighty cents. Thoroughly upset by now, I
walk under a ladder. Realizing that I have done this, my nervousness is
the occasion of my dropping my watch. Enough! I recognize that there is
no use in my going back to the office that afternoon. I telephone in
that I have gone home to bed with my cold.
On coming out of the cigar store where the telephone booth is, I see
Christopher Morley, Don Marquis and Franklin P. Adams walking down the
street arm in arm. (I can see very little without my glasses, but well
enough to recognize such a spectacle as that.) Something, I say, must be
on. And I cheer up considerably. Some cheering up certainly is just what
I need. I overhaul the company. And I ask it (the company) where it is
bound. It says: "For 'Mecca.' Come along." Don hands me a pocket flask
(largely empty), Chris presents me with a large green cigar, and Frank
gives me a match. It is agreed that we roll a little pool for a few
hours while waiting for the cab.
Well, you see, I've been led to abandon the idea of building up my
health--but I don't care, one may as well die happy.
I have a great time at that show. (My cold is immensely better.) I fix
on one eye-glass so as to see something desirable. And I cut up a lot.
But--when we turn to leave I discover the president of my company going
out just ahead of me. Well, I suppose I'll have to take what is coming
to me tomorrow.
That one good meal, anyhow (after the pool), has strengthened my spirit
immensely. I plan to have a regular, genuine breakfast in the morning.
The kind I used to enjoy before I started in to get myself in fine
shape. A breakfast of sliced pineapple, eggs, steak, fried potatoes,
cottage-cheese, hot rolls, and two pots of good strong coffee. A pipe
afterward.
When I get out to the house I find that my uncle (from whom I had been
estranged for years) has died, and left me his fine, ninety carat, forty
jewel, repeater watch.
I wake up bursting with joyous life. The girl tells me that those
especially handsome glasses I lost last New Year's Eve have been found.
Down at the station the station-master comes out to greet me. He says
so many people have slipped on our hill that next week the railroad is
going to install a free coach service. I see by the morning paper that
the horse I took a twelve to one shot on in the Buenos Aires derby came
out the length of the stretch to the good. On the train into town I
smoke a couple of packages of cigarettes--as I become a bit bothered
about the situation at the office.
A girder, or something, had fallen across the track. The train is held
up. For a couple of hours it stands there. I become more than decidedly
nervous. Now this is awful bad doings. Everything had been coming so
right again. It seems as if there is no reward in this world for
anything. Here for a whole month or so I had been subjecting myself to
the most rigorous and unpleasant kind of discipline solely in order to
make myself more efficient in my work, and so more valuable to the
house. Nothing else. Then by an accident I am kept away from the office
one afternoon, and this has to go and happen just to keep me away
probably the whole of the forenoon. Everything will, of course, be
misunderstood and misinterpreted. Instead of getting just credit for
what I've done, I'll probably get bounced. If anyone wants to have the
moral of this story pointed out to him: it is that there is not much use
in trying, you can see that.
When I do get to the office my secretary is in quite a flurry. She tells
me that Mr. Equity, the president, has been inquiring for me. In
fact--she hesitates--wants me to step in to see him as soon as I arrive.
So, there you are!
Mr. Equity (a most unusual thing in any circumstances) shakes my hand
with great cordiality. He smiles, not benignantly but rather
deferentially. Says that he has recognized for some little time that I
have not had a salary commensurate with my services. Times, however, are
not of the best. Would I be willing to continue with the firm at--a
pause--well, double my present salary? Everything, he adds, would be
made as pleasant for me as possible.
His secretary whispers to me in an outer office: "He has been so
flustered. He was scared you weren't ever coming back."
I discussed this matter of the strange workings of the human system with
a friend of mine outside the office. "Ah!" he said, "you didn't
persevere long enough in looking after yourself. If you had kept it up
for a year instead of only a month, you'd be a well man today. And," he
added seriously, "a successful man, too."