They rode in silence for a while, and then the driver made another good point. He said he knew that his truck was turning the atmosphere into poison gas, and that the planet was being turned into pavement so his truck could go anywhere. “So I’m committing suicide,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Trout.
“My brother is even worse,” the driver went on. “He works in a factory that makes chemicals for killing plants and trees in Viet Nam.” Viet Nam was a country where America was trying to make people stop being communist by dropping things on them from airplanes. The chemicals he mentioned were intended to kill all the foliage, so it would be harder for communists to hide from airplanes.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Trout.
“In the long run, he’s committing suicide,” said the driver. “Seems like the only kind of job an American can get these days is committing suicide in some way.”
“Good point,” said Trout.
On this Monday morning, as I reenter the corporate world after a soft fall weekend, I couldn’t agree with Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions more.
