“Just what are you going to do with your life anyway?”

His name is John Bruckhenman. Everyone calls him John –family, friends, employees – except for me, and even then only on occasion. I’ve always loved watching him grit his teeth into a darkened and begrudging smile as I call him Mr. Bruckhenman; he hates his last name due a clouded history on his father’s side I’ve heard little about. He’s a large man, perhaps six and a half feet tall and three-hundred pounds, weight that is divided nearly equally between fat and muscle: muscle because he has to carry all that fat around, and fat because his muscle can carry it.

Every move he makes is heavy; so much so that he is fascinating to simply observe. Every motion he makes follows the same course: ponderous in initiation, massive in movement, and thunderous in conclusion.

“I’m going to Africa,” I replied with a hint of pride. “I’m working with AIDS research and internal communications development.”

“Oh.” He waited for a moment. “So just what are you going to do with your life anyway?” I smiled weakly, beginning to reply before he cut me off with a chuckle. “No, I listened. You’re going to Africa to get AIDS and talk to people. Sounds like a great deal of fun.”

“I wouldn’t call it fun, John. It may be my passion, but it’s also my duty.”

“It’s your duty to get AIDS?” He appeared genuinely surprised. “It seems as though there would be a better way to find a cure than that.”

“I’m not going to get AIDS. I’m going to go help to cure AIDS and take of those with the disease.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good. AIDS isn’t a fun thing.”

"No, John. It’s not.”

We sat in silence for a minute in the lightly crowded café, and I chewed my food carefully knowing that I may need to respond at any moment. John’s fat fingers wrapped around his water glass unconsciously, perspiration mixing with condensation – it was a hot day, nearly ninety degrees – and I watched as he lunged the glass up to his mouth, then slowly tipped it in. His fat frog-like throat bulged uncomfortably. He sighed contentedly and resumed the conversation more seriously.

He gave a stare and stated firmly, “Listen to a man who knows a little something about the world, Jack. A man who knows how to make a living.” This was true: John was improbably rich, despite a lingering stupidity: not so much that his personality had been affected, but enough to surprise though who found out because they never saw it in his personality. “You’ve got to give up on this idea of helping people. Let people help themselves. Let the strong survive. Let nature take its course.”

“You” - I thrust a finger at him decidedly - “are the reason the world hates us. You know how it works; I’m not going to teach you. But if you just let the poor get poorer, things will fall apart.”

He laughed and brushed my hand away. “You’re a fool, Jack. It won’t fall apart. They’ll just work harder. And good for them: if they can’t make it to the top, then let them rot. Those that deserve to make it through will.”

I quelled my desire to fly to the defensive. “Let’s pretend that’s true. But still, is there something wrong with helping those below us? We’re talking about human beings here, John.”

“I realize that, Jack. I really do. But just because you and your compassionate friends make hell a few degrees colder doesn’t mean it’s going to burn any less.” He thrust his chair out and leaned forward confidentially; his belly tipped the table slightly. “I’m not for hurting people, Jack. I don’t make it a habit. But I do what I have to do to make it in this world.”

“And you think others don’t?” I asked the question pointedly. “You think you’re the only one with a cutthroat nature? You think you won’t get stabbed one day too?”

He grinned. “I don’t care.” This drained my energy immediately. “That’s the nature of the game.” He stood up from the table heavily. “Go ahead and go to Africa. Get AIDS, build roads, meet people. Just do something with your life someday, okay?”

“Okay, John.”

“Can you spot the bill for today? I’m in a bit of a rush.” He slipped on a massive coat.

“Okay, John.”

“I’ll call you sometime soon. We’ll go bowling.”

“Okay, John.”

He left, bumping chairs and waiters as he meandered his way slowly to the exit. I still don’t understand why I speak to him.