The harsh sun floods through the dealership's glass walls. Bargaining with the nice fella across from me is even more uncomfortable. Every "no" is juice squeezed from his paycheck, every "yes" from mine. Everyone knows you're getting a raw deal if you don't negotiate. That doesn't make it easier.
Haggling at yard sales. Selling myself at job interviews. Pricing music I've made. I hate all of it.
My brother-in-law is the exact opposite. He takes pride in his low-ball offer being accepted at an estate sale. Selling himself is not an issue as he has made a handsome career climbing the Navy's ladder. He works his ass off knowing it will pay off and has no issue making sure he's paid fairly. As a landlord, he doesn't let emotions get in the way of kicking out a tenant repeatedly falling behind on rent with a new excuse each month.
Life in the modern world would be much easier if I had those same inclinations.
Ironically, this setup I am uncomfortable with affords me a comfortable living that I cherish. A life of family, privacy, and autonomy. A life removed from whatever hardships are going on outside of my little world.
Belonging and contributing to a community takes effort. Dostoyevsky says that active love is much harder than dream love. In theory, it is easy to love humans. To wish them the best. To want everybody to thrive and have a fulfilling life. However, it is much harder to translate this compassion to action in the real world. From small things like striking up a conversation with a stranger in line, to bigger things like addressing food insecurity in my community. Real humans are messy, impatient, and hard to love.
Capitalism gives us an out for avoiding active love. We simply have to make ourselves too busy. With work, studying, or raising a family. And this is completely justified because personal responsibility and acting in our self-interest is raised to the highest principle. And since we can take care of ourselves, we get a pass from helping others.
My car frees me from awkward bus conversations. Endless emails and news articles help avoid small talk with other parents at birthday parties. Working remotely lets me avoid talking about last weekend to a coworker in the hallway. A house in the woods offers privacy from neighbors I used to live on top of.
However, there is this urge to do more. Despite my full time job, raising a family, writing and studying, I feel as if I should be contributing to something bigger. Naive dream love ideas of making the world a better place.
I would spend hours, even days, coming up with plans. A publication elevating others' work. Volunteering with the family. Interviewing interesting people. And yet, when it comes time to reach out, I bail and focus on something else. My job, house projects, reading Polanyi, writing essays about my aversion to bartering, etc.
I could've gone into the office yesterday for a retirement party.
Instead, I spent my lunch hour writing this essay from the comfort of my home in the woods.