George Hardison had hoped to make the deal before the end of February, but the meetings with potential investors multiplied and then intensified, to the point where he came to see that mid-March was the new optimistic deadline. At those meetings, he was tired. Most nights he was laboring over his film about Tomas Segar. He had a cut of about forty-five minutes and was not sure that he could go longer, nor that he should. He had established that Segar’s paintings were a source of majesty and succor. He had not shied away from Segar’s terrible fate in the madhouse. One day in the midst of an investor making heard-before points about the Cylindrical Simulation Engine and how it could be an asset not just to existing business but business not yet imagined, George let loose with a pained sigh. “No one is asking me to translate that?” he said. “Well, then I will ask me, and then I will do so. The sigh indicates that I am sick to death of this company and the people interested in it. I think only of painting, only of Segar, because that is where life locates itself. It is where life is. I greatly regret my choice to become this man. Why did I not become another?” He expected silence to follow his remarks but instead a man from the investor group began to applaud, and George realized with a terrible clarify that he had not harmed the company at all but rather pushed the price up.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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