There were times when Whistle Pig fancied himself a saint of sorts, aching with grief at the human condition. What compassion! What empathy! To feel this degree of pain only upon witnessing the everyday tragedy of the faultlessly pathetic!
Of course, saint he most certainly was not. His reaction to human suffering—hardly selfless and hardly proactive— was guilt, darling readers, about his own privilege.
I imagine Whistle Pig is not the only one to suffer this burden. To realize the luxury and excess of your own life in the face of someone else’s nothingness can be a wearying experience. There was something so unpleasant about it, so uncomfortable, thought Whistle Pig, and he squirmed to be eating his croissant at the bus stop under the hateful eye of the have-nots.
Now a conundrum presents itself. Without the bottom, there is no one at the top; and so it seemed to Piggy-dearest that his happiness was at once made possible and threatened by those he pitied. Well now he was in a pickle.
Thank heavens for a good rye. What better way to rectify this taboo but ever-so real upstairs/downstairs dilemma than by way of a drink?
The next time the Pig felt the oncoming awareness of misfortune, he uncorked his flask and poured two glasses: one for himself, one for the bum on the corner.
You can’t pity a guy who’s drinking good whiskey.
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