Imagine being an economist is a little bit like being Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Rattling around the Overlook Hotel, writing "all work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy", over and over on the walls. Red rum. Red rum.
"I've been working on absolutely nothing for the past two years," a Canadian economist once complained to me. "Nobody's even noticed."
And economists are terrible judges of character. Maybe because everything in their world is theoretical. My economist believes all people are innately good. He is devastated when they behave badly, his heart broken when they fail to live up to his noble expectations. "Why would someone act like that?" is his constant refrain.
The economist's unflagging faith in humanity is the triumph of hope over experience. His resolute naivety is terribly sweet and one of the reasons why I love him so (the other being his good looks), even if it is a bit like living with a 3-year-old who brings home Mongrel Mob members.
Many times I've met new acquaintances (someone found on the street or the internet) who immediately register as dodgy, weird, or simply a waste of space. Kind to the point of simpleton, he steadfastly refuses to believe my diagnosis.
Now, I've never pretended to be anything other than a very shallow woman. The economist's herniated disc currently leaving him prone (to exaggeration), I wondered if we could go on, given that, instead of a blonde man with a tan, he is now a blonde man with a limp.
After all, the whole point about not settling for any Tom, Harry or Dick is that you're supposed to retain that new car smell. I expect I'll put him out in Mosgiel when he gets too dribbly.
I gave up my days of wine and philandering (actually just philandering) to live in Borer Towers with a vomiting cat based on a theory of complementarities: he earns money, every now and then I spend it. At the same time, the economist gained an astute social radar.
Not that he ever uses it.
"That guy is a jerk," I might say.
"Don't be so mean," says the economist.
He is a collector. The criteria for his friendship or admiration is uniqueness. Being passionate (about anything). Perhaps you collect footage of steam engines going in and out of tunnels, think yourself an alien abandoned by the mothership, lost three fingers learning to make explosives? The economist would like to be your friend.
Sometimes, this isn't such a good thing. But no matter how many times he sees people he knows on the 6 o'clock news; in the face of duplicity, avarice and corporate shenanigans, the economist wavers from condemnation. "I've made mistakes," he says raising bloodhound eyes. "We're all human."
Whereas, I'm Irish. My kind can hold a grudge for 500 years. There is always someone in my family not speaking to someone else. Callous indifference to human foibles has seen me break up with all my exes thus: a statement of intent, followed by absolutely no negotiation. I once took the Ministry of Justice's recidivist offender questionnaire. They'd never let me out. With my misanthropic talents, I could run Libya.
Not so long ago, the economist and I found ourselves in a charming local hostelry proffering an extensive menu of expensive English beers. It was packed. A rugby game was playing on the big screen. Suddenly, the economist got a text from a friend in Christchurch - there had been a huge earthquake in Japan.
"There's been a huge earthquake in Japan," the economist said to the publican. "Change the channel to the news."
"Yes, but they're watching the game," said the publican worriedly.
"It's an 8.9!" protested the economist. At the publican's impassivity he shouted, tears in his eyes, "that's 1000 times stronger than Christchurch!" The bar fell quiet. The players hit the changing rooms and the channel was reluctantly changed.
A black tide of destruction rolled over coastal Japan, cars were washed away with people inside them. Smoke boiled from a nuclear power plant - the Pacific Rim had never seemed so small.
A woman laughed in the silence, loud and shrill, the caw caw of a carrion bird.
"Put the game back on," said the barfly next to me. "Yeah, put the game back on, Michael," the punters grumbled. The noise of talking began to swell back up, filling the uncomfortable gap.
Michael put the game back on.
"People suck," I said to the economist, as we walked home.
"You just might be right about that," he replied.
