A Great Man

I knew a Great Man, once.

He was not a politician. I’ve known a lot of politicians, and even some I liked, but they don’t seem to become Great Men (or Women) until after they’re safely dead.

He wasn’t a Captain of Industry, or particularly wealthy. At least, not that I knew of.

He wasn’t famous. Nor did he do any Great Deeds of which I was aware.

The main reason I found out he was a Great Man is because he told me so.

“I am indeed a Great Man,” he said, taking a long pull at the bottle of amusing fruit flavored wine substitute product.

“You don’t say,” I said, waiting for him to pass it my way.

“Indeed,” he repeated. He looked at the bottle neck, as if wondering whether to screw the cap back on. “I am, in fact, among the greatest human beings to walk the earth. A paragon in human form, a monolith among my fellows.” He glanced at me and realized I was waiting for the bottle, and didn’t put the cap on; instead, he passed it to me, for which I was grateful.

There was silence for a moment while I worked the bottle, and then it was my turn to realize that HE was waiting. Precisely for what, I didn’t know. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Were you waiting for me to acknowledge your greatness, or to inquire about its source?”

He held out his hand, and I passed him the bottle. “Some are born great,” he said, pausing to pull at the bottle, “and some earn greatness through their deeds. Some, though, have greatness thrust upon them.” He handed me the bottle back.

Truth was, I was not hugely interested in his greatness. I was more interested in trying to figure out what flavor the wine flavored fruit alcohol delivery fluid was supposed to be. This particular brand didn’t have names that suggested a fruitlike origin; rather, it had flavors like “Mellow Nights” and “Steppin’ Out,” and left the rest to your imagination. I drained the bottle while the Great Man kept talking.

“I am SO great,” he continued, “that unlike certain other Great Men I could name, I can afford great forebearance... tolerance... and charity.”

“Mmhm,” I agreed, taking another bottle out of the cardboard box. If nothing else, he could indeed afford a whole case of quasi-fermented fructose and corn syrup ciderlike stuff. I unscrewed the bottle cap and handed it to him, and he took a a long pull... and handed it back to me... and looked up at the night’s stars.

“The truly great human beings,” he said, looking skyward, “can be like that. They are so great, they can truly share of themselves. They got it to spare. I have it to spare. Magnanimity. There is no greatness in keeping it all to yourself, you know. Whatever it might be.”

I murmured agreement. Definitely not apple, I thought. There was a vaguely strawberryish note to the flavor, but a sort of darker, denser overlay. I wondered if it were possible to ferment prune juice into wine. This bottle was labeled “Sky of Stars,” and I wondered, am I drinking prune wine? Is this what they do with the prune juice that doesn’t sell?

“I am SO great,” he continued, eyes still pointed skyward, “that I take it a step further: I encourage other men to adopt the delusion that they are as great as I am. Or even greater, still, than I.”

This got my attention. I tried to hand him the bottle, but he was still looking up at the sky. “Why would you do that?” I said aloud.

“It’s like I just said,” he said, reaching out and taking the bottle without looking. “I am great, and I am magnanimous. I am generous. I give freely of my time and my effort and my resources to all I deem worthy, and you sorta kinda got to work at being unworthy, in my eyes.” He paused to tilt the bottle to his lips, and I waited. A moment later, he handed me the bottle back.

“And,” he continued, “a Great Man... who understands this... and lives by it... would realize this himself, wouldn’t he? Appreciate it? And would he not, in his delusion of Greatness, try to be magnanimous and generous, forthcoming and forgiving, standing tall and strong and living for others, as well as himself?“

I stopped for a moment and thought about it. I was younger then, and far less cynical than I am now, and it made a weird sort of sense. But I didn’t know what to say, so I took a pull at the bottle.

“I think he might,” the Great Man said. “I think that knowing himself to be great, he would BE great, as far as noblesse oblige to those less great than himself. And if he took it to the next level, he would encourage others... as I have... to adopt the delusion that they, too, are great, and can afford great generosity and forebearance and all that MAKES one great.”

And he turned and he looked at me. I didn’t know WHAT to think at that point; the conversation seemed to have sorta jumped the rails. So I handed him the bottle. And he took it, but did not drink. Instead, he looked up at the sky again, and this time, I looked, too, and we stared at the Milky Way spread across the sky for a minute.

“Can you imagine it?” he said. “A world where the order of the day is kindness, forbearance, and generosity, because we are all of us just that damn good?” And he took a deep pull at the wine.

And stopped and looked at it and examined it critically.

“Is it just me, or does this taste like prune juice?”