Tragedy of the Common

After forty minutes of cooling my heels in the impossibly clean lobby of Mongoose Studios, I was led into an inner office decorated as tastefully as possible under the circumstances in a theme of oak and raccoon. There I was introduced to one E. Winston Monocle, whose handshake felt like reaching into a bucket of moist grapes. His hair looked like it was combed back with black shoe polish, his wormy lips strangely vacant without a cigar clenched between them. He settled back in his chair facing me across the imposing span of desk and asked to hear my pitch.

I cleared my throat for my big moment, as rehearsed. I told him it was about a spy named Rance Gladwell who works for a covert organization, so covert not even the CIA was aware of its existence. He's like James Bond, only instead of suave and sophisticated he was an incompetent fool.

"Maxwell Smart," he interjected with a dubious squint, "Inspector Clouseau."

I shook my head, no that's the thing because it's not a comedy. See, he's this totally incompetent being who makes a muck of everything he attempts. He's sent to Lisbon on an important assignment, the details of which we never learn, but before he even gets started he forgets his plane ticket, lose his suitcase with top secret papers inside, is unable to locate the embassy, and basically spends the whole mission tangled in bureacracy. He's a sad, unfortunate person, with expert training and a good heart but he can't do anything right. The kind of person who goes to the grocery store for cereal only to discover they're invariably out of his favorite brand. Elevators close in his face. Taxis already have a fare. It rains when he's forgotten his umbrella. See, it's not an action picture, it's a character study of a decent man betrayed by the little things. Foiled by the fine print, as it were. The terrible human sadness of it all.

E. Winston Monocle folded his hands into a pyramid and peered across the desk at me. "No one wants to see people fail at mundane things, kid. It reminds them too much of themselves. Remember, we're in the business of helping them forget all that. If you're going to fail you have to do it on a grand scale, where the stakes are high. No one wants to see you louse up a convenience store robbery, they want to watch you shot down while burgling the Louvre. See what I mean?"

But the tragedy of the common, I protested.

"Pales next to the tragedy of box office poison."

But wait'll you hear what happens when...

"Forget it, kid. Anything else on your plate?"

There wasn't, I was forced to admit. Many eggs, one basket. He rose and thanked me for only wasting a few minutes of his time. I'm not sure what I mumbled in response. Before shooing me out of his office he offered a kindly suggestion that perhaps this wasn't the right industry for me, that perhaps I should give theater a try, where I could experiment my face off without anyone getting hurt. His office door sounded unreasonably heavy as it shut behind me. On my way out I spit on his receptionist.