Never argue with stupid people. They will drag you down to their level and beat you with experience.”
That is attributed to Albert Einstein who we may assume made that mistake once or twice when he was taking a break from the complex work at his blackboard, devising his mistake-less formula E=MC2.
Here’s the thing: It’s okay for Albert to decide who is stupid. But how do laypeople determine who is stupider than whom? It would, for example, be presumptuous on my part to think that I am more intelligent than my postman. This is because he would inadvertently put somebody else’s mail in my letterbox, mostly letters addressed to 2/A.
Once, I opened a letter which turned out to be a bill. (Statistics will bear me out when I say most letters in letterboxes turn out to be bills, which is why people saunter up to their letterboxes with dour, unsmiling faces; they are more or less conditioned to expect the worst kind of news — an overdue mortage payment, an outstanding insurance, ‘outstanding’ not meaning ‘brilliant’ or ‘excellent’ but a euphemism, for ‘overdue’.)
The letter I opened gave me a shock, metaphorically and literally, for it was the electricity bill. I had somehow contrived to consume three times as much as the previous quarter and had been charged a hefty amount for my indulgences. There it was, in black and white: The figure, 600, followed by a decimal and 19.
I have no problem with the 19 — at any given time statistics will also bear me out, nearly every Australian can afford 19 cents. But $600 (Dh1,722)? Now that’s another matter. Granted, this was for electricity used over the winter quarter. Still, I had economised. Vigorously. I had shivered through many a night in temperatures that my body swore were sub-zero, curled up in my ‘faux goose down’ quilt when the heater would have dealt with the situation admirably.
‘Uncannily inaccurate’
For all that self-induced torture I was being charged this astronomical amount. It seemed unfair, unjust and — quite frankly if Einstein were in my place he would simply have said, “Uncannily inaccurate, or illogical”.
It simply didn’t make sense. What does one do generally when a bill doesn’t make sense? I don’t know about the others, but I initially toss it aside with disgust, disown it for a good period, refuse to acknowledge its presence.
Fortunately, there were other letters in the mail that morning. I ripped open the next impatiently and angrily, with a stubby forefinger. The letter opener and its fine-slitting finesse could wait for another day. What do I find in the second letter? Another bill! A second electricity bill! Only, this one for $128.14. It is only then (because I am stupid and Einstein is not) that I look at the two bills. The $128.14 one bears my address. The other one is for the neighbour living at No 2/A. I live at 4/A. I don’t know him and he I am sure doesn’t know me. Still, the discovery brings relief and relief bathes me in welcome sweat.
Postman error, letterbox error.
Anyway, I waylay the postman the following day.
“You have to give this to the man at 2/A,” I say.
He replies, “Sorry, mate, I don’t deliver opened mail!”
An argument ensues and he beats me with experience.
I go over, walk up 2/A’s drive, knock on the door, introduce myself and explain the situation. “Thanks,” says the man in a blue singlet, “next time knock on the outside gate. You’re lucky Jack isn’t here today.”
I say okay and leave. A week later when 2/A’s mail lands up in my letterbox again I go directly to the post office.
“Incorrectly delivered mail,” I say.
“Oh, sorry,” says the clerk in charge, adding jokingly, “I’ll give it to the postman, he’s such an idiot.”
He’s not really, I think. He’s very intelligent. He’s known something I didn’t till recently. Jack is a vicious Rottweiler.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
