Much Ado About Nothing

I’m back from vacation and just in time to celebrate the value of doing nothing. I picked it up in Quebec City.

At the top of a funicular that connects the lower town to the upper town, near a statue that honors the city’s founder, there’s a square where street performers do their acts.

Among the acts was an old man who sat staring into space. Well, he wasn’t exactly an act but became one due to his stare and the longevity of his sit. He was there at the start of the afternoon and he was there at twilight.

My wife Cinelli suggested I nudge him to make sure he wasn’t dead, but I am not into nudging old men for whatever reason. So she went up, talked to him and determined he was just sitting there doing nothing. He was very happy.

Later, in one of the hundreds of restaurants that line the Rue St.-Louis, we sat next to a man who lived just outside of Quebec. He spoke mostly French but knew enough English to say he felt sorry for us living in L.A.

“You don’t know how to slow down,” he said. “You don’t know how to do nothing.”

I was still thinking about that a day later when we hit LAX, dragged our baggage through the crowded terminal, emerged into the chaos of the street, got into our car, fought heavy traffic up the 405 and collapsed at home.

It was at that point, as summer came to an end, that I began the study of nothing.

*

The Frenchman was right. L.A. is not a do-nothing place. We’re always into something. Meeting. Lunching. Dealing. Hustling. Shooting. We never just sit and stare.

“What this town needs,” I said to Cinelli the next day, as jet lag ate at our will to live, “is a lesson in doing nothing. I’m starting now.”

I let my hands flop and my shoulders sag. I stared.

“If you plan on sitting there staring at me through eternity you’d better reshape your plans,” she said. “Either stare at the dog or move to Quebec.”

I stared at the dog. He stared back. It was restful for awhile but then I began to wonder what he was thinking. Was he asking himself, “How long can the damned fool keep this up?” I tried not thinking about what he was thinking. I emptied my mind. I thought about Kevin Costner. Ah, nothingness.

That worked for about five minutes. But then the dog, tired of it all, got up and slowly walked away. Nothing was not for him.

Doing nothing requires a certain concentration. Even watching the latest shows on television takes effort. The sappiness sucks you in. I began cheering for evil on “Touched by an Angel.” I found myself hoping monsters would carry Buffy away . . . forever . . . on “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

Watching the news, I was drawn into counting the number of times Dan Rather forced a smile, or how often Sweet Laura Diaz cocked her head. I began, God forgive me, counting anchor cuteness. It drained me.

*

Shakespeare wrote, “Better to be eaten to death with rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.” We were a rusting city once. Laid-back. Kookie. Content to limit our achievements to a nice tan.

Then something happened. Well, actually, everything happened. Riots, floods, fires, murders, mayhem, carnality. We were bookended by chaos. Heidi Fleiss on one end, O.J. Simpson on the other. Hoo-boy.

We’ve got to avoid chaos and rediscover rusting. I’m not talking “leisure” here. That implies golf and lawn bowling and joining caravans of old people in silver trailers gathering to barbecue and get drunk in Arizona. I’m talking nothing.

I have tried many ways of achieving nothing in order that I might pass it along. I tried sitting on a bench in Santa Monica and reading T-shirt logos. But then women began thinking I was staring at their breasts and glared. I was afraid of being arrested as a serial pervert so I gave that up.

Cinelli suggested I try shopping. “Go down to Pic ‘n’ Save,” she said. “Pig out on trinkets.” Shopping takes work. God intended only women to shop. He gave them special walking strength and the immense patience to compare prices.

A neighbor hums to achieve the alpha state. Nirvana. Bliss. Hmmmmmmmmmm. Try it, she said. I hummed and it became the Marine Corps Hymn. It was a subconscious emergence. I couldn’t help it.

Work on your own nothingness. Hum. Assume the lotus position. Stare at the dog. If worse comes to worse, close your eyes and think of Kevin Costner. That’s something. I mean nothing.

*

Al Martinez’s column appears Sundays and Wednesdays. He can be reached online at [email protected]