The Discussion

“You are from Britain,” the Uber driver informed me.

“I am,” I agreed

Photo by Harli Marten on Unsplash

“I have driven many people from Britain in my car,” he announced. “And I always ask to them the same question, which is this. Why is there in Britain such an importance on the society class you are in?”

Now that, I thought, was a very good question.

“Now that,” I said, “is a very g…”

“I ask to them,” he said, “but they will never answer because it is something you do not want to discuss.”

He was on the money there, too: British people hate talking about class.

“It’s quite a probl …” I said.

“But it is something you should discuss,” he said. “because it is something that is wrong. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I absolutely did and was in full agreement.

“I absolutely d …” I said.

“You have three people,” he said. “One, two, three. In my country they are all equal, but in Britain they are not. One is a lord and he lives in a castle and everyone he admires him. And one is a businessman and he lives in a big house and everyone he treats him well enough. And one is a digger of ditches and he lives in a small shack and everyone he spits on him. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

To be fair to the people of Britain, I haven’t seen too many actual gobs of saliva being launched in the way of the working class there lately. But he certainly had a point.

“You certainly have a p …” I said.

“Why is one person more important than the other?” he said. “One person here, one person there, they all do their job, they all pay their taxes, they are all equal, and that is the end of it. That is the way it is in my country, and that is the way it should be everywhere. But it is not the way it is in Britain and it stays that way it is there because you do not want to discuss it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I couldn’t have agreed more.

“I couldn’t ag …” I said.

“Now,” he said, “if the person who is digging the ditches does not pay his taxes, then he should go to prison because he has done something that is wrong.”

I personally would have pegged the businessman for the more obvious suspect for tax avoidance, but I saluted the general idea.

“That’s absolutely tr …” I said.

“But why do you continue to spit on him on the way?” he said. “He has done wrong, he is paying the price. That is fine, and it should be enough. You do not need to spit on him too. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

For the record, I have never knowingly spat on any person, whether I caught them en route to prison or to Buckingham Palace. But there was no disputing his argument.

“I certainly d…” I said.

“But no,” he said. “You spit on him when he is in prison, and you spit on him when he is coming out of prison. And even when he has paid his price and he is out digging the ditches again, you are still spitting, and he himself, he is no longer the guy who digs the ditches, he is the guy who digs the ditches who was once in prison who everyone spits on. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I was beginning to hope that the unfortunate reformed offender had at least invested in a sturdy handkerchief to mop his face.

“I …” I said.

“And meanwhile the lord, he is in his castle with his lady and they are having a fine time,” he said. “And the businessman, he is in his big house with his wife and they are having a good enough time too. And the guy who digs the ditches, he does not even have a wife anymore because his wife, she has said to him, ‘Why were you in prison and why can you not buy me fancy clothes and jewels like the businessman buys for his wife?’ and she has left him and he is on his own. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

There comes a point where it becomes necessary for one woman to stand up for her hypothetical other.

“Women are not all …” I said.

“And he will stay on his own,” he said. “Because no woman will marry a guy whose wife has already left him and who has no money and who was once in prison and who everyone spits on.”

It was true, I thought, that life could be unfair.

“Life can be unf …” I said.

“And he will get more poor,” he said. “And he will die still alone while the lord and the businessman, they will get more rich and their wives they will stay with them until they kick them out for the younger models.”

Sad to say, he was very possibly right.

“You’re very poss …” I said.

“And that is the doing of your British society class,” he said. “And it will never change, and do you know why it will never change? I will tell you why it will never change. It will never change because you will never discuss it.”

It occurred to me then that the art of discussion was an underestimated one.

“The way I see it …” I said.

“You cannot have discussion until you learn to listen,” he said. “But the guy who digs the ditches, he is at the bottom of the heap. There is the top of the heap and there is the middle of the heap and there is the bottom of the heap. And no one will ever listen to the guy who is at the bottom of the heap. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Oh, boy, did I understand what he was saying.

“And this is why it will never change,” he said. “Because one person will not listen to another. Well. Here is your house.”

So it was, I noted gratefully.

He nodded at me, with grave benevolence

“We have had discussion today,” he congratulated me. “We have not always seen eye to eye but I have learned about your country and you have learned about mine, and maybe we have opened up each other’s minds a little. And that is why discussion it is good for us all. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I do,” I said.

He was really quite a nice man.