Maslow

Hobbies are important. They keep your mind sharp, your body active, and your spirit happy. Some people enjoy painting, some play a musical instrument, and some run or play a sport. Maslow's hobby was perfection.

This hobby started in high school, where he graduated first in his class with straight As. He was very proud of his record. Mrs. Bigelow who had seen his talent praised him for being her "perfect little student." It made him feel good. He decided, during the graduation ceremony, he would always get straight As wherever he went, whatever he did. He had discovered he was born with the gift of perfection, far be it from him to reject this gift.

Maslow continued his hobby in college. He chose to major in economics, believing it a science, and therefore, possible to accomplish with perfection, which he essentially did - save the professor who did not understand one of his brilliant arguments. But, he was able to appeal to the college and, with legal council, upgrade the paper from an A- to an A.

Half-way through his freshman year Maslow began to question his definition of perfection. He was troubled to find so many activities impossible to perfect. He quickly found that the other students, being so far from perfect, were difficult to integrate with his beloved hobby. Perfection seemed very far from their goals or aspirations - a horrific realization. They even questioned his ability to be perfect, despite his perfect explanations to the contrary - a paradox he found difficult to resolve. He pondered the scarcity of his very special gift, and subsequently, his uncharacteristically vital importance to the world.

Returning to his home town over spring break, Maslow visited Mrs. Bigelow's classroom. He stood in the back and reminisced about the bliss of high school algebra as she lectured. After class was dismissed Maslow approached her desk. She was pleased with his performance at college and congratulated him. She had always felt a connection with Maslow, being a self-proclaimed perfectionist herself.

"I hear your first semester was perfect Maslow. I'm very proud of you."
"Yes, Mrs. Bigelow, I did get straight As. But, I, well..."
"What is it Maslow? Is everything OK?"
"Well, it's the other students. They..."
"Remember what I told you. You must not listen to them. They are only jealous of your abilities."
"But how do you do it?" Maslow asked. "How do people like us co-exist with all this imperfection? I find it rather frustrating. Perfection is my life, my dreams, my only hobby."

Mrs. Bigelow turned and gently pushed a book case to the side, revealing a small opening. She walked in, and motioned for him to follow. They walked down a long, narrow staircase, with cold, damp rock walls and a low ceiling. The hall widened a bit and they entered a dark, open space. She struck a match, lit a small oil lamp, and turned to look at him, light from the flame flickering on her face from below.

She spoke quietly, as if to herself. "Maslow. My most brilliant pupil. My perfect student. You remind me so much of myself at your age. I know how you feel and I need to be honest with you. You will face the same challenges I have, and you must be prepared."

Maslow couldn't remember Mrs. Bigalow ever speaking like this. Her language had always been completely formulaic and beautifully logical.

"I regret it, but I loathe to listen to the petty frustrations of the droves that revolve through my classroom and into the world each year. I can only dent their lazy, hopeless minds. Let them wallow in hedonism like the rest of the world. But you, my shining star, you! I sculpted you into a being of perfection. You have been conditioned to be the most fierce defender of truth, a machine incapable of error, down to the crosses on your Ts. You followed my every instruction with flawless attention to detail. You knew you were perfect. I could tell. What happened Maslow?"

"The others. They distract me. They think I am capable of error."

"You are not. Their definition of perfection is useless. How dare you! You suddenly decide that there are models of perfection other than mine?! On what grounds? You know you can't accept or deny their estimations until they have been thoroughly examined. And, to do so is a waste of your time because of the obvious and overwhelming evidence to the contrary. You know better than this, Maslow."

"I'm sorry Mrs. Bigelow. I can't help it. I'm just not perfect. There is a possibility your estimations of me are not accurate..."

*****

Maslow's convulsing chest raised into the air, his back forming an arch as the waves of electricity pounded through his scull. Tears welled and then ran down Mrs. Bigelow's cheek as she held the lever firmly in the ON position. Shivering slightly, her eyes closed, shutting out the jagged, muffled screeching.