THE QUESTION

How many times in the course of a day do you utter the words, “How are you?”  And how many times a day do you reply, “Fine”?  This may not be a dilemma for a doctor, lawyer or an Indian chief but to a writer problems begin.

Words are a writer’s trade.  Exact words.  Questions are meant to have answers and writers do not throw around words without reason.

Let me explain.  “Fine” brings forth to a word person the feeling of silk, the glint of hand painted china, the sound of light chamber music  It is indeed very rare that one may answer accurately “Fine” to The Question.

For instance, Monday at 2:30 if you’d inquired I would have been ‘slightly moody with a tinge of restlessness overshadowed by guilt’.  Not fine.  My answer would have been honest and precise.  My need for honesty comes from being a Christian and my need for precision with words from being in the word trade.

Tuesday at noon I was moderately excited with feelings of tension producing anticipation.  Had you asked The Question, I would have told you just that.  I know you really did not want to know; but just the same, precision demands it.

Before I became a Christian and honesty made no demands I found pleasure in responding, “Suicidal”, when passers-by asked The Question.  Then I would walk merrily away from a newly anxious victim who would thereafter think twice before inquiring.

But now at times my answer is, “I’d rather not say.”  People find this hostile or it makes them really want to know how I am.

It’s not that I’ve never been fine.  I can distinctly remember one spring day in of 1974.  I was having tea at the Savoy in London.  I had on a three-piece Christian Dior powder pink suit and a beige crepe blouse.  (One must have on crepe blouses to have this particular ‘fine’ feeling).  My waiter was polite but not friendly.  (This is something American waiters need to learn.  Who cares if their name is Tony, just bring out the appetizers.)  The furniture was deep mahogany, the tea service old.  I was anticipating seeing “The King and I” at the Adelphi Theatre that evening.  I felt like a great lady and so I was.  After all, I had my American Express card in my purse.

I remember saying to myself, “I really feel fine.”  Let me ask you, do you think one person inquired of me The Question?  Of course not!  English people are too civilized to cross examine strangers.

By the time I had toured Europe and made my way back to the states, I was by any standards no longer fine.  I had been pinched in Venice, chilled in Switzerland, bored in Austria, snubbed in France and tired in Holland.  However, Germany it must be said was masterful.

Many have suggested that I merely reply, “How are you?” and leave The Question unanswered.  These ‘many’ are among the butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers of the world.  A writer would know The Question must be dealt with.

This has frustrated me for years now.  I intend to take whatever monies I’m paid for this article and make copies of it to hand all askers – strangers and friends alike – so that they will know precisely how I am:  Fed up with The Question.