Everybody Counts Or Nobody Counts
The other day a young woman pushed her shopping cart to my cash register. She was wearing a T-shirt with “Everybody counts or nobody counts–Harry Bosch.” If you are a Michael Connelly fan, familiar with his novels about Detective Bosch, you will remember this line repeated in several books. It can be heard in the binge-worthy television series about him, as well. His point of view is that every death deserves to be treated with the same respect, regardless of the victim’s station in life, and killers pursued no matter where the search leads.
“Love the T-shirt,” I said, pulling her groceries over the scanner. “We’re huge fans. We’ve read them all, some more than once.”
“What did you think of the adaptation?” she asked.
“Brilliant, gripping” I said. “We gorged on them all and we’re not big TV watchers”
“And really true to the books, right?” she said.
“That’s what we thought. We figure it made a huge difference having Connelly as one of the executive producers.”
We talked a bit more about favorite characters and needing to wait now until the next season, which will be the last, and how the author has a new book coming out, but it isn’t about Harry Bosch. As I handed her the receipt, I said “Thanks for brightening my day. You stay safe out there.”
I didn’t think of it at the time, but it has since occurred to me how apt “Everybody counts or nobody counts” is on Memorial Day, my earliest memories of which involved being a trumpet player in the high school band. I got to be the echo, playing the second run-through of Taps off in the distance. It always happened in the cemetery across the street from my childhood home, the cemetery where my father was already buried, since I was five.
I was never afraid of cemeteries, but rather regarded them as quiet places, querencias, to walk, run, sit at the base of a huge favorite pine tree and dream, or slam a tennis ball for hours off the front door of one of the mausoleums. It was good to know my dad’s remains were there and that I could go see the flat stone that gave dates and honored his military service.
I used to bury my nose in the grass and breathe in the deep earth long before ticks would make that unwise. One of our scout leaders ran on the paths before running was a thing and our scoutmaster was in charge of maintenance. My feisty “Downeastah” grandmother, who lived downstairs, episodically threatened to go urinate on the grave of someone who had pissed her off in life. There was a headstone in honor of a WWII vet killed in the Pacific with whom my mom went to high school. We always knew his story.
Everybody counts or nobody counts in the midst of this current worldwide event, the likes of which none of has ever seen and which is altering our usual national day of memory. Nietzsche wrote “Have you ever said yes to a single joy? O my friends then you have said yes to all woe. All things are entangled, ensnared, enamored…”
I would not be the man I am had my father lived. There is no scenario whereby I am not someone else with a different history. It’s literally unthinkable, because changing one thing changes it all, just like with this singular moment in history
It’s a day for remembering and also for saying yes, yes to all of it, because all is “entangled, ensnared, enamored.”
