The Confidence Epidemic

The Pompous Post dispatched a field reporter to investigate an alarming shortage of common sense. His findings raise more questions than they answer…

Management immediately convened an emergency editorial meeting. Unfortunately, nobody could remember who had the conference room key, so they held the meeting beside the vending machine.

After seventeen minutes of discussion, our field correspondent, Gerald P. Whitcomb, was dispatched to investigate. His instructions were straightforward: interview ordinary citizens, document their explanations of everyday phenomena, and refrain from correcting anyone.

"We're journalists, Gerald," his editor explained. "Ask your questions, write down their answers, and let the readers draw their own conclusions."

Gerald nodded. "Even if somebody tells me something completely ridiculous?"

"Especially then. And try not to make that face you made when the circulation manager suggested we save money by printing the newspaper on both sides."

Gerald collected his notebook and departed. His first stop was an appliance store, where a woman was examining a vacuum cleaner equipped with an LED headlight.

"Oh, these are wonderful," she told Gerald. "My sister has one. If the power goes out, you can still see where you're vacuuming."

Gerald looked at the vacuum cleaner. Then at its electrical cord. Then back at the woman. "Wouldn't the vacuum stop running?"

"Well, obviously," she replied. "That's why you need the light. So you can find the plug."

Gerald opened his mouth and then immediately closed it. He briefly considered explaining that the headlight also required electricity, but remembered his instructions.

Instead, he wrote: VACUUM HEADLIGHTS - CUSTOMER APPEARS UNAWARE OF HOW ELECTRICITY WORKS.

He thanked the woman and walked toward the exit, stopping briefly beside a display of refrigerators to press his forehead against a cool stainless-steel door.

His investigation continued at a hardware store.

A gentleman was examining a collection of extension cords.

"Always buy the longest one," the man advised. "That way the electricity has more time to build up speed before it reaches your appliances."

Gerald slowly lowered his notebook.

"Build up speed?"

"Certainly. That's why you don't want to use a long extension cord with a toaster. The electricity gets going too fast, and your toast can shoot right out of the top."

Gerald stared at the gentleman.

The gentleman stared back.

Somewhere in the building, a forklift beeped.

"Has that ever happened to you?" Gerald asked.

"Not personally. I use short cords."

Gerald nodded with the grave expression of a man who had just been informed that gravity was optional on Tuesdays.

He wrote: HARDWARE STORE - MAN BELIEVES EXTENSION CORDS FUNCTION AS ELECTRICAL RUNWAYS.

Then he quietly returned the cord to its hook.

At the supermarket, Gerald approached a woman selecting a carton of eggs.

"Have you ever wondered why eggs are commonly sold by the dozen?" he asked.

"Because chickens can't count any higher," she replied.

Gerald blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"They lay twelve eggs, then start over. That's why you never see a carton of thirteen."

Gerald glanced at the nearby cartons of six.

He looked back at the woman.

"Wouldn't that mean a chicken could fill two of those?"

She gave him a patient smile.

"Well, yes. But then she'd have to count to six twice."

Gerald rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Of course."

He moved toward the produce department before the conversation could involve fractions.

There, a gentleman was squeezing an avocado.

"That's how you tell whether it's ripe," the man explained. "If it's hard, it isn't ready. If it's soft, it's ready. If your thumb goes all the way through, you've found guacamole."

Gerald actually smiled at that one.

Then the gentleman added, "Of course, you should never refrigerate a watermelon."

"Why not?"

"Because the seeds will get cold, and then it won't grow any bigger."

Gerald's smile slowly disappeared.

He looked at the enormous watermelon in the gentleman's cart.

"How much bigger are you expecting it to get?"

"Depends on how long you leave it out."

Gerald stared at the fruit.

It weighed approximately eighteen pounds.

He made a note to avoid this man's house during watermelon season.

By lunchtime, Gerald had accumulated seven pages of notes and was beginning to experience a persistent twitch beneath his left eye.

He stopped at a diner.

The waitress brought him a glass of water.

"Would you like ice?" she asked.

"Yes, please."

She returned with three ice cubes.

"Sorry there isn't more," she explained. "We're trying to conserve water."

Gerald looked at the ice.

Then at the water.

"Wouldn't the ice eventually melt?"

"Exactly. That's why we don't put too much in. Otherwise we'd have to keep emptying the glasses."

Gerald placed his pen on the table.

He took a long, deliberate breath.

"May I have the check, please?"

"You haven't ordered anything."

"That's all right. I think I've had enough."

At the next booth, a man was explaining to his companion why salt shakers have holes in their lids.

"It's so the salt can breathe," he said. "Otherwise it gets stale."

Gerald closed his eyes.

For several seconds, he remained perfectly still.

Then he paid for his water and left the diner.

His afternoon appointment was at an electronics store, where a customer was purchasing a wireless keyboard.

"These things are fantastic," the customer explained. "No wires to trip over. Only trouble is, you have to keep them close to the computer."

"Because of the wireless connection?" Gerald asked.

"No. Because the letters take longer to get there."

Gerald slowly turned his head.

"The letters?"

"Well, sure. W is the slowest. All those bends. Takes forever to get through."

Gerald looked down at his notebook.

He wrote the letter W.

Then he looked back at the customer.

"What about I?"

"Fastest letter in the alphabet. Straight shot."

Gerald pressed his lips together so tightly that they practically disappeared.

"Does that mean a sentence with several Ws takes longer to type?"

"Absolutely. That's why weather reports are always late."

Gerald closed his notebook.

He thanked the man.

Then he walked outside, sat on a bench, and stared at a tree for approximately four minutes.

The tree offered no opinions.

It was the most productive interview of the afternoon.

Gerald's next stop was a gas station, where a man was checking his tire pressure.

"Important to change the air every spring," the man explained. "Winter air is heavier."

Gerald glanced at the pressure gauge.

"Does that affect fuel economy?"

"Terribly. You're driving around with four tires full of cold air. That's a lot of extra weight."

"What happens to the old air?"

The man shrugged.

"Let it out. Goes back up north where it belongs."

Gerald looked toward the highway.

He wondered how many of the vehicles passing him were being operated by people who shared this gentleman's understanding of atmospheric science.

For the first time that day, he felt an overwhelming desire to walk home.

His final interview took place outside a clock shop, where an elderly gentleman was adjusting his wristwatch.

"Never keep a clock near a window," the gentleman advised.

Gerald prepared his notebook.

"Why is that?"

"Sunlight makes time go faster."

Gerald stared at him.

"How much faster?"

"Depends on the weather. That's why summer days go by so quickly."

Gerald's hand rose toward his forehead.

He stopped it halfway.

"And winter?"

"Dark earlier. Time slows down. Everybody knows that."

Gerald thanked the gentleman, returned to his car, and drove directly to The Pompous Post newsroom.

He did not stop for gasoline.

He was afraid somebody might explain how it was made.

By late afternoon, Gerald arrived at his editor's office carrying fourteen pages of notes, a headache, and the expression of a man who had just watched someone attempt to charge a flashlight by holding it toward the sun.

His editor looked up.

"Well? What did you discover?"

Gerald placed his notebook on the desk.

"Sir, I have some concerns."

The editor opened the notebook and began reading.

He made it through the vacuum-cleaner interview without speaking.

At the extension-cord explanation, he removed his glasses.

At the chicken-counting theory, he put them back on.

By the time he reached the wireless keyboard, he was leaning forward with both elbows on the desk.

"W takes longer because it has more bends?"

"That's what the gentleman told me."

"And weather reports are late because they contain too many Ws?"

"Apparently."

The editor looked toward the ceiling.

"Gerald, these people went to school."

"I assume so, sir."

"Some of them have jobs."

"Yes, sir."

"The man with the extension cords works in a hardware store?"

"He was wearing an employee badge."

The editor covered his face with both hands.

For several seconds, neither man spoke.

Then the editor lowered his hands.

"What about the fellow changing the winter air in his tires?"

"He was actually quite insistent about it."

"Did you ask him whether he changes the summer air in autumn?"

"No, sir. By that point, I was afraid he'd explain that it needed to migrate south."

The editor leaned back in his chair.

"Good Lord."

Gerald nodded.

"That was approximately my reaction, sir."

The editor looked down at the fourteen pages of notes.

"Well, at least we have our story."

"What should we call it?"

The editor considered this.

"Something about confidence. They all seemed very confident."

"Unshakably, sir."

"That's the frightening part, Gerald. Not one of them stopped to wonder whether what they were saying made any sense."

Gerald gathered his notes.

"Shall I get started on the article?"

"Please. And Gerald?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Take tomorrow off. You've earned it."

"Thank you, sir."

Gerald reached the doorway before the editor called after him.

"Oh, and one more thing."

Gerald turned.

"Yes?"

The editor held up the page containing the vacuum-cleaner interview.

"For the love of everything holy, please tell me that woman doesn't work for the electric company."