VALUE FOR MONEY

I suspect that most of the real problems in our lives stem from the unreasonable notion of being short-changed no matter what. I have had a fair experience of divorces, both in my flesh and that of friends or acquaintances. In every instance, after listening to both contenders yell “I deserved better,” I couldn’t help wondering why what we lay on the scales has greater weight than whatever our friend, partner, or companion, contributes.

I’ve given her, him, it, “everything.” That may be, but for the other, our “everything” wasn’t enough. In a nutshell, he, she or it felt cheated: short-changed. We expected more. Society, hearsay, or simple wishful thinking led us to believe we would get greater value for our money, however unreasonable this may be with the benefit of hindsight (or the morning after which, in this instance, is synonymous.)

Our confusion between price and worth may be at the core of this riddle. What's the worth of a glass of water or a boat ride? I mean, how much is it worth it to you?

Perhaps it will depend on the exact set of circumstances.

The other day, in a Barcelona street, I heard someone complain about having to pay 1€ for a tiny bottle of water. The detail brought to mind a visit at noon in a dry month to the great pyramid of Kheops. As I emerged from the stifling pharaoh’s tomb into a sweltering and barren landscape, two enterprising Egyptian boys had set up shop: scores of water bottles in an oil drum weeping condensation and packed high with ice. A steal at 6€ apiece (almost $10.) Soon there was a long line of tongue-hanging hopefuls under the scorching sun. The problem with the man complaining about the expensive water was that his thirst wasn’t worth €1.

When souls reach the shores of the River Styx, they find Charon, the man with the punt. As you know, a punt is a flat-bottomed boat for shallow waters. The boatman must maneuver a pole, dig it into the silt below the water and with considerable effort propel the craft. Venetian gondolas are punts of sorts, but I digress.

To ferry a soul across the rivers Styx and Acheron—and all the way to Hades—Charon demands the payment of a coin the ancients termed “obol.” This is the reason for the custom of placing such a coin in the deceased’s dress, resting on a closed eyelid or in his mouth. Since it seems that any soul not able to pay their obol will have to spend one-hundred years wandering the Styx’s shores, it’s wise to be prepared when meeting the eternal ferryman. To thwart post mortem thieves, I always keep the smallest denomination copper coin handy. As soon as I notice anything funny I plan to swallow it. So far, I’ve had a few false alarms, that’s why I’ve chosen the smallest coin. (Remember the morning after? I knew you would.)

Of course, there’s much more to this. Life is seldom simple and there’s no reason to suppose death should be. What will we get for our money? Once more, there’s price and worth: we need the punt and Charon doesn’t need the obol; after all, he has nowhere to spend it. There’s a rumor about the harpies willing to throw in a quickie for next to nothing, but after reading about their graces I’m not surprised there are no takers.

Let’s analyze the situation: We have a wretched soul in an inhospitable shore, cold, miserable, clad in whatever shroud the funerary staff didn’t steal, and clutching his precious obol; his ticket to Hades. He hopes to find warmth, rest, and the guys and gals who beat him there. Then there’s Charon. The man has a monopoly on the ferry business and couldn’t care less; either pay or wander.

If you search for an image depicting Charon, you’ll come across representations of a thin and cowled man hard at work while the soul lies wrapped on the other end of his craft. False. Don’t believe it. Artist’s representations are a fraud. These images, like political or social sciences, have been created to mislead and give us the wrong kind of expectations.

To the soul’s surprise—and frequent outrage—once Charon had been paid he won’t move a muscle. If the soul wants to make way, he or she will have to slog their guts. Hey, how come? I’ve paid!

Right. You’ve paid to ride the punt not for a slave to ferry you across. Does it ring a bell? To use his goodies the boatman must be paid. And then… then, my dear friend, then we must row, and row, and row, and row...