On Authenticity

HOTEL BALLROOM – NOVEMBER, 1978 – LATE AFTERNOON

Two hundred and fifty forum participants sit uncomfortably in chairs that are just a bit too close. No clocks, no watches, no snacks, no coffee, no cigarettes, no notes. Air heavy with fatigue and stale breath. The day has been long and intense already and it’s not even halfway through. This is not a passive seminar. The awkwardness of people who’ve already broken down in front of strangers lingers. Two shoulder-mounted video camera operators stalk the aisles. Assistants move fast and quiet. Everyone’s got a name tag.

Vincent paces the stage like a panther. 40s, sharp suit, open collar, wireless mic. He’s holding court. He’s in mid-flow.

VINCENT. What is running your life? (Slow scan.) I’ll tell you: it’s your addiction to looking good. And before you start thinking I’m talking about your outfit, your haircut, your shoes, your height, your weight, your watch, or your car, I’m not. I’m talking about your addiction to being seen as having it all together. To be seen as right, to be seen as clever, to be seen as morally superior. To be seen as how you want to be be seen. (Beat.) So what is “looking good” covering up?

(Rick stands up fast. Early 40s, casual defiance. Assistant rushes over to hand him a mic.)

RICK: Whoa, hold on. That’s not me. I’m not trying to “look good.” I don’t care what people think. I never have. I do my own thing.

VINCENT: (Quiet, amused.) That is such an asshole thing to say.

(Room freezes. A few nervous laughs.)

RICK: Excuse me?

VINCENT: Asshole. Phoney. Rick, I’m saying you’re being fake right now.

(He steps off the stage, walks straight to Rick, stops three feet away. Locks eyes.)

VINCENT: And I’ve got to thank you because you just handed me the ultimate head-up-the-ass comment. You’re proving my point in real time. Congrats, Rick. (Turns to room.) None of you will match the asshole-ishness of this comment all weekend. I’m serious. (Beat.) Though many of you will try. Believe me.

(Light laughter. Rick not having it.)

RICK: Hey, man, I didn’t pay $250 to come here to get called an asshole.

VINCENT: You’re not an asshole?

RICK: No. And I think you owe me an apology for the language.

VINCENT: I would—if it weren’t radiating off you. You want to know what I see? I see a man whose entire identity depends on people believing he’s above needing approval. And doesn’t even believe it himself. What would you call that?

RICK: That’s your interpretation. I’m saying I just don’t care what people think of me. I don’t have to wear nice clothes to come off like someone special.

VINCENT: Rick, listen for a second. I say “your life is about looking good.” You immediately stand up in front of 250 strangers to declare loudly that it doesn’t apply to you. You see, your first reaction is to try to look good by pretending you don’t care about looking good!

RICK: (Rick glances around for support. No takers.) I just wanted to set the record straight.

VINCENT: Exactly. You needed the record to say “Rick is different.” Because you’re special. You’re above the game. And yet, here you are, still with your act, doubling down.

RICK: All I was saying is that I don’t agree with you about everyone addicted to looking good. Some of us don’t care.

VINCENT: You keep saying that. And there’s a reason. This “I don’t care” schtick is paying you off under the table. What is it getting you, Rick?

RICK: (Scoffs.) You think I care? Look at me! I didn’t dress up. I just threw on whatever. You see me in a suit? I’m not that guy. I don’t play those games.

VINCENT: You dodged the question and now you’re demanding we look at you… drawing attention to your outfit as “Exhibit A.” Rick, if you truly didn’t care, you’d be here in pyjamas. Or better yet, not here at all. But you chose this costume. The “I don’t care” costume… so everyone notices just how much you don’t care. Your behaviour is answering the question to everyone here. Except you.

RICK: You don’t know me. You don’t know my life. You’re making assumptions.

VINCENT: I’m watching your moves. Every move is the same move: protect the identity. You’re terrified of being seen as ordinary, needy, small. Or stuck with the rest of us playing never-ending status games. So you’ve built a character who’s “above all that.” But in fact, you’re playing the ultimate status game: moral superiority. And worse, you’re pretending you’re not even playing.

RICK: But I’m actually not playing. You seem certain I’m pretending.

VINCENT: Rick, your whole identity is pretence. You’re clinging to this persona and it owns you.

RICK: Nothing owns me. there’s no “persona;” it’s not a character. It’s who I am.

VINCENT: If it doesn’t own you, why were you compelled to stand up?

RICK: To say I think you’re wrong.

VINCENT: Rick, look. What options do you have right now? I’ll help you out: Dodge. Distract. Counterattack. Justify. Play victim. Claim I’m the problem. Throw doubt back. There’s no move you can make that I can’t anticipate…. because they’re automatic. You’re stuck in stimulus-response.

RICK: I’m not trying to make “moves,” alright? I’m just—

VINCENT: (Interrupts) Your life is limited, Rick, because the box of available options is limited. And you’re the one who built the box. You put the walls up to keep the fear out. Now the walls are keeping you in. Why would anyone want to get close to someone who’s pre-invalidated their opinion?

RICK: You’re a son of a bitch, you know that.

VINCENT: Maybe. But I’m not the one still fighting for dignity I already lost. Look at you. Even now. Still standing. When it’s already clear to everyone here that you’re an asshole. Rick, remember: you’re the one who stood up and made this about you.

(Rick sits. Slowly. Hands the mic back.)

(Turning back to the room) Thank you, Rick. Pain in the ass. But perfect illustration.

(That did it. Rick stands again. Assistant hands him the mic again.)

VINCENT (sighs, half-smiling) Here we go. This should be good. It’d better be. What now?

RICK: I’m pissed. You humiliated me, made assumptions, and then dismissed me. And I’m the asshole?!

VINCENT: If you’re humiliated, Rick, it’s because you insisted on it. And until you drop your act, it’s gonna get worse. See, because now you’re holding the room hostage until you save face. You’re digging in, still trying to look good as the guy who won’t be dominated! (To the room) Rick won’t sit until he gets his dignity back. (Back to Rick) Until you drop it, you’re living mechanically in your fake belief system instead of living in the world of actual experience.

RICK: (Looking around.) If you’re so smart, if you’ve got me all figured out, what move do I have left?

VINCENT: What’s the one thing you’re not doing? (Pause. Rick sits.) Give up pretending you don’t want to feel special. Thank you, Rick. (Turns to room, moving again) That’s what looking good costs.

(He walks back toward the stage.)