11
AT THE NEXT MEETING, I began to see a pattern, a structure, developing. A Tars meeting had three parts: a rehearsal, the meeting itself, and free time.
The rehearsal was, all things considered, my favorite part of the meeting. One might contend that the rehearsal wasn’t really part of the meeting at all, but I would disagree. I think that the rehearsal period stood in relation to the meeting as a preface stands in relation to the work that follows it or as an hors d’oeuvre stands to the meal that follows it. What is the nature of the prefatory relationship? The preface stands apart from the work, hors d’oeuvre, but is related to the work, since it prepares the mind for the work, and the two together—the work and the preface to it—are components of a larger work: the volume in which they both appear. The hors d’oeuvre stands apart from the meal, but is related to the meal, since it prepares the palate for the meal, and the two together—the meal and the hors d’oeuvre—are components of a larger work: the evening’s dining tout compris. The rehearsal period became an important part of the Thursday evenings that were given over to the Tars. I liked the rehearsal because I led the Tars then. They looked to me for guidance since I was the only person in the old gymnasium who had an up-to-the-minute copy of the manual. I was the only one who knew the latest revision of the oath, the only one who knew on any given evening how many traits there were and what their relative importance was. I was the only one who knew the latest system of ranks and privileges. I was often the only one who knew what rank a given Tar held from one Thursday to the next.
While Mr. Summers had the highest-ranking Tars in the coach’s office for their humility session, I kept the other Tars hopping, running through new maneuvers, reciting new rigmaroles, and, above all, polishing and polishing the stable elements. I wish I could say that the rest of the Tars enjoyed this part of the evening as much as I did. They groaned and moaned and hooted and howled each time I handed out a new version of the manual. Since Mr. Summers was moving on while I was trying to perfect the past, he was always a step ahead of me, and at the end of the rehearsal I often had to announce that most of what the Tars had just practiced would be changed next week. I began to worry about a mutiny.
“Next week,” I said, one Thursday, “I’m going to collect your old manuals and give you a brand-new manual with some exciting new changes in it.” Grumbling, groaning, hooting, howling.
“But listen,” I said, impulsively, optimistically. “There’s going to be something special in it. A whole new section called ‘Tales for Tars.’”
I can’t say that this made them any happier, but I can say that it made me miserable. For weeks thereafter I tried to get even one of the tales into a condition that I would consider ready for the Tars to read. I couldn’t seem to do it. Mr. Summers got wind of my promise and began asking about it every week.
“Not ready yet?” he might say. “That’s too bad. You’re not trying to make it too perfect, are you Peter? Remember that a Tar knows when to say ‘good enough.’”
“Aye, sir,” I said.
To the Tars as a group, he said, “I hope that all of you will remember that. I’m sure you’ve probably heard your parents say something like, ‘Anything worth doing is worth doing well.’”
Indeed I had—not my parents, but Guppa. I remembered him in his cellar, raising the last coil he had had to wind for the radio he was building me, and saying, “If you’re not ready to do what has to be done the way it should be done, then you’re not ready to do it at all.”
“Well,” said Mr. Summers, “I certainly don’t want to suggest for a moment that your parents don’t know what they’re talking about. No, sir. A Tar always keeps his ears open when his parents are talking. However, a Tar takes what he hears with a grain of salt. A Tar knows that sometimes good enough is good enough.”
This sounded a lot like my father, who had told me that one of the big lessons in life was “knowing when to quit.”
Mr. Summers looked at me, and he said, “A Tar knows that nobody’s perfect, that perfection is an unattainable goal, and that although he pursues perfection, he will never reach it any more than he will reach the horizon on the vasty sea. He knows that anything he tries to do will fall short of the ideal, and, knowing that, he knows when to quit. He knows when to say, ‘Ahhhh, the heck with it. Nobody else will notice.’”
In Topical Guide 225, Mark Dorset considers Prefaces from this episode.
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