“Vanity of vanities, all things are vanity!” exclaims the cynic over his drink.

“What do you mean?” asked the baby-faced optimist.

“You wouldn’t understand,” the cynic replied, rolling his eyes.

His hair graying, his eyes sunken in, the cynic glared at the optimist beside him. Why could people never understand the truth of life, he wondered.

“Life is pointless. Look at us—here in this bar, throwing money after poisons, killing ourselves quicker than life already tries to,” the cynic stated.

Slowly, the optimist sipped his sarsaparilla, setting it down with care, staring deeply, determined not to set off his acquaintance.

“There’s plenty of life to like, friend,” he replied.

The cynic snorted. “Of course there is,” he snarled. “Bartender, another!”

They had sat side by side for the last few hours, each lost in his thoughts, downing drink after drink. Not once had they spoken more than their current order to the old bartender, who seemed to come and go with uncanny accuracy.

Seven sodas in, the optimist felt nature’s urging. With a quick “Excuse me,” he stood and made his way to the restroom, contemplating his response. Upon his return, he was determined in his course of action—his hope: to bring some sense of value to his despondent companion.

“I often find it worthwhile to count my blessings and find perspective in the hardships I face,” the young optimist said.

Downing yet another glass of straight liquor, the cynic raised an eyebrow at the young man beside him and, for the first time, considered him.

“Alright,” he slurred. “What is so great about life?”

The optimist smiled, convinced he had won a victory.

“Why, my friend, look about you! Just the other day, snow covered our fair ground—and yet now the sun warms our faces and spring rears its beautiful head. Summer quickly approaches, and life renews itself, as is the cycle of things.”

Startling the optimist, the cynic settled back into his stool. The haze lifted from his eyes, his demeanor sobering in contrast to the many drinks consumed.

“You wish to credit the recent providence we’ve experienced to my personal account, hmm?” he asked. “Tell me—how does good weather, while beneficial to all, alleviate my personal struggles? Does the recent moisture cure my child? Does the bright sun return my wife from the grave? How do blessings that benefit the population save the individual?”

The grizzled veteran’s disgust was as evident as chocolate in a vanilla factory. It unsettled the optimist—but he was undeterred. Life continues to grow, he thought, thus it must get better!

After a bit of thought, he replied, “Tell me, friend, where would you be in the desert’s heat without rain’s reprieve? Imagine life today had Nazi Germany prevailed.”

Sipping his Manhattan, the cynic smirked. “Should the snow not have come, my friend,” he sneered, “would life have ceased? Would meaning evaporate? Would we suddenly stop this conversation and flee to caves of despair?”

“No!” exclaimed the cynic with a sudden, drunken cry, his glass shattering against the floor. “Life continues! I could blow my fucking brains out this instant, and life would continue. We. Don’t. Matter.”

The suffering on the cynic’s face was plain.

“Life continues,” whispered the optimist, “but that doesn’t discount the individual.”

“Of course not,” replied the cynic with another roll of his eyes. “No one argues that. As long as there is, there must be an is! You. Me. We could be vaporized with the snap of a mad titan’s finger, and nothing would change.”

The optimist found the cynic’s viewpoint offensive. How can anyone be so negative? he thought. Most people may have a limited sphere of influence, but that doesn’t diminish their worth. He sipped his soda, considering his response.

After a few moments, the optimist tried again. “Tell me, my dour acquaintance—what would you make of a woman from the 1700s, born out of wedlock, living in poverty, who died at the age of 34?”

“I’d say she got screwed,” the cynic huffed. “She alone should tell you all you need to know about life. Nothing is worth anything.”

“Ah!” cried out the optimist in triumph. “But this young woman was none other than Nancy Hanks Lincoln! She is most well known for giving birth to one Abraham Lincoln. And though she died when he was merely nine years old, her impact on his moral character cannot be denied. Just because we cannot immediately see the effects we have on the world around us doesn’t mean those effects don’t exist.”

The cynic rested for a moment, contemplating, before continuing his offensive.

“How can we know that it was the mother who influenced Honest Abe so heavily?” he asked smugly. “It’s a touching story, to be sure—but what real evidence do we have of such a thing? He was a politician, after all. It would make sense to craft such a yarn.”

“Arghh!” the optimist cried in disbelief. “Have you no faith, sir? What horror your life must be, if you remain determined to see only the worst therein!”

“As I said at the beginning of this drivel—‘Vanity of vanities, all things are vanity,’” the cynic cried.

The optimist finished his soda slowly, laid out his cash, and stood with a nod toward the cynic.

“You surrender,” the cynic slurred triumphantly.

The optimist calmly quoted as he left:

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time of war, and a time of peace.”