none of it matters

[Peter] Lowe has broken from the Christianity of his parents [Anglican missionaries], a faith that now seems hopelessly out of date. The meek shall no longer inherit the earth; the go-getters will get it and everything that goes with it. The Christ that went among the poor, the sick, the downtrodden, among lepers and prostitutes, clearly had no marketing savvy. He has been transfigured into a latter-day entrepreneur, the greatest superstar salesperson of all time, who built a multinational outfit from scratch. Lowe speaks to the crowd about mercy. But the worship of selling and of celebrity infuses his literature, his guest lists, his radio shows and seminars. "Don't network haphazardly," Peter Lowe preaches in his $19.95 Peter Lowe's Success Yearbook. "Set goals to meet key people. Imagine yourself talking to them. Plan in advance what questions to ask them. When there is an important individual you want to network with, be prepared to say something insightful to them that shows you're aware of their achievements. Everyone loves to receive a present. It’s hard to be resistant or standoffish to someone who has just given you a nice gift. Adopt the attitude of a superstar. Smile. A smile tells people you like them, are interested in them. What an appealing message to send!" These are the teachings of his gospel, the good news that fills arenas and sells cassettes.

As the loudspeakers play the theme song from Chariots of Fire, Lowe wheels Christopher Reeve onstage. The crowd wildly applauds. Reece's handsome face is framed by longish gray hair. A respirator tube extends from the back of his blue sweatshirt to a square box on his wheelchair. Reece describes how it once felt to lie in a hospital bed at two o'clock in the morning, alone and unable to move and thinking about the daylight that would never come. His voice is clear and strong, but he needs to pause for breath after every few words. He thanks the crowd for its support and confesses that their warm response is one reason he appears at these events; it helps to keep his spirits up. He donates the speaking fees to groups that conduct spinal cord research.

"I've had to leave the physical world," Reeve says. A stillness falls upon the arena; the place is silent during every pause. "By the time I was twenty-four, I was making millions," he continues. "I was pretty pleased with myself. . . . I was selfish and neglected my family. . . . Since my accident, I've been realizing. . . That success means something quite different." Members of the audience start to weep. "I see people who achieve these conventional goals," he says in a mild, even tone. "None of it matters."

His words cut through the snake oil of the last few hours, calmly and with great precision. Everybody in the arena, no matter how greedy or eager for promotion, all eighteen thousand of them, know deep in their hearts that what Reeve has just said is true - too true. Their latest schemes, their plans to market and subdivide and franchise their way up, whatever the cost, the whole spirit now gripping Colorado, vanish in an instant. Men and women up and down the aisles wipe away tears, touched not only by what this famous man has been through but also by a sudden awareness of something hollow about their own lives, something gnawing and unfulfilled.

Moments after Reeve is wheeled off the stage, Jack Groppel, the next speaker, walks up to the microphone and starts his pitch, "Tell me friends, in your lifetime, have you ever been on a diet?"



Eric Schlosser, Author and correspondent for Atlantic Monthly. Fast Food Nation - The Dark Side of the All American Meal. By Eric Schlosser. 2001. p.106