Happy Man: A Short Story

I woke up at 12pm today, made some great coffee from the Dominican. My friend picked me up a pound while he and his wife were there on their honeymoon. He’s a Texas guy, personality of ten men, and always has a great story, usually about good food or a new wine he bought at a great price. He and his wife were there for eight days. They had great things to say about the hotel over dinner the other night, at a small Mexican place on 34th street. The margaritas were $3.75 and fantastic. I had three and was almost drunk.

After my coffee I began my daily list of chores. Since I’m recently unemployed that’s all I do. I was publicity man, you know, the one who does not do but pushes others that do. The job was in the entertainment industry and thinking back on it now it seems like a dream. My first day of work I arrived early because, well, I didn’t remember what time the office actually opened.

My first chore of the day was to get my dad a card for Father’s day. I was quite excited about this, for once. I put my dog’s leash on and hit the sidewalk for what was a incredibly short walk to the corner store where they have all kinds of things, sodas, hair spray, pasta, and a number of other products that seem completely unnecessary until you’re actually there at 1:30am looking for the tampons that are designed for an extra heavy flow. The music in the store is great, though. They play 50’s and 60’s doo wop, and even some funky stuff. I’ve actually read that funk music makes you want to buy more products.

When I arrived I went directly to what I was looking for, the father’s day cards, and because I was 2 weeks ahead of schedule (although I did not know this at the time) there were plenty left. I picked through a few, usually not getting through the first three or four words before I decided if it were a proper to purchase for my father.

Thomas, my father, is a mechanic by trade and I do believe he’s one by birth. He builds and fixes all kinds of things. Lawnmowers, ceiling fans, cars, airplane engines, all that stuff. Years ago I would think of myself much smarter than my father, but I come to realize I don’t know shit. And even recently I’ve come to realize I don’t even know shit about shit. Sure, I went to school. I studied sociology, art, and even had an interest in chemistry and science but I was too involved with outside activities to focus enough for it to make a damn. Not to say I was a socialite, at all.

It only took about 15 minutes for me to find the right card. It was typical of a card I’d pick out. Simple, kind of funny, shared a few characteristics of my dad, but really, what card can really sum one person in a matter of sentences. I’m sure there are a few I guess. But I blame that one on the human rather then giving credit to the writer.

After I bought the card the next item on the list was to deposit checks at the bank. Which is always fun, to me at least. I do love getting money, even though if you looked at me you’d think much otherwise. I drool over the shit. I remember a conversation with my father when I was no older then 7 years old. We were discussing life, or things that happen in life, and I remember stating, “All that really matters is money.” And although I stated this it was really intended to be a question for my father, a chance for him to clarify the ridiculousness of it all. In which he did, rather abruptly, almost yelling at me these words, “No! It’s not about money, not at all.” with a specific emphasis on the last three words of his declaration.

When I arrived at the bank I felt a bit embarrassed that I had brought my dog, not because I do not love this animal with all of my heart and soul, and think of him as more of sufficient being than most idiots who live in this world but it was because people in this town seem to be in a hurry, and I myself am included. But on this day my dog was not. I pulled him along once inside, over to the counter where you fill out check slips. He was curious, per usual, and continually dragged the leash over to another human, an Asian in this case. Oh, how my girlfriend hates the Asians I thought, and let out a small but harmless giggle. But this was only the beginning to a tumultuous ten minutes. I wrote, he pulled, I comforted, he made new friends, I dipped my card, he barked. It only took a few minutes before the crowd behind me either wanted to buy this animal for a gruesome amount of money or take my head for wasting so much of their time. When leaving I sang to myself a wonderful 50’s tune, “I want a dream lover, so I don’t have to dream alone.”

Once I was back on the pavement all of the anxiety that built up was relinquished. Now was my last chore of the day, laundry.