My American Unhappiness

by Dean Bakopoulos

  Joseph reaches down to the shelf behind him and pulls out a copy of The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells.

  I certainly did not order that!

  I look at him and he nods, gravely. The grave nod is a gesture any serious man must master, and Joseph has mastered it to the point that I trust him implicitly when he offers it to me and I know that someone, most likely me, is in a great deal of trouble. Incomprehensible trouble, yes, but trouble nonetheless.

  "It looks like it's been prepaid," Joseph says.

  "Yes," I say. "I believe it was."

  Joseph slips the book into a brown paper bag and hands it to me.

  I walk around the corner and head straight for the office. It is almost three thirty when I return to the office, and still no sign of Lara. It appears as if she has taken the day off without notice. If she doesn't arrive the next morning, if the mini-storm about my fall fundraising letter does not blow over on its own, I will call her and apologize and beg her to come to work. But for now, I am exhausted. She wins; I can't imagine her taking a day off when auditors are coming, unless she had an emotionally or physically dire reason! Perhaps she left me a message. I haven't checked voice mail for hours.

  I go into my office and pull the copy of The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood from the brown paper bag and open the book. I look at the first page, and then, on the title page, I see these words:

  THEY WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THE SORTS OF BOOKS YOU BUY. THEY WANTED ALL OF YOUR SPECIAL ORDER REQUESTS FROM THE PAST EIGHT YEARS. WHAT HAS HAPPENED? WHAT DID YOU DO?

  Then, although there are a number of quick actions I could and should take—call Lara, call a lawyer, call our bulk mail service and have them send out the fundraising letter as is, I begin reading the Divine Secrets. It is a surprisingly pleasant book to read and I wish that I could do nothing else but read it for the rest of the afternoon. I wish I could read until the daunting feeling of unavoidable trouble leaves my emotional horizon.

  When I get home from the office that evening, Harmony is quiet and efficient with supper. We eat burgers and potato salad, and she eats alone at the kitchen counter. My mother gets up briefly and drinks water and pretends to eat, but I can see she has no appetite. The girls crowd her, wanting closeness.

  "Well, how was work today, Zeke?" my mother says, a wheezy whisper.

  "It was rather interesting actually," I say. "It turns out I'm involved in a pretty thorough review process."

  "What's that?" May asks.

  I chew on my burger. "Well, it's like I'm cleaning my room and then somebody comes in and checks on it. Makes sure I did a good job."

  "Why?" April says.

  "Because the IRS had nothing better to do than harass a hard-working taxpayer," my mother says. In the brief hours each day that she is awake, she still watches Fox News, which seems like a horrendous waste of one's final months on earth.

  "Who's the IRS?" April asks.

  "It's actually not the IRS," I say. "A new program. Homeland Security."

  My mother nods. "Well, at least they don't take our money," she says.

  "Oh, they find a way to get it, Mother."

  I am wondering if my mother is going to muster the strength for a political argument this evening. Frankly, even if she is capable of doing so, I feel exhausted.

  Harmony comes in with my mother's pills. "Take these, Violet, and then I'll help you get dressed."

  "We're going to the mall!" April and May shout together.

  "Grandma rides in a wheelchair there!" May says.

  "We take turns pushing," April says.

  "It's a big show," my mother says.

  "Do you want to come, Zeke?" Harmony asks.

  "I don't like malls," I say. "You know that."

  "A simple 'no' would suffice," Harmony says.

  "Why don't you like malls, Uncle Zeke?" May asks.

  "He's too good for them," my mother says, standing from the table with great straining. "But it's all some of us have."

  "I'm going out for coffee," I say.

  "Why can't you have coffee at the mall?" May asks.

  "I'm meeting somebody," I say. "A very lovely woman."

  My mother, inching off to the downstairs bathroom, stops in mid-shuffle. "A date?"

  "Yes," I say.

  I look at Harmony when I say it, but then the girls remind me I have promised to tell them a brand-new Lizard Leopold story.

  "I'll meet you back here at bedtime," I say.

  "Not if you're on a date," my mother says. "I can tell them a story, Zeke!"

  "A Lizard Leopold one!" April shouts.

  Lizard Leopold is a character I've created for them, and he's named after the great naturalist Aldo Leopold. Lizard Leopold often finds himself in high-stakes conundrums exacerbated by ecological recklessness on the part of humankind.

  It occurs to me that in a few months, my Lizard Leopold stories may be told over the phone rather than cuddling in bed with my two little chickens. Perhaps a webcam chat would work. I could tell the bedtime stories over the Internet. But then, but then, I will miss their breaths slowing down as I read, their humming subsiding as they drift to sleep. I will miss the feel of pulling the blanket over them, covering the down on their warm and soap-scentedarms.

  "Okay," I say. "If I'm not back by bedtime, girls, Grandma will do a Lizard Leopold story. You can have your stories downstairs here, in the adjustable bed."

  The girls seem satisfied with this arrangement and Harmony begins to find everybody's jackets. My mother winks at me and continues her shuffle.

  "Have fun," she manages to say, before she is wracked by coughs.

  I head out to the bus stop.

  My stresses at work, though possibly significant and urgent, still must take a back seat, I remind myself, to the simpler mission that's before me: marry somebody, in accordance with my mother's last will and testament.

  In the blue light of the bus, on this, the first crisp and frosty evening of the autumn, all of the passengers look to me as if they are trapped in some giant, mobile freezer. They wear winter caps and thick coats for the first time in months, and their expressions are frozen and devoid of smiles, a motley crew of grimaces, pensive looks, and dour, soured expressions. Just a week ago they went coatless, bare-midriffed, sandaled. Now, this, the siege of winter already hinting at its arrival. It makes me feel as if we're awaiting somebody's death in that bus and I am thrilled to get off when my stop finally arrives.

  I am in Fitchburg, one of Madison's sprawling suburbs. I walk to the green Starbucks sign glowing in the fading light.

  Minn is there. She looks like an icon against the bronze and brown of the tile that lines the wall behind the Starbucks counter, a saint done in mosaic; behind her the lighted menu shines on the ends of her pulled-back hair.

  "Zeke! What a surprise!"

  "Well, I found you. I went to the Starbucks on the Square today and you weren't there."

  "Oh," she says, almost with a hint of remorse in her voice.

  "Um, well, how are you doing?" I say.

  "Great. I was traveling some, and then I switched stores. How are you?"

  "Well, my mother is ill. Terminally so. I haven't worked much."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Thank you."

  "And here you are now, all the way in Fitchburg? I didn't peg you for a Fitchburg guy. Do you live near here?"

  Two customers have come in behind me, so I step aside so that Minn can take their orders. In my head, I guess: yerba maté latte for the thin one, vanilla bean Frappucino for the stout one. I am correct. It is an easy one. Once they have their beverages, I say, "No."

  "No? No what?"

  "I don't live near here," I say.

  "Oh, so what are you doing over here then?"

  "Looking for you," I say, knowing that this will either sound creepy or sweet.

  A smile, even the slight hint of a blush, colors Minn's cheeks. "I see," she says.

  Now I have no i
dea what to say.

  "I went back to work recently. And you have not been there when I go for my coffee breaks."

  "And how did you know I was here in Fitchburg?"

  "Starbucks intuition," I say. "My sixth sense."

  "Seriously?" Minn says, still smiling as if she couldn't stop smiling if she tried.

  "Yes, and Wallace told me you'd been moved."

  She laughs and the can lights above her twinkle in the blue irises of her eyes.

  Two customers enter the shop, holding hands. This strikes me as a poignant and weighty image but Minn doesn't seem to notice it on that level. Just two customers to her. But before I step aside for them, I make a guess, whispering it to Minn. Doppio macchiato for the man, skinny latte for the lady.

  And I'm one hundred percent correct!

  Minn tries to act normal in front of the customers, but first she gives me a dazzled look, her eyes wide, a smile breaking out.

  I stand off to the side of the counter and peruse the New York Times while Minn makes the drinks. She seems calm in my presence, not at all creeped out by the fact that I had found her at this new Starbucks.

  When she has dispatched the customers, happily, I watch her wipe down a counter for a minute. I can't think of what to say next.

  She speaks. "So, yeah, I would have liked to stay downtown. But they needed a supervisor here. It was a big raise. This is an underperforming store."

  "Of course," I say.

  A man comes in wearing a yellow ball cap.

  "Double-cap, low foam," I whisper.

  Minn smiles and looks at the man, waiting. He looks up at the menu board.

  "Double-cap, low foam," he says. "And a chocolate chip cookie, to go."

  Minn makes the drink and packages up the cookie while I look at the CDs. She seems impressed, and she opens her mouth wide when the yellow-capped man walks out into the evening.

  "Holy shit," she says, laughing.

  "I missed the cookie," I say.

  Then she lowers her voice. A white-haired man is typing away on a laptop, glowering in the corner. I stare at the man and he returns to his busy typing. He looks familiar, as if he could be the man from the bookstore. Or he could just be a random old man desperately trying to finish his memoir before his first stroke. It's hard to know, and either way, I don't care. I'm here to see Minn, Farnsworth and Morris and the federal auditors be damned.

  "Seriously, how do you do that?" Minn says.

  "Intuition. I'm never wrong," I say.

  "Well, I'm glad you're here. You're a special customer."

  "Am I?"

  "Nobody else can guess drinks like you can. I'm so glad you came into my new store."

  "I'm not sure if I am correctly guessing the customers' desire," I say, "or if, in the act of guessing, I subconsciously suggest to them what they would like to order."

  "Either way," she says. "Fucking-ay."

  It is an expression of hers I find most likable, just the right blend of the vulgar and the folksy.

  The next customer comes in and poses a rather difficult dilemma: he is a tall, thin man with gray hair and white skin, a little on the emaciated side, which could mean one of two things—either he is a vegan who does yoga and takes frequent walks, or he is a wired workaholic who subsists almost entirely on caffeinated beverages and cigarettes and never goes outside.

  I guess the former and whisper my guess: decaffeinated soy latte.

  "Wow!" Minn says when the man orders exactly as I had predicted.

  "Pardon?" the man says.

  "Oh, nothing," Minn says.

  Another lull in the evening's business, and I lean into the counter again.

  "Do you have a minute today?" I say. "I want to ask you something."

  But the window just sits there, open, letting in flies, and Minn does not go through it. So I start talking again, not ready to order my beverage and let the conversation end.

  "So did you ask for a transfer?" I ask.

  "I didn't ask for a transfer," Minn says. "They kind of made me transfer."

  "Wallace told me you asked for a transfer."

  "That's what they made me tell people," she whispers. "They don't like word to get out about underperformers." She has a great voice for whispering. Damn. "But it was a no-brainer, really. It was a big raise."

  "Good," I say.

  Minn leans in close over the counter and whispers, "Four extra bucks an hour, provided I start eee-fucking-mediately, and that's why I took it. I need that money. That's a huge raise."

  "That is," I say.

  "Are you okay?" she says.

  This is the sort of question that can shift the relationship from one of service worker and customer to one of true friendship. I pause, grateful to have been asked, weighing the best response, and then I say, simply, "I'm a bit troubled."

  "Umm," she says, a sort of low moan of concern, vaguely sexual in nature. "Look, I have a break in"—she looks up at the clock behind her—"sixteen minutes. Do you want to grab a bite with me? We can go to the Noodles next door."

  "That would be lovely," I say, my heart twittering. "I'll go and get us a seat."

  The restaurant is not full. Two families dine nearby, the parents looking exhausted in their now-rumpled business attire, the children hopped up on the unlimited refills of corn syrup-laden sodas and the rush of carbohydrates. In addition to the families, there are several single, solitary diners, all of them in their mid-thirties, all of them wearing nice but uninspired business attire. They are reading free newspapers and fiddling with BlackBerries and cell phones, eating from large white bowls that look vaguely Asian in their design, but undoubtedly American in their girth and depth. These are the sales reps away from home, killing time before they retire to their nonsmoking rooms at the Country Inn & Suites. These are the single software engineers who have worked too late again, who have not gone grocery shopping in weeks, and who simply want to eat something dense and heavy that will help them fall asleep on the couch moments after getting in the door of their drab apartments with the new carpet. These are the recently divorced marketing specialists and law clerks, still not used to living in solitude and silence, longing for more social engagements—book clubs, Ultimate Frisbee leagues, open mike nights—to fill their barren evenings. This is the collective pulse of unhappy America, right there in the Noodles at six forty-eight in suburban Madison, Wisconsin. These are the people that I don't want to become. Oh, I think they have beautiful souls, all of that aimless yearning, all of that buried itch—but I know that is where I am headed; if I am not married in time, my own canvas will be a vast tableau of loneliness and banality, and I am terrified.

  Minn has just walked into the restaurant and is looking from single diner to single diner until her eyes stop on me. She smiles.

  We have to eat fast. She does not have a great deal of time and, in fact, has called an order in ahead so that it would be ready. She has taken the liberty of ordering for me—a giant bowl of macaroni and cheese—and she has ordered some whole-wheat Mediterranean pasta for herself.

  The food is brought to our table by a slender young girl in a visor and knit shirt, and then Minn looks over the whole ensemble, which I admit looks quite pleasing, and she says, "I'm so sick of eating here. Fucking-ay."

  "You come here often?" I ask.

  "My apartment is just across the street."

  "Then this transfer is a convenient one?"

  "Well, yes. But I like to work downtown. I would live downtown if I could afford it, but I can't. So I like to at least work there."

  "But you also ate at Noodles downtown," I said.

  "I'm in a rut," she says.

  "We all are," I say, "after the last eight years."

  "I know, right? I'm so excited for the election, aren't you?"

  "I try not to put hope in politicians," I say.

  "I get that," she says.

  "But Mr. Obama is hard to resist."

  "I know. Right?"

  "Right. I imag
ine. Have you ever considered a career in the public humanities?"

  "No, can't say that I have, Zeke."

  "I want to offer you a job," I say. I'm not sure why I say this now, but it occurs to me that my organization is ready for a change, and what better way to have somebody fall in love with you, swiftly, than to spend eight or nine hours a day together, working tirelessly and idealistically on a project that helps to build a better, more thoughtful world?

  "At the humanities commission? Is that where you work?"

  "The Great Midwestern Humanities Initiative. I'm the director."

  "What do you do there?"

  "It's complicated. But you seem so bright, and smart, and efficient. You provide excellent customer service, and, well, I just think you'd be very good at this."

  "Seriously?" she says.

  "Yes. I can start you at forty thousand. Plus benefits."

  "That's it? This is a job offer?"

  Her spine straightens and she sets down her fork, as if she is preparing to bolt for the front door.

  "Fucking-ay," she says. Then she looks over my shoulder at the wall. "Wow. I'm sorry, but I have to go, Zeke. I'm already late. Can I think about this?"

  "Sure," I say.

  We stand. She juts her left hip out at me a little bit, hangs her thumbs from the waistband of her pants, exposing just a sliver of lovely pale midriff.

  "You aren't just making all of this up in order to impress me, are you?"

  "What? My God, no!"

  "Because it sounds like a good job for me. But, but, it's also obvious that you're attracted to me."

  "It is?" I say.

  She leans in closer and whispers, "You have had a crush on me for three years, Zeke. I know when a customer has a crush on me. It's one of the only thrilling—and sometimes creepy—parts of my job."

  I blush and sit down in my chair, my hand on my face.

  "Has it really been that long?"

  "I knew it!" she says, pointing at me with her fork so that a tiny piece of black olive hits me in the chest. She is smiling, excited.

  "Hey. Do you want to get a drink tonight?" she says. "I get off at ten o'clock. We can talk about this job thing, if you're really serious."