Late that afternoon, I am back at my office. Lara is not at her desk and I have no idea what is happening at the GMHI, but it feels good to be at work, pretending things are absolutely status quo.
The phone rings. It is Mark Siegel, a colleague of mine who runs an environmental nonprofit organization near the Capitol. We have met at several conferences, though I am never really sure if he is listening to me. He is handsome, an ex-football player (Yale). He often tells jokes that I don't get.
"Hi, Zeke," he says, once he is sure I recognize him. "I'm actually calling to do a reference check. Lara Callahan has applied for a position—executive a ssistant—at N ew Waters."
"She has?" I say. Mark says the word actually a lot.
"Actually, she said I could call you. Can you tell me a little something about her? What has she been like as an employee?"
"Disastrous," I say. "I can sum it all up in one word. Disastrous."
"Seriously? Why is that?"
"Completely unpredictable. A big drinker. A secret drinker. She can be great one minute, the next minute she's puking in the conference room trash can."
"Are you pulling my leg?"
"Look, Mark, she's attractive. I know what you're thinking. If that's all you're after, well, yes, go ahead and hire her, she's easy on the eyes."
"No, no. I thought she seemed very impressive, actually. Super-professional. Bright. Experienced."
"Do what you must, Mark. I just want you to know you were warned. She's a complete pity case. She has children; she's a single mother. I can't bear to fire her and have those children end up out in the streets. But I can't, in good conscience, tell you that I would recommend her highly."
"Okay, Zeke. Thanks."
"Anything else?" I say.
But he's hung up.
My voice mail light is now flashing, so I check my messages.
I have two phone messages. One is from Farnsworth, and I delete the message without even listening to it. Fuck him and the mid-size sedan he came in on! Is this the biggest problem the federal government has or something? How much is his goddamn room at Extended Stay America and the rental of a metallic pine green Saturn costing the taxpayers of this great and economically floundering nation?
The second phone message is from H. M. Logan. He is drunk and he is speaking very slowly. "Zeke, it's H. M. I keep getting phone calls from a guy named Farnsworth. Zeke? Zeke, he wants to know about my last trip for the GMHI. I went somewhere I shouldn't have gone. They found it on the credit card statement, Zeke! Zeke?"
H. M. for all his business acumen has never seemed to grasp the idea that I have voice mail and not an answering machine. All of his messages assume that I am standing there, listening to him, refusing to pick up the phone.
"Oh, and Zeke, I called some friends in L.A., as promised. I have Sofia Coppola's cell phone number. Zeke? Are you there? Anyway, I wanted to do this for you, before everything changes."
He leaves the number, repeating it five or six times in his slow, slurred way before my voice mail program finally gives him the boot. I return his call and leave him a message to meet me at Starbucks at ten thirty on Saturday morning. I then take Sofia's phone number and program it into my own phone. Even if I never work up the nerve to use the number, I feel somewhat powerful—nay, invincible—with that number programmed into my phone. I imagine, for a moment, myself as the victim of a hit-and-run accident in a strange city. A Good Samaritan pauses to help me, but I am near-dead. Panicked, as he waits for an ambulance, he picks up the phone he sees dangling from my blazer's inner pocket. He opens the phone, sees the name of acclaimed and absolutely breathtaking filmmaker Sofia Coppola, and he knows that I am somebody, that my life had some meaning. He calls Sofia, and she answers, but by now the Good Samaritan has become whelmed with emotion and he can do nothing but weep. Sofia listens to his weeping and this becomes the opening scene of her next film: a woman gets a phone call from a strange number, hears nothing but agonizing and soul-stirring sobs. For the rest of the film, she tried to find out the identity of that crying man, because she wants to comfort him. She too is alone. She too needs healing.
But, yes, I digress. Reverie.
I check my e-mail and find another response to my query Why are you so unhappy? I have been advertising on Google, and often, when somebody searches on any variation of the word happy, there is a link to my website on the side of the page, and if they follow it, they tend to send me messages like these:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Inventory of American Unhappiness
Hi, well, I know what make a lot of peoples unhappy! There boss! We can help you find a rewarding career working at home. No suits! No bosses! No meetings! No cubicales! No priar experience, no education neceserry! Visit our web site and SELL MORE, LIVE MORE!
Phil, 46, Crawford, TX
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Inventory of American Unhappiness
So the other day I was walking around in Davenport, Iowa. I was there for a convention. It was a convention for people who make disposable restaurant products. That alone made me sort of depressed. I had spent three hours in a seminar called "The Meaning of Green." The whole seminar focused on how we can market disposable products as eco-friendly. There was a lot of sadness in the room, mostly over the decreasing use of Styrofoam. People were also pretty upset that plastic bags were getting such a bad reputation. "But they are so convenient," somebody actually said. "They make so much sense."
Anyway, this is not what I had in mind when I got a degree in marketing but of course I didn't have anything in mind. I was young. I figured that there would always be work in marketing. So that made me pretty happy. But what made me unhappy came later. I was wandering around downtown Davenport, which is, surprisingly, quite lovely. I'm serious. It's a nice little town. And there was this lighted walkway, a strange sort of architectural art piece you can walk down to the riverfront. Like an observation tower. Very Asian, I thought. Very Lost in Translation. God, I love that movie. Anyway, when I got to the end of the long neon walkway, it felt very weird. A woman walking alone, at night, in a strange city, down a neon walkway that was empty save for me. And I got to the end and there was a casino. Not the river. The Mississippi River was behind all of that, but you couldn't see it, because there was a horrible, loud casino called Rhythm City and it had all this fake, shitty opulence. All these gang-bangers in Hummers as well as sweatpant-wearing people in sixteen-year-old minivans, and I thought, This is so outrageous, this is so unauthentic, this reeks and reeks of desperation and heartache.
I don't even know who is reading this. I don't even know why I wrote it. But it feels better. I am in an airport waiting for a flight to Erie, PA. I am giving a talk there at a seminar for restaurant managers. The seminar is called "Inside the Box: Why the Carry-Out Business Is Better than Ever."
I hate my life.
Peg, 34, Lexington, KY
As I've said, I rarely answer the e-mails to my inventory site. For one, it would be a time-consuming task. Two, one of the fascinating aspects of this project is that people unburden themselves of their unhappinesses without really knowing who (if anybody) will be reading it. If I were to make myself a sort of celebrity, in the sense that I become the guy who responds to all the e-mails, the sort of "unhappiness" guy who could easily become a celebrity in this strange age of YouTube/MySpace stardom, well, then, I would sully the project. I would ruin my life's work.
But I find Peg's e-mail so exhilarating and honest that I cannot resist.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Inventory of American Unhappiness
Dear Peg,
Thank you for sharing your story of unhappiness with me. I found it very moving. In fact, you mention a Sofia Coppola film. Ms. Coppola is actually quite interested in working with our project on a film c
omponent in the near future.
Anyway, ma'am, I found I knew exactly what you were talking about. Given our age, perhaps we are simply facing something that all humans must face. You know Jesus Christ and Alexander the Great, of course, both died at thirty-three. I'm sure you're aware of that. I'm sure you know what weight that age carries. But here we are at thirty-four! That historically and culturally significant age of thirty-three has come and gone! I do find that it's much harder to carry that kind of weight around in a Days Inn in Tuscaloosa or an Applebee's in Salt Lake City. I assume you know what I mean.
All good wishes,
Zeke, 34, Madison, WI
P.S. Will you marry me?
Yes, I am getting that desperate. Besides, one never knows, does one? But Peg doesn't respond.
One reason for my desperation, of course, is that I haven't heard from Minn—not via e-mail or phone or anything, and I am readily accessible via the web. So far, she has even ignored her online friend request. I decide to shift gears and begin work on an optimistic task: a job description for the position I am thinking of creating just for her: Program Officer for the Inventory of American Unhappiness. When she does contact me, I'll be ready to show her what I have in mind.
POSTING: Program Officer, Inventory of American Unhappiness. The Great Midwestern Humanities Initiative (GMHI) seeks a Program Officer for the Inventory of American Unhappiness project. Candidate must have a profound understanding of the public humanities, as well as a degree (B.A. minimum) in a humanities discipline (i.e., anthropology, English, history, etc.). Ideal candidate will have training in oral history, but we will consider newcomers to the field who have a strong record of customer service and public interaction. Strong communication skills, oral and written, a top priority, as is a deep and unshakable intellectual curiosity. Zest for life, lust for living, love of people are all musts!
When Lara returns to work, I will hand her this new job description and ask her to place an ad for me in Isthmus, the weekly alternative paper, and perhaps on Craigslist. She will look shocked and perplexed, wonder why I need any more help than her able professionalism, but two can play this game she's started. If she wants to manipulate me by pretending to be unhappy at work, disappointed in me, and doubtful that I have the fundraising prowess necessary to keep our organization afloat, I can pretend to prepare for her departure.
I proof my ad one final time and feel a swell of delight in my chest. Certainly this is an adequate reason to track down Minn wherever she may be and offer her this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Oh, I do love the hiring process! And so does H. M. Logan, a fact I know well. Perhaps I can convince H. M. to fund another position at GMHI and I can work with two bright and attractive women; H. M. worries about my loneliness, and I am sure such a move will be amenable to him, as soon as his paranoia dies down and he returns to a calmer plane.
It is time for a break. And thinking about Minn, and the possibility of her working alongside me, has me thinking about Starbucks. I decide to print out the job description I've just written up, and I place it in my pocket. Why not live expecting abundance? Why not expect that I will somehow find Minn, and somehow find a way to hire Minn, and somehow convince her to leave her fiancé, and why not simply set about making that hope a reality?
I will go and give Minn the ticket to a new life.
In the lobby, Lara's empty desk is as untidy as it's ever been, an avalanche of file folders and loose papers at the front of the old store, where the cash register must have been. Despite the mess created by the rummaging auditors, Lara's reception area remains pleasant, complete with fresh-cut flowers and a throw rug she purchased from Target with GMHI funds.
(Do not get me started on Target: nothing makes me more certain that it is time to end my decade of loneliness and marry! Oh, how I long to push a cart through those clean and wide, well-lit aisles with my wife at my side. We would add tastefully designed yet affordable lamps and bench seats and throw pillows into our lives; months before our first baby was due, we would nest. Saturdays would be a symphony of acquiring and arranging. I already know the trash cans I would have, the recycling center I would set up in the basement, and the laundry room organizer that would make the process of cleaning our clothes with lavender-infused eco-friendly detergent so effortless. Is that a summer breeze, my dear, or are you wearing freshly laundered pajamas? Please, permit me such longing. I am only actively manifesting the change I want to see in my life, a technique of visualization and focus I learned from the inspirational messages of Dr. Wayne Dyer.)
Just as I am leaving for the coffee shop, Lara comes into the office. She is dressed rather casually in jeans and a zipped-up hooded sweatshirt that professes her love of the Iowa Hawkeyes. Her hair is tucked back behind her ears and she is wearing a pair of trendy sneakers of turquoise and yellow. She is holding a box.
"Hi, Zeke," she says.
"Good afternoon, Lara," I say. "I was starting to worry about you."
"I've been in and out," she says. "I have plenty of personal days left."
"Oh, of course," I say. "I didn't mean that I was upset or anything. Anyway, I must say you look just as dazzling in your dungarees as you do in a business suit."
"What?" Lara asks.
"Nothing," I say. "Never mind."
"Okay," she says. "Zeke, I'm going to try and clean some of this up. The auditors sort of had their way with our files."
"Fine, Lara, it's your time. If you choose to work late, be my guest, but I have certainly never mandated it. Anyway, tomorrow we need to have a meeting. I will need you to set up the paperwork required—EOE, affirmative action, all of that stuff—necessary to do a new hire."
"A new hire?"
"Yes, a new hire."
"Zeke, didn't you look at the budget sheets I put on your desk?"
"Yes, that's why I am going to see H. M. Logan as soon as possible. He will fund this."
"Zeke! We barely can afford to make another month of rent and payroll!"
"Expect a miracle!" I say. "H. M. won't let us drown."
"How can you be so sure?" she says. "You're not at all nervous?"
"Not at all!"
"Did you call back Josh Farnsworth?"
"Ah, yes. I did."
"And?" she says.
"I was right," I say.
She waits for me to clarify.
"He's a jackass!" I say. I reach into my pocket, retrieve the job posting, and hand it to Lara. She takes it, reads it, and then looks up at me, dumbfounded.
"Jesus, Zeke. Zeke, this is serious! They are going to shut you down! You're broke! This is over. It's all over!"
This is when I take Lara's face in my hands, kiss her with conviction and gusto, a quick peck on the mouth. And then, to the sound of her gasping curses, I leave.
That evening, after another bus ride to the Fitchburg Starbucks and another baffled set of part-time baristas informing me that they have no idea where Minn has gone or when she'll be back, I trudge home from the bus stop, then up the steps to my front door, moving slowly enough that Elizabeth Vandeweghe happens to look out her window and sees me. She comes out her front door and calls my name, smartly dressed in what I'm fairly certain is a new J. Crew Super 120s Blair dress, shade: coal, made of four-season Australian merino wool, with a fetching scoop neck.
I meet her down in front of the house, near the driveway.
"Hi, Zeke," she says.
"Hi, Elizabeth," I say, adding, "You look quite amazing," which I believe is appropriate, since she is usually dressed in old jeans or shorts and T-shirts.
"Thanks," she says. "I had a job interview today. Trying to find something with benefits."
"Of course," I say. "In preparation for the divorce?"
How I wish I could hire every attractive woman I know!
I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper and hand it to Elizabeth.
"Actually, we're about to start the hiring process where I work," I say. "That's the
job description. Read it at your leisure."
"Really? That's kind of you. I don't expect any favors. I mean, I'll put together a great resumé and, no pressure, we'll just see what happens," Elizabeth says, visibly brightening with even the prospect of a new job.
"We offer excellent benefits," I say.
She smiles.
"Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for the other night. You were awfully sweet and I really needed a friend."
"Well, proximity often breeds friendship."
She nods.
"Actually, Zeke, the girls will be in Spring Green Saturday night with their grandparents. Do you want to get dinner or something?"
"Wow. Yeah, sure."
"Why did you say wow?"
"Pardon?" I say.
"You said the word wow. Is this weird? I mean it doesn't have to be a date or anything. Just two friends."
"No, no, it's not weird. It's very, no, I'm just surprised. Happily surprised. I've been wanting this."
"Why?"
"I think we should get married," I say.
Elizabeth looks at me as if she's just been shocked, electrically.
"I'm kidding!" I say. "Kidding!"
"I'm just glad you enjoyed—seem to enjoy—spending time with me," I say.
"Well," she says, "I do."
"Then it is a date. Six o'clock?"
"Sure," she says. "If the weather is nice, we can walk somewhere."
She is barefoot and lovely as she walks away, and the new autumn light, a slightly muted yellow against a purpling sky, fills me with such joy that tears form in the corner of each eye.
That night, after I shut off my desk lamp and computer for the night, I stare out at the darkness for a moment and wonder if Elizabeth might appear on my sidewalk again, but she does not. But I like to imagine that she sleeps, or pretends to sleep, next door, perhaps, even, thinking or dreaming of me.
My American Unhappiness Page 19
