My American Unhappiness (13 page)

I stay parked outside the house for a while, in the darkness, the storm passing over and fading from the sky. I am trying to think of the last real conversation my father and I had, the last time we actually sat down and talked about something. I can't think of anything. He was alive for the first two and a half decades of my life, for nearly two of those decades we lived under the same roof, in the same small house, but I think that, for all of those years, we basically just stayed out of each other's way. We just made small talk.

After I moved out of the house, it was even harder for us to communicate. In recent years, I've admitted something difficult to myself: my father didn't
like
me. He thought I was an asshole, and he had thought so for a long time, maybe ever since I turned twelve. Maybe he was jealous of me for some reason; maybe he thought I had it too easy. I don't know. He didn't like many people. He complained about other people all the time—coworkers, neighbors, cousins, everybody. People were too dumb, too fat, too dirty, too arrogant, too liberal, et cetera. It was almost a bit surreal to realize that I had become one of the people whom my father vigorously disliked, who annoyed him simply by existing.

W
HEN I COME HOME
that evening, my mother comes downstairs. Despite our many differences, when she sees me, she always has that instant of brightness that parents get when they see their children, unexpectedly.

"What are you doing up so late?" I say. "It's nice to see you."

"Waiting for you, actually," she says. "How are your friends?"

"Fine, thanks. How are the girls?"

"Exhausted," she says. "We went swimming at the YMCA after school."

"Nice. I bet they're getting good."

"A couple of fish," my mother says.

Some thunder rumbles outside. The storm renews itself.

"Anyway, sorry I'm so late," I say. "Just driving around."

"Not the best weather to be driving around in, honey."

"I know. Um, I was thinking."

"Oh, Zeke, have you been crying?"

"No!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm very sure."

"I have some tea in a thermos," my mother says. "Come into the kitchen."

My mother pours two cups of chamomile tea, adds a spoonful of honey to each, and then we go to the dining room and sit. There is a small box on the dining room table.

"I have something for you," she says.

"What?"

"Your grandmother's engagement ring."

"Wow."

"I know," she says. "It's sort of pushy. It's just, I mean, if you do have someone in mind, well, when the time comes, you can offer her this."

I take the ring and look at it, a simple gold band with five tiny diamonds.

"Things were less flashy back then," she says. "But it's a very elegant ring."

"I know," I say.

"Are you mad?"

"No. No, in fact, Mom, I think you're right. I think I should get married. And sooner rather than later."

My mother and I sit in silence for a while.

Finally, she reaches across the table and touches my hand.

"Do you want some chicken tenders? I brought some home from work the other night and the girls don't want them. We had pizza after we went swimming."

"No, thanks. You go ahead though."

"Not me," she says.

"Did you eat?" I ask.

"I did," she says.

"I think you're losing weight," I say. "Are you?"

"Heavens, no. Don't I wish," she says. "So, who is the lucky lady going to be?"

"I have no idea," I say.

My mother gets up from the table, walks to the small desk in the living room, and returns with an envelope and a pen. She takes the
Simply You
article from the envelope.

"This is when we make a prospect list," she says. She slides the article over to me, along with the pen.

The article seems aimed at female readers, as most of
Simply You
is, but the described predicament is one I am all too familiar with:
Does it seem like you're ready for marriage, but you don't have any prospects on the horizon? Well, just like any good business executive knows the importance of cultivating contacts and nurturing networks, any woman who wants to find Mr. Right knows that she must do the same thing. Follow these simple steps, and you might just be head over heels (or engaged!) by the end of the summer.

The article suggests that possible life mates are all around us, and as my mother works on a crossword puzzle from the morning's paper, I study the magazine's plan of attack. The article suggests you make a list of four people that you might want to know better:

Make a list of four people whom you know, but don't know well.

Pick one person you see every day, like a classmate, coworker, or that cute lawyer in your Spinning class. Sometimes simple proximity can gradually lead to romance.

I write the name
Minn (barista)
in this space.

Pick one person you really admire, a sort of dream date. Why not aim high? Is there someone you have a lot in common with, somebody you just have to get to know better? Set your sights on this potential Mr. Right by taking in something you'll both love (and love to talk about over a bottle of wine): a breathtaking hike at sunset, an indie film, a play, or an art gallery.

Here I write the name
Sofia Coppola,
the noted film director. Hey, the article says to "aim high." And I have been sending Ms. Coppola an e-mail message each week for the past eighteen months, for professional reasons. I certainly consider her an outside possibility.

Next,
the writer continues,
pick one person you are curious about, somebody you sense might have a little crush on you. Find ways to be near this person. Flirt like mad.

There is a space there to write someone's name, and that's where I write the name
Elizabeth Vandeweghe.

Finally, you need to think of the obvious. Who is somebody you should have dated a long time ago? Who is the coworker, classmate, or "buddy" who may be burying secret romantic feelings for you?
Here I write the name
Lara Callahan.

The article goes on to detail strategies for success, derived from the world of big business and corporate strategy:

• Find an excuse to have face-to-face meetings. Every smart businesswoman knows that face-to-face contact with clients yields higher results than phone calls or e-mail. Find reasons to talk to your prospects and engage them in conversation whenever you have a chance.
  
• Let them know you're open to a relationship. Nobody falls into a great new job without sending in a resumé. Your prospects need to know you're single and looking for love. Maybe let them know you go to the movies alone all the time, or how quiet your apartment seems in winter. Don't sound desperate, just independent and available.
  
• Set a reasonable goal, both short-term and long-term. Pick a date when you'll reassess your list of prospects. Maybe pick a date for your desired engagement, too. Again, the trick is to visualize success. If you feel like a wanted woman, men will sense it.
  

In the margin, after this tip, I write the number "35" and the date 7.06.2009, my thirty-fifth birthday. Then I draw an engagement ring in the white space. And thus, my prospect list is born.

I slide the list across the table to my mother, who sets aside her crossword puzzle and begins to read.

"The coffee-shop girl?" she asks.

I nod.

"Who's Sofia Coppola?"

"Sort of a colleague," I say. The internationally acclaimed film director is certainly my loftiest prospect, but when I watch her films, I am convinced that she understands precisely what I am talking about when I talk about American unhappiness. I believe that if only I could get in touch with her, she would take a great interest, both personal and cinematic, in my
Inventory of American Unhappiness.
Maybe she would even turn the project into a film, her first full-length documentary. I write to her regularly in the hope that she, whom I consider the most beautiful woman in Hollywood (and yes, I am aware of how high that praise really is), will write or call or e-mail. Oh, what a day that would be, to log in to my account and see that name in my inbox. Sofia Coppola!

My mother continues to read.

"Elizabeth Vandeweghe?" she says. "Zeke, it's a bit soon for her to remarry, don't you think? There's a lot of unhappiness over there right now."

"You never know," I say.

"I suppose you don't," she says. "And Lara Callahan. Your assistant, right?"

I nod.

"Oh, Zeke," she says. "I'm so happy for you. This looks so encouraging." We sit in silence for a moment, sipping our tea. I look around at my house, full of tasteful furniture, original paintings, and hundreds of fine hardcover books. A pile of the girls' shoes is in a small wicker basket by the door. The coffee table in the living room is covered in Polly Pocket action figures and accessories. In one corner of the dining room, two Melissa & Doug art easels hold a collection of brushes and poster paints. The small side table that holds a bottle of fine single-malt Scotch and my favorite crystal tumblers also holds two American Girl dolls. My life has turned out in a way I have never imagined, and I make a comment like this to my mother and she nods.

"You know, Mom," I say, "I know we've had a lot of differences over the years. But you know, when I look around the house and see the girls' stuff everywhere, when I am safe in the knowledge that they are sleeping upstairs above us, clean, warm, well fed, and healthy, I have to say, Ma, we're doing this. We're making this work."

My mother smiles and she reaches across the table and takes my hand.

And then her smile turns to a grimace and her eyes begin to drown. Soon, she is weeping, shuddering at the table, and she lets go of my hand. She puts her palms flat on the surface in front of her.

"Mom," I say. "Mom?"

But she doesn't look up at me, and it's only then that I understand everything, what all of this talking has been about.

"My God," I say. "How long do you have?"

"Six months," she says. "Maybe less."

T
HANK YOU FOR
your response to
An Inventory of American Unhappiness.
Project director Zeke Pappas is out of the office on family medical leave and will return to the project in the fall. If you need immediate assistance, please contact Lara Callahan at
[email protected]
.

Theodore M., 28, cable installer, Morris, IL:
Ideas. Ideas make me unhappy. I get so many of them. I'm going to make a film about my great-uncle. I'm going to build a writing shed near the garage. I'm going to send a letter every day for the next year. But I don't follow through on anything. And I know that about myself, so it drives me crazy that I keep having ideas. I keep having ideas, but what am I doing this week? I'm re-watching
The Wire
on DVD. Starting over, season one.

Natalie B., 37, writer, Ames, IA:
There's a place over here on Lincoln Way, and it's called the Village Inn or something. A little family place, a step up from a diner, but not by much. And they have this big banner in the window, something they had whipped up at Kinko's or whatever, and it says, "Free Slice of Pie on Wednesdays," and I think the deal is if you order a dinner you get a free slice of pie for dessert. I'm not sure if the pie is any good. I don't care if it is or not. My guess is canned filling, pre-made dough. But what makes me almost inexpressibly sad is that I think that probably works. I think a bunch of people actually go in for a free piece of pie. I don't like thinking about that. I don't really have the ability to take that sort of thing.

Wylie P., 39, gym teacher, Valdosta, GA:
I wish I knew.

Anna M., 31, lecturer, Rochester, MN:
The inability of undergraduate students to correctly use commas makes me unhappy. Seriously, I teach four sections of freshman composition each semester, and this about ruins my life.

Hal N., 36, stage manager, New York, NY:
Zooey Deschanel. The actress and singer. You want to know why? Because I don't stand a chance of ever shagging her. Or even talking to her. And I find that harrowing. I think she would be the first person to ever really connect with me, I mean really connect with me. I don't know why I think that. I just do. And the problem is I can't reach her, she'd want nothing to do with me, and I'd probably get arrested for stalking anyway. Wouldn't I?

Alexandria W., 23, waitress, Seattle, WA:
My boyfriend is a total dick.

Ron C., 24, waiter, Seattle, WA:
My girlfriend is a total bitch.

Brenda V., 43, engineer, Manhattan, KS:
When I'm alone with my thoughts, that makes me unhappy, because, you know what, there's some dark shit in there and when it comes out, I don't like who I am. Everybody likes me. I'm easy to like. That makes me unhappy because that's not the real me. The real me is a bitter, jealous, and unsatisfied asshole. I think of the day that comes out. What will my husband say? My mother-in-law? My kids? I think about the shit I'm capable of doing, if I ever act on what I really want to do, and my God, it's terrifying.

Brad V., 34, hardware salesman, Salt Lake City, UT:
The Debbie Gibson video I used to whack off to when I was like twelve or something. Every time I see that video, or, you know, hear that song in a doctor's office or something, my stomach turns watery, this deep pit of shame. I don't know. I don't know why I have that reaction, but when I think of that song, that video, Debbie Gibson in general, this self-loathing comes on and it doesn't go away for a long, long time.

Manuel P., 29, industrial consultant, Los Angeles, CA:
Judge Judy. Jesus. I can't fucking stand it.

Ginny O., 50, homemaker, Tampa, FL:
Real estate agents. Specifically, those professional headshots they put on business cards and in ads and on billboards. I can't even look at them without feeling such intense sorrow for everybody in the whole goddamn profession.

Wanda P., 37, sales associate, Cody, WY:
I guess when I see grownups dressed up for Halloween it sort of makes me unhappy. Unless they're real sexy sorts of costumes, like a slutty bee or a dirty cop or something. And I suppose it's okay if they're with their kids, or at some drunken party or whatever. But I'm thinking about a secretary who dresses up as a witch, you know, standing there in the glare of the insurance office's fluorescent lights? Or a used-car salesman who is wearing devil horns? Or a postal clerk dressed up as a cowboy or whatever? I can't abide that. I can't think about it. It's about as sad as a guy who wears short-sleeve T-shirts and what he describes as "wacky" neckties. There are things adults must not do, you know?

Jenny, 33, blogger, New York, NY:
Early nineties ski apparel makes me unhappy. Anytime I come across an individual sporting an electric blue, hot pink, or neon green winter weather item (such as a dickey/ turtleneck, windbreaker, ski jacket, gloves, or ear warmer) I wonder why, almost twenty years ago, they didn't have the foresight to have bought black. The neon colors are bright yet they make me feel dark—that contrast only adds an extra heaviness to the whole of it. At about the same time the icky feeling sets in, the thought that hey, maybe this guy or gal can't afford a new pair of mittens pushes its way into my mind. And then I realize that I am a judgmental jackass.

Jane G., 42, writer, Galena, IL:
I'm unhappy about my own slow disintegration, about humiliation, clinics, falling off cliffs, being stared at. Arrogant, dopey people make me unhappy, unless they're funny. It makes me unhappy if the people I love are unhappy. But I am not unhappy about animals or movies from the 1930s. Those I like.

Carrie, 33, legal analyst, Normal, IL:
These binders that line the walls of my office. They hold meeting materials for every damn meeting from the last ten years; the paper falling out of them is yellowing and often printed in a font that I don't think exists anymore. We're always in the process of getting ready for another meeting and making another binder to put on the shelves. No one looks at the binders after the meetings are done, as far as I can tell, but we will never, ever get rid of them. On some very fundamental level I don't understand why we make or keep the binders, and since it is my job to make the binders, this makes me unhappy.

Michael, 35, photographer, Kiev, Ukraine (via Madison, WI):
What makes me unhappy: Being alone in a country where I can't speak the language. Realizing another cabdriver scammed me and charged me four times the going rate. Hearing stories about my son when I can't see him. Getting to the end of another day without getting anything done. Skipping lunch, that sounds silly, but I've discovered that if it gets to about four
P.M.
and I forgot to eat that I just feel down, and I think it's my body telling me the fuel gauge has hit empty. Missing an opportunity because I once again ignored that dictum "He who hesitates is lost." Meeting someone I really admire and realizing that they have no interest in talking to me.