My American Unhappiness (24 page)

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 component 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.

T
HAT SATURDAY MORNING,
while I drink the day's first cup of coffee, I look out my east side window and see Elizabeth, in running clothes, trying to get her children into the car and off to dance class. Being a single parent must be exhausting work, and certainly, perhaps, Elizabeth will soon long for a partner in that work, if she's not longing for one already. Still, it's very doubtful, given the fact that we have not even had one official date, that she would be willing to accept a marriage proposal this fall. But then again, my whole quest, the whole notion of proposing marriage to somebody by this imposed deadline, is fueled not by rational facts, but by magic. I must visualize success. And with Minn's chronic AWOL status, I must begin to think in terms of miracles, I must be the Brett Favre of courtship, making plays where no plays exist.

I have no doubt the recipient of my hasty marriage proposal will be shocked, but what I am hoping for, if I am free to admit my heart's deepest longing, is that the woman in question will be so moved, will feel a flood of inexplicable joy and unknown passion, that she'll accept, perhaps not right there, perhaps she will run from the room, screaming, laughing, or in tears, but she will accept. I can see it in my mind's eye.

Elizabeth is standing next to the minivan, buckling the kids into their car seats, and she looks quite amazing, her well-muscled legs rippling, the cheeks of her buttocks hugged by the turquoise running shorts. I watch her bend over and fiddle with straps, feel my blood surge, and have an idea.

I know after Elizabeth drops off the girls at dance class, she will, as seems to be her custom, go for a morning run. Upstairs I race, looking for the one pair of gym shorts I own, a red set of UW Badgers basketball shorts, quite baggy. Then I throw on a Mountain Dew T-shirt, some black athletic socks (I wish I owned some white socks, but I don't!), and the closest thing I have to sneakers, some navy blue Chuck Taylor high-tops.

When Elizabeth returns from dropping off her girls, she finds me standing in my front yard. Stretching.

"Do you run?" she asks.

"I do."

"Are you coming from or going for a run?"

"About to embark!" I say.

"Can I join you?" she says.

"Sure," I say.

"You can run in those?" she asks, looking at my sneakers. "Those have no arch support."

"It's all I run in," I say. "The only thing!"

Elizabeth then removes the hooded sweatshirt she is wearing with a quick zip, revealing a tight running tank top, purple. Her midriff is bare.

"Let's go," she says.

We go.

We begin with a walk down to the corner, then we cross Monroe Street, and as we hit the park near Lake Wingra, we break into a slow run.

"How many miles did you think you would go today?" she says.

"I'm flexible," I say.

The pace quickens. I feel a stitch in my side. We run through the path in the woods, which is matted with mulch. A tiny wood chip manages to slide into one of my Chuck Taylors, like a pointy toothpick. I keep going.