"Anything else?" Gus asks.
"Nope. Nope, I'm good then," I say, savoring the sensation of a faint buzz at midday. I put a five-dollar bill on the counter. The cocktail is three-fifty. I tip fairly well for a Midwesterner. "Thanks for the drink!"
"That's it?" he says.
"Yes," I say. "It's a bit early for a second one, don't you think?"
"No lunch? Tuna melt special today."
"I do like tuna melts," I say. "But I just needed a drink."
"Take it easy," Gus says.
"You also," I say. "Don't be so busy!"
In recent weeks, I have begun to answer the standard "How're you doing?" with the phrase "Not that busy." I've taken to doing this because so many people reflexively answer, "Busy." Especially academics, activists, and artists, who should have at least some free time each day to spend daydreaming and thinking big thoughts. How are you? Busy, How did we get so busy? If you think about it, busyness is decidedly not one of the ideals of Midwestern culture (see GMHI Book Discussion Series #13: Big Business or Big Busyness?). Hard work, perseverance, determination, yes—but busyness? No. It smacks too loudly of self-importance and futility. So, now, when asked, I always say I am "not that busy." Because I am not and that is perfectly okay; it says nothing about my intellectual might or social standing. In fact, one might argue that being busy is a very common, as in pedestrian, thing to be.
Before I head back to my office, I decide to stop by Starbucks on the Capitol Square, not so much because I want a cup of coffee—in fact, I worry that any caffeine might prematurely end the minor buzz of a midday cocktail—but because I want to see Minn, full name Minerva Koltes, who is twenty-nine years old and the assistant manager of this Starbucks. Minn is one of those service industry professionals with a competence and friendliness that are rare. I enjoy my midafternoon caffeine jolt so much, partly because she is the one who serves it to me.
We are not really friends, Minn and I, not yet. In fact, we have never had a conversation in which we were not separated by the merchandise-cluttered counter of the Starbucks, exchanging quips and pleasantries over a folk rock compilation CD and a small stand of roasted almonds and chocolate-covered espresso beans.
I have friends, beset by liberal guilt, who refuse to set foot inside a Starbucks, despite my assurances that the store has decent, and rapidly improving, business practices and geopolitical stances. I also happen to prefer their coffee's hearty richness and their homogenized and nationalized standards of quality control; so be it. But I go there, ultimately, because of Minn, with her dark hair and her blue eyes, and the smile that twitches when she shows her teeth, the freckles barely visible on her high, olive cheeks. When she serves me my usual drink, a tall, triple-shot roomy Americano, she never charges me for the third shot, which is technically an extra shot and should cost me eighty-five cents.
I'm just saying.
"Hi, Zeke," she says.
"Hello," I say. I glance at her left ring finger. Her diamond engagement ring is still there. It's one small thing I take note of each day. I do not know her fiance's name; I do not know who he is or what he does. I know nothing of Minn's life outside the walls of this warmly lit national chain. This is fine. Such relationships, based on the ancient economic principle of supply and demand, are one of the most sacred elements of our social contract in America.
"Do you have time to play the Starbucks Challenge?" she asks. Brightly, she smiles.
"I do," I say. I smile back.
The Starbucks Challenge is a game I invented one day, publicly sharing a gift I had long held private. I was feeling particularly bold and confident, perhaps somewhat inspired by the way Minn had her dark hair, shorter than usual, held out of her eyes with a small pink barrette.
A new customer walks into the coffee shop, and Minn and I share a quick, knowing glance. Her smile is the sort of smile that seems secretive, and her posture can only be described as sheepish, as if she always is hanging on to an inside joke. In this case, she is.
"You can take care of this gentleman first," I say, stepping aside and motioning to the man who has just come into the store. He is doughy, tall, with a buzz cut; he wears pleated khakis and a red golf shirt with a country club insignia on the left breast. I glance at him—former college athlete now making a go of it in sales. Far from home, a long drive ahead of him, he wants a special treat, an acceptable vice until he goes home to his wife and children. He's marginally in love with his wife; she sort of detests him. His kids, he adores. Only on the golf course does he feel truly comfortable. If I turned to him and asked, "Why are you unhappy?" he would tell me all of these things.
Instead, I wave him ahead of me in line.
"Thanks," he says.
I stop him. "I have this game I like to play," I say. "Might I guess what you are going to order?"
"Huh?"
"I like to guess what people are going to order just by looking at their faces," I say.
"He's quite good," Minn says. "I'm always amazed."
The man gives Minn a flirty smile. It occurs to me that she could come work for me someday and add energy and dazzle to my days.
"Yeah? Okay, go ahead," the man says, giving Minn a wink as if to say, Hey, dollface, who's this clown? Should we humor him?
I turn my back, while Minn hands the man a Post-it notepad and has him write down his order.
"Okay," Minn says.
"Caramel Frap, extra whip. And a toffee bar," I say, still facing away from the counter.
The man looks around the shop, as if he expects to be flanked by cameras.
"Holy shit," the man says. "That's amazing. How did you do that?"
I turn toward him.
"I'm remarkably intuitive about other people's emotional landscapes. Especially strangers. I'm much better with strangers. The less I know you, the better. Starbucks is a source of simple pleasure, an acceptable and fulfilling vice, if you will. I like to look at people, measure the hardness of their day, their circumstances—the general crumminess they feel in their hearts—and decide what sort of beverage, and perhaps snack, could remedy their misery for a while. It's my belief that you are happy only on the golf course, but for now, this infusion of fat and sugar—and there is a great deal of it in the combination that you ordered—is akin to temporary salvation for you."
A line has formed behind the man.
Minn takes his money and hands him a small brown bag that holds his toffee bar, and her fellow baristas finish making his drink.
The man walks away from me, bewildered and hollow. He is too disarmed, and I am too right, for him to be angry.
"Do mine," says the next customer in line. She has overheard the entire exchange. I look at her. She is in a black business suit, mildly attractive unless you focus on her face for too long, and then you see the badly drawn lines of her mouth, a permanent frown as if she is in chronic pain. She is an uninteresting woman—she feels that in her bones—but wants desperately to be interesting. Minn hands her the notepad. And I turn my back.
"Vanilla skinny latte," I say. "Extra shot."
She looks wildly enthusiastic.
"Wow. Wow. Do you do this a lot?"
"Fairly often," I say.
"He's incredible," Minn says. "I love this guy."
The woman in the black suit is really beaming now. "Seriously?" she asks Minn.
"Seriously?" I ask. Does Minn mean "I love this guy" the way you talk about an odd and eccentric weirdo—Dude, I love that homeless guy who plays the kazoo all day on State Street —or does she mean, you know, that she loves this guy, me?
It turns out the woman with the vanilla skinny latte, extra shot, is a reporter for Channel 3. She wants to do a segment on me, maybe on Minn, too, about how I guess drinks at Starbucks every afternoon.
"Well, I don't do this every afternoon," I say. "Only when the café is slow—for example, we never play this game in the morning rush—and only when I am feeling particularly intuitive."
"It's ama
zing," the reporter says.
"It always makes our day," says Tammy, another barista who is working the milk steamer.
Minn just smiles at me. She never seems to not be smiling; she may be the only genuinely happy person I know.
"Anyway," I tell the reporter, "media attention would simply negate the subversive pleasure I get from this little game. People would come in to deliberately throw me off. Imitating guessers would crop up all over town, plaguing cafés with such guessing games. But, anyway, you were debating getting a pack of trail mix. You should get it. But in truth, I think you really wanted a pumpkin scone. But there's your diet to consider, especially given your profession."
Minn is laughing so hard tears come down her face.
The TV reporter gives me her card as she exits. Her name is Kathy Simon. The trail mix comment has left her dazed, as if I have plumbed an intimate region of her psyche. She is a bit more attractive now, smiling. Her gray eyes look almost blue, but no, they are gray. Her skin is pale, too, and in midwinter it will turn to gray. Soon, her hair will be gray; it's possible that she will be all gray soon. A gray woman.
"Do you have a gray cat?" I ask her as she nears the exit.
Now she just leaves, wide-eyed, near tears. Minn helps a few other customers and I go to the washroom. When I come back, Minn has my triple-shot ready.
"On me," she says.
"Many thanks," I say.
"You have a dark edge to you today," Minn says. "A sort of harsh subtext to your guessing."
"It's a gift. A useless one, but interesting: I've studied unhappiness for a long time and now I can sort of guess everybody's unhappiness before they speak. And I also note, at least among a certain well-educated demographic, Starbucks is a ritual—costly and mildly unhealthy as it is—meant to mitigate our day-to-day unhappiness."
"It's like this very focused sort of ESP, don't you think?"
"Funny thing is this: if I know the person at all, I can never guess what they'll order."
I hear my name being called, boisterously, across the room.
"Zeke!"
I nod at Minn, mumble "Thanks," and go over to the waving, suited man. H. M. Logan has obviously followed his Rotary meeting with cocktails, too, many more than the one I had, and now is trying to sober up at a corner table before heading back to his office, a palatial suite on the thirteenth floor of the U.S. Bank building from which he runs the Dorothy Logan Memorial Foundation, named after his mother. "You were terrible today," he says. "What were you thinking? You embarrassed me in front of the Rotarians!"
"Sorry, H. M. I really am, but it wasn't an ideal audience," I say. "It was like giving a lecture about cooking with bacon at a PETA conference."
"What are you talking about?"
"You can't have an attentive audience without a receptive one," I say.
H. M. is drooling a little. "What are you talking about?"
"How much did you have to drink today?" I ask.
"Look," he says, "I got a call from somebody in Washington yesterday. Apparently, my name is the contact name in their database for GMHI. I told them to call you."
"Okay."
"Why would they call me?" H. M. asks.
"I don't know. Because you're the chair of the board?" I say.
"It makes me nervous, federal bureaucrats calling me on the phone."
"It's probably nothing. Maybe Lara forgot to turn in a form," I say, which I know would never happen, as Lara is an amazingly organized assistant, but I just want to assure H. M. that nothing is wrong. He has gotten sweaty and visibly anxious, though that may be the cocktails and whatever prescription anxiety drugs he is on this week. Still, he is my major benefactor, and such a relationship requires, above all, that I offer a pleasant smile and listen to everything he says, no matter how absurd it's getting.
"I just don't like people nosing around in my business," he says. "Especially not the federal government."
The stranger H. M.'s private sexual escapades get, the more paranoid he becomes.
"Well, I'll go back to the office, right now, and find out what is going on. We'll handle it."
"Just don't let them call me anymore. I don't want anything to do with them."
"H. M.," I say, "it's not a big deal."
"I have things—as you know—that would be very embarrassing, should, you know, they come out in the press. I trusted you with my secrets, Zeke!"
"They're safe with me, H. M. Besides, I've done my best to forget them, and anyway, I don't think they're interested in your personal decisions."
"What if they inquire into my travel activities?"
H. M. uses a GMHI credit card for many of his personal expenses, but he always reimburses the organization double. Lara and I know enough to turn the other way when the card has a questionable expense. jj's FULL SERVICE, for example, for three hundred dollars. Or THE PINK ROOM for four hundred fifty-six dollars. We know who pays our salary these days, and we quietly pay the bill so that H. M.'s wife, who handles the family finances, does not see it. And a few days later, a "donation" always arrives from H. M. for double the amount of his charges.
"Not to worry," I say, and I believe it.
It's—most likely—simply some bureaucratic quest for job-justifying information. Lara and I take such calls from the federal government at least once a week as of late. Well, mostly Lara takes them. Washington has become vigilant in all the wrong places: they chase errant nickels while billions of dollars are squandered by corporate greed and excess. I say something to this effect to H. M. and he just grunts and waves a dismissive hand at me.
I leave him sighing and staring out the window.
When I turn around, Minn is dealing with six men in suits, all of them ordering very involved beverages, and so I simply give her a brief wave and head back to the office. But en route I check my watch and discover how close it is to three in the afternoon. The girls are home from school, and I decide to head home too.
3. Zeke Pappas is on his way home.
GENERATIONS FROM NOW, I believe that historians will assess the first decade of the twenty-first century and declare that these years turned out to be a time of colossal bad luck and almost unbelievable failure. On a microscopic level, nowhere was this more evident than in the life of my own family, the Pappases of Madison, Wisconsin, though it's doubtful historians will remember us at all. Still, it is worth noting, as a rather inaccurate Wisconsin State Journal tear-jerking feature story by George Hessenfessen did during the previous holiday season, that in recent years, my family has endured a series of the most incredible and relentless heartaches imaginable.
While it'd be hard to say that we were a family who subsisted wholly on mirth and joy in the years before our tragedies, let us begin here: On September 12, 2001, my father died of a massive heart attack outside the Oscar Mayer plant where he worked, an untimely death, my mother insisted to George Hessenfessen, caused by his patriotic grief over the terrorist attacks that had occurred the day before. He had stayed up all night long, as so many of us did, watching the news, alternating between weeping and thirsting for blood. (And while it is poetic to think his heart stopped out of woe and rage and uninhibited sorrow, I blame his enlarged heart and a prediabetic condition, fueled by endless cigarettes and a diet that consisted, almost exclusively, of frozen pizzas, Funyuns, and chocolate ice cream, all of it usually consumed after ten in the evening.)
But fathers die, often from heart attacks and often in conjunction with national news events. This alone did not make my family's woe legendary. This was not the extent of my family's misfortune. It grew deeper: a little over two years after my father's death, my brother, Cougar, died while serving with his National Guard unit in the Iraq war, the victim of sniper fire near Fallujah; he had enlisted the day after my father's funeral, with my mother's blessing and against my advice. This is what I said: "Don't do it. You'll die."
I now regret my armchair prophecy.
Even so, soldiers do die, and while tragic t
o the nation and excruciating to the soldier's family, it is not wholly unexpected. No, what happened next, this, this is what catapulted our family's grief from the tragic to the epic: three months after my brother's death, his fiancée and the mother of his children, a beautiful but often unstable woman named Melody Leeds, drank just a tad too much wine at what was intended to be a spirit-lifting dinner party thrown by some old high school friends. Melody ended up hitting a patch of late March black ice and dying in a one-car accident on a rural road northwest of Madison. At the time, her home was in foreclosure and she was self-medicating, with limited success, her understandable depression.
Melody was a good, kind woman, a caring mother when she was sober but, if I may be blunt, an emotional wreck when she was not. My mother and I always played a somewhat stabilizing role in her life—often cleaning her house, cooking her meals, running errands for her, not to mention baby-sitting for her. My mother, in fact, seemed to have two full-time jobs—assistant manager at the east side Old Country Buffet, and nanny to her two young granddaughters.
After Melody's death, caring for Cougar and Melody's twin daughters, my nieces, two-year-old girls named April and May, fell to my mother, Violet, who excelled as a grandmother, but who was terrified at the prospect of being the sole means of support—financial, emotional, and spiritual—for such bright, energetic, and needy orphans. Although April and May—so named because the former had been born on April 30 at 11:58 P.M. and the latter had arrived on May 1 at 12:01 A.M.— received survivor's benefits from both the Social Security Administration and the military, my mother was quickly overwhelmed, on an emotional and financial level, by her charges. In particular, her new duties as a primary caregiver made her unable to continue to work the fifty or sixty hours a week she was used to working as a salaried employee at the Old Country Buffet. By necessity, she went down to an hourly wage, slashed her hours by nearly sixty percent, and was forced, by a rather crippling amount of debt left behind by Melody, to move in with me and become a part of my household. I am a generous man, and think very little of hoarding wealth, and was in fact quite happy to become the financial provider for this new and loving, if fragmented, family.
My American Unhappiness Page 2