My American Unhappiness (2 page)

This generates some polite applause and the collective gasp of concern that always accompanies this announcement. I feel a little guilty using my dead brother like this, but I do not think Cougar would mind if he were alive. I was a generous and warm-hearted older brother who had helped him in many ways over the years. We grew distant and our relationship contentious before he died, but I like to believe that if his spirit has any sort of eternal state, he would say, to whatever angelic neighbors he has on his lonely cloud, that I was a good brother.

Thus, I stop short of mentioning that his final e-mail message to me informed me that I was being "a self-righteous, conceited, washed-up, elitist, cowardly little puss." This characterization was in response to a picture of me that our mother had just sent him. I was marching up State Street in an antiwar protest, shouting and holding a sign that said, "Regime change begins at home." I was also wearing a T-shirt that sported the Canadian maple leaf, which I insisted, vainly to my mother, was not intended as any sort of statement or symbol. (Like many of my peers, I have a drawer full of T-shirts that mean nothing: Drink Orange Crush. Be a Pepper. Do the Dew.)

"Why did you send that e-mail to Cougar?" I'd asked her. This was before he was dead, when the war was still new and people like me believed we could end it with T-shirt slogans and halfhearted chanting. "Why on earth?"

"How can you hate your own country?" my mother had sobbed.

"I don't," I said. "I swear."

Despite the sympathy card I play early in my speech, in short, my talk to the Madison West Side Rotary Club does not go well: whatever is on the minds of these upright citizens gathered before me, it is not the public humanities—that much is certain. Once I notice this, I'm flustered and have a difficult time making my main points, and several of the suited men in the audience start to fiddle with their BlackBerries, as if urgent, potentially million-dollar e-mails are attempting to vibrate their way into consciousness. Even a rather zippy little joke about whether Brett Favre would make a comeback attempt falls flat, and so about ten minutes into my prepared remarks, I pause and say, "Well, I am sure that many of you have specific questions about the work that we do, so maybe I'll stop there and take a few. Anybody?"

Did you have anything to do with the funding of Mapplethorpe and that cross in urine?

Do you fund religious organizations, or is there a bias against Christianity in the work you do?

Do you fund individuals? I am working on a history of my grandfather's company, a shipping outfit that once graced the shores of Lake Superior. Would you be interested in funding that?

For instance.

And then, this, from a gray-haired, pocket-eyed man at the far back table:
Why didn't you sing with more conviction? Where was your gusto? I watched you singing; your singing was pathetic,

I left the podium. Exactly! Where
is
my gusto?

I
FLEE THE SUBURBAN
blight of Madison's far west side and retreat downtown to Nick's for a quick vodka tonic and a chat with Gus, the Greek who runs the place with his brother, George. There is no Nick anymore, not to my knowledge, though I have never asked, not really, as the subject of death is one I avoid at all costs. I have never attended a funeral. I have skipped the funerals of several people whom I knew rather well, including one whom I, in my own way, loved (my father); one I truly loved, in my own way, but never admitted that love (my brother); and one whom, in my own way, I deeply loved (her name was Valerie and, briefly, she was my wife). This has provided an opportunity for others to judge me but I feel no reason to defend myself. I will not attend a funeral, and when I die I do not want one. I want my survivors, whoever they may be, to dispose of my remains in the most efficient, inexpensive, and eco-friendly way possible.

"
Ti kanis?
" Gus asks me. He cannot believe that I have a Greek father yet know no Greek.

"
Kala
I answer, which means "Fine," and which is one of the only words I know.

"So how have you been?" I ask Gus.

"Busy," he says. "Very busy. You?"

"Oh, okay. Not that busy," I say.

I finish my cocktail in awkward silence. Gus and George are good men, but they are not the kind of men I am particularly good at making conversation with—they are hulking, hard-working, with no time for the intellectual sparring that dominates conversation in my social circle. I should say my waning social circle. Nine years ago, there was a pack of us who spent a great deal of time at Nick's, discussing weighty books and foreign films, drinking can after can of Miller High Life in ironic appreciation for the cheap things in life. I was there almost nightly. But most of those friendships have faded in this decade. A few of my friends—the bravest, in my humble opinion—have gone off to New York where they live interesting, mildly erotic lives in tiny, shared apartments. The rest have married and settled into a quiet life on the near west side of Madison with their children, whom they wheel around the city in mammoth, brightly colored strollers. I see them sometimes as I drive, jogging behind those strollers, faces twisted as if they are still perplexed by the routines of domestic life. Sometimes I see one of them squat down, hand encased in plastic bag, and pick up a steaming pile of dog shit while his wife, his strollered children, and his impatient labs wait for him to perform the gross but righteous act of a good citizen. Some days, as I pass in my car or on the soft seat of a city bus, I laugh at him, the poor sap, bent over the smoldering turd; but lately when I see these friends, attacked by sticky fingers in a loud family restaurant near the Hilldale mall or struggling to change a diaper in the Borders bathroom, I feel not superiority and the tickle of my ample freedom but a searing feeling of envy and loss. I want that, I think. That's what I want.

"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."