be happy

“I’d rather be a peasant than a queen.”

I looked at my lady. That line just popped out of her mouth. Probably said by 1,000s of other poor folk over the centuries. A quick internet search would probably pop up even more references to it than that. Why she said it at that very moment, while we were lying in bed, covers on her and off of me, that I had no clue. I just knew that it made me happy.

She turned towards me and gave me a small kiss on the cheek. I could feel her breath on my head. These are the moments that keep me sane. And the moments that used to drive me insane when they were taken away. It’s hard to remember those times now. Like a glass of orange juice. You savor it while you have it, but afterwards, that acidy feeling sits in your throat. Yet every time you get breakfast, an orange juice isn’t far behind. Why? Because it’s good for you. Just like a woman.

Today was supposed to be my first day at a new job. But three weeks after accepting it, two weeks after giving my notice at my other job, the human resources lady - Linda - called me to tell me there had been an error in processing. My job was actually given to someone else. When she said those words, I waited for my turn in the conversation and asked simply “You said my job. What exactly does that mean?”

She was a bit flabbergasted by my tone, I have a feeling, and it was meant.

“I meant to say the job we offered you…” I didn’t allow her to finish her thought. “And I accepted.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jones,” but you were not supposed to be offered the position. Someone else was.”

“Well, tell Mr. or Mrs. Was to enjoy working for a you,” I said. “Good bye.”

At that moment, I felt nothing. I knew I had to tell her when she got home. I fucked up again. But this time, really, it wasn’t my fault. I wish that conversation with Linda had been recorded.

We had that conversation last night. There were heated words exchanged. What was going to happen to our nice rented apartment, which was a bit out of the price range of a zero-income family, which we now were. “I’ll figure something out,” I said. That usually meant charging stuff on my credit cards. I always swept in like Clint Eastwood in “Two Mules for Sister Sarah” and saved the day. However, in the end, I was more like Clyde from the “Every Which Way and Any Which Way” movies in the end.

After we figured out that our savings would last a couple of months, it got better. A bottle of wine for her and a six pack of Shiner for me helped the cause. We passed out naked, without a care, at least for the night. The record player played my favorite album, Side 1 of Tennessee, all night long. I didn’t even notice it was playing when she woke me with those words.

“Baby, you left the stereo on all night again,” she said next.

“Think of it as mood music,” was all that came out of me.

“I know what that album reminds you of, so I’d rather not have you in that mood,” she sort of snapped. But before I could get angry or sad or anything, she hopped up out of bed and skirted over to the window. I wondered if our neighbors -- a college professor and his mistress (what he called her) -- think about my gorgeous girlfriend standing in the open window naked every morning? I can say that I enjoy it quite a bit.

“Baby, there are a lot of birds out today.” I developed a kind of truce with the birds over the summer. For some reason, they congregate in our yard. Not anywhere else in the neighborhood. They were noisy. They ate everything in sight, which in our dirt, not grass, covered yard was saying something. And they never seemed to leave. Yes, you’d go outside and they’d flap, flap, flap on up to the wires above. Then sit there looking down, cackling the entire time. It made writing tough. Not that I was getting anywhere with it anyway. My story didn’t have an end. As much as I tried, it always seemed forced. Probably because I only believe you can write what you know. And I don’t know much. Especially an ending that isn’t heartbroken and callous. This story deserves better than that. My publisher even said so. “We all know you can write about a broken down man. How about a little redemption this time?” That’s what Pete, my man at the publisher said to me.

“Well, when it happens, I’ll write about it,” I said.

“Asshole, it has happened,” Pete yelled. “You’re living in your dream town. With your dream woman. You can’t hold down a job and you listen to LPs all day with a cold beer in your left hand and a pen in your right. What else have you ever wanted?”

“Fuck you.”

“Exactly. Be happy, dude. One day, you’re gonna wake up either dead or she’ll be gone.”

“Same thing.”

“Bye.”

I looked around the room. Saw my shorts on the floor and got out of bed. While walking across the hardwood floors I passed by the same window she looks out of every, single day. There was the professor, staring at me. My flaccid penis and my beer belly must have been a heavenly sight. He waved. I waved back.

Not the best way to start a day, but certainly better than most.