Happye - Chapter One

Life is funny. What the hell does that mean? I never understood that. There isn’t anything funny about the ache in my back from sleeping on a rock hard bed that I can’t afford to replace. There isn’t anything hilarious about the fact that I go to sleep on that cement block covered in cheap Wal-mart sheets alone every night. There isn’t anything even mildly amusing about me almost missing the ‘L’ train again for the third time this week and have to break out in a quick run so that I won’t risk being late for work and losing my job. I really don’t find the fact that, because of my increased weight, I am now out of breath, the heels of my shoes are giving out, sweat is dripping off my face in the middle of winter, and small children are starting to point and laugh, all that laughable.

“Life really isn’t funny,” I whisper out loud as I take a big breath before braving the concrete stairs to the train platform. “I can’t keep doing….ooof.”

Missing a step, I tumble forward; all of my weight landing on the one arm that I put out to break my fall. What a great way to start my day?

I hear the children laugh harder at my newly display of embarrassment. “Maybe life is just a little bit funny,” I mumble as I brush rocks and dirt from my black Liz Claiborne hand-me-down pantsuit and notice a small tear just above my thigh.

With my wrist now throbbing in pain, I limps the rest of the way up the stairs just in time to push a token to the attendant and make the train. My wrist may be broken, and I look like something that was dragged down the alley by a stray mutt; but at least I will arrive at work on time for the first time this week.

As if my day wasn’t sucking enough already, I’m greeted with regular strange looks as I walk the train looking for an empty seat. People are generally uneasy by sitting next to an overweight person; as if I will use my extra mass to propel them against the train windows and cut off their air supply from sheer force of my enormous volume.

I’ve just learned another life lesson; people are terrified even more by a dirty, hurt, limping overweight person sitting next to them as purses, briefcases, paper bags and infants were hurriedly pushed into any empty seat; letting me know loud and clear that there was no room for me in the inn.

Normally, this type of behavior would pain me and have my bottom lip quivering with stubborn unshed tears. But not anymore. I am used to it. I am over it.

A small, older woman with kind eyes smiles at me from the back of the train. With a nod of her gray head she alerts me to the empty seat next to her. I smile back at her and excused my way to the vacant seat. On days like this it is good to know that there are still some kind people on this earth.

The kindness in her eyes turns to worry as she accesses my appearance. “My God, Child, what happened to you?” she asked with genuine concern.

I clear my throat from the roughness of nonuse before answering. “I fell on the stairs trying to make the train.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride.” I said giving her another small smile that I hope would smooth the worry lines from her wrinkled forehead. I raised my right hand, still throbbing with pain. “And my wrist a little bit.”

She inspected my wrist before allowing her eyes to travel back to my face. The worry lines that I thought would disappear were still present. “Maybe you should go to the hospital.”
Becoming uneasy by her concern and focus on me, I turn my head, hoping to halt any further conversation. “I’ll be fine,” I assure her in the smallest of voices.

Although she was a pleasant person, I was just not accustomed to strangers talking to me on the subway. I wasn’t accustomed to strangers talking to me period. People treated ‘fat’ people like an infectious, contagious disease. They observed me from a distant; looks of humor, pity, disgust and disrespect sure to follow. But, they don’t come close; and they sure as hell don’t hold conversations with me. Like I said before, I was fine with it. I was used to it. It doesn’t hurt (much) anymore.

I let my eyes roam around the train, as I do some mornings. I like to see if people are watching me. I don’t like to be watched. I like being invisible. I like crawling inside myself and hiding. I like riding to work without a word or drawing attention to myself. But, I don’t like to be watched. I can’t help that sometimes. Being my size, it is kind of hard to be invisible. Other days I am insignificant. Those are the good days.

Some of the riders are regulars; the same people I try to disappear from every day. Others are new, rookies to this particular car. Or maybe they are just like me; people who doesn’t want to be seen and are successful at it most days. Today, I see them. I wonder if they see me too.
The little old woman sitting next to me, she is a rookie. I haven’t noticed her before and she doesn’t seem like the type who wants to go unnoticed. Everything about her is noticeable; from her distinguished features, that have aged gracefully, to her bulging eyes that are as bolder as they are kind. You couldn’t tell from the worn brown coat that she’s wearing, but she sent off an air of elegance. The kind that is only evident in old money or good breeding.

She smells of honeysuckle, if you can image such a thing. Not the manufactured bottled fragrance Honeysuckle that is now popping up in air fresheners and hygiene products, but the ones growing wild in fields. The ones my sister and I would pick from my grandmother’s yard as children to pull the center to suck on the small sweet honey on the end. Her scent is fresh; fresh honeysuckle.

“My name is Geraldine Moore,” my riding partner said, forcing my attention back on her. She stares at me as I, trying to decide my next move, looked into her aged, brown eyes. After a short while, humor colors her face, and for a second, it seems as if she would laugh. “My God, Child, everything isn’t a life or death situation.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” I know exactly what she is talking about.

“So you’re not trying to decipher how much your life would change drastically if I knew your name?”

Lying through my teeth, “No,” I answer. I am such a terrible liar. Everyone knows that. My family knew it, I knew it, and now a stranger by the name of Geraldine knows it. It is evident on her disbelieving face.

“You do know introducing yourself come next, right? I say my name; you say yours. It is Manners 101.” Her tone is a little mocking, but mostly playful; I don’t take offense. As a matter of fact, I am starting to like the little old woman who is evading my early morning, silent train ride ritual.

“Happye.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my name. “ I try to explain, “Its Happye Porter.”

She stares at me for a minute, trying to decide if I’m telling the truth. Like I said, I am a terrible liar. She’ll be able to tell if that was just a name I pulled out of my behind just to pacify her.

“Happy, huh? That’s ironic.”

“How so?”

“You don’t seem all that happy to me. You seem despondent, self-doubting, self-conscious, or lonely maybe; but not happy. ”

This surprises me. I am usually a master at hiding myself; my thoughts, my wants, and my emotions. Geraldine sees through me. She doesn’t see the stereotype that all overweight people are naturally jolly. She doesn’t see the façade of indifference that I put up to keep people at bay. She saw me. I’m not really sure how I feel about that.

“You don’t know me. You have no right to make that assessment from a fifteen minute train ride.” I couldn’t help but to become defensive. It is usually not my nature; I am more of a ‘shrink away and hide from confrontation’ type of person, especially with people I don’t know. My sister is the only person who gets to see this side of me.

She doesn’t take offense to my lashing out. Can you believe she laughs? She actually sits there and laughs in my face. Not just a slight giggle or your run of the mill grin, but a full-on ‘head thrown back, building from deep tresses of your toes’ laugh. All I could do was sit there with, what I could imagine as, the dumbest look ever on my face.

“Okay, okay. There is no reason to get your panties up in a bunch. The world isn’t going to end because someone can see past that masquerade and see the real you.”

I should to be thrilled that I’m not invisible or just an object to taunted. That is what I want, right? To be noticed? Liked? Loved? Yet, for some reason, I am even more uncomfortable with being seen than I ever was at being ignored.

“So, how exactly do you spell that?” she asks, once again getting my attention. She seems quite skilled at that.

“Spell what?”

“How do you spell your name? I just know it isn’t the traditional way. People these days never keep it simple. They want to be artsy, cute or unique.” She looks out of the window with a small smile threatening to show on her lips. “Ha, unique; that’s really funny. They are all naming their babies the same thing; pronouncing it the same, but spelling it differently. That is their definition of uniqueness. The world is full of simple and common morons.”

I can’t stop the laugh that escapes my lips. As soon as it was out, I cover my mouth with my good hand to try to quench it.

“You really should let yourself have that.” She’s looking at me again with a peculiar look on her face. I give her a curious one of my own, wondering what exactly she’s referring to this time. “Laughter. You should laugh more. You are really pretty when you do.”

I freeze at the forbidden word ‘pretty’ and look around to see if anyone heard her. What the hell was wrong with her? Doesn’t she know that she isn’t to blatantly lie like that? Doesn’t she know that she’s not supposed to associate me with any of the deadly words like pretty, attractive, or beautiful? Did she have any idea how many of these public transporters were disagreeing with her or, at the very least, think she is completely blind or senile at this exact moment? I can just feel the swarm of mocking snickers all around me.

“I’m not pretty.” I tell her, almost whispering, so that she would know the next time. Maybe she was blind. Maybe she was senile. It was up to me to inform her of the cold hard facts; especially of the ones that concerns me and my level of attractiveness.

“Well, Child, if you don’t think you are than no one else will,” she replies as if she had just revealed the secret of life.

I decide at that moment that it was time to end this conversation. I don’t like where it‘s going and I’m uncomfortable talking to this woman about my lack of self-esteem. If and when I’m ready to do that I will do like all normal people and pay someone $100 an hour to tell me how all the problems I have with myself and my life is traced back to buried issues with my mother.
“H-A-P-P-Y-E. That is how you spell my name.”

It’s now her turn to laugh out loud. In a voice that’s a cross between being humored and impressed, she said, “Very smooth. You are very skilled in strategically changing subjects. Fine, I can take a hint.” She pats my hand to let me know that she now knows her boundaries, giving me a certain amount of comfort. “So, Happye with an ‘e’ at the end, Where are you on your way to this morning?”

“I am on my way to work.”

“Oh, you’re a career girl! What do you do?”

“I’m an event planner.” Now this, I can do. I can talk about work all day. As a matter of fact, that is the only time I feel in my element and can socialize with anyone. I know when some people say that their work is their life it is mostly bullshit. Not with me. Work is my life; outside of it, I don’t exist. As an event planner I am alive; as Happye Porter, I am just going through the motions. “I plan weddings, family gatherings, social and political events.”

“That sounds interesting. How did you get into that?”

Seeing my level of ease increase, she turns her body halfway towards me, preparing herself for the long, interesting conversation that she was sure was about to ensue. Her assumption was premature. I can see my stop quickly approaching as the train gently rocked on the overhead rails. What the hell; I might as well humor her for the six seconds we have left on this ride.

“I kind of stumbled upon it really. I interned for a woman who owned a wedding planning business in college. I was a business student and was there for the knowledge and expertise she could give me about running a business. I learned more about the planning side than I did about the business side, and I guess it stuck.”

“Well, you seem to really like it. Your face takes on a certain type of glow when you talk about it. You become more animated.”

“I do enjoy it.”

“State Street” is announced over the intercom and I throw a sympathetic look her way, letting her know that it was now time to end our conversation. I didn’t want to talk to this woman to begin with but now that it was over, I realized how surprisingly pleasant it was.

“Well, Happye with an ‘e’, it was nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too.”

She gives me another one of her signature smiles and her eyes turned back kind; the way they were when she first offered the seat next to hers. “Do you really mean that or you think it is the right thing to say?”

I only have to think of my response for a second before answering. “I think I really mean it,” I say honestly.

“I believe you.”

With a smile fixed upon my lips, I bid Ms. Moore goodbye and exited the train. Maybe this day won’t turn out as bad as I thought. Maybe I’m not as much of an introvert as I seem. Maybe, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, people can see me. Life; ain’t it funny.