Happye - Chapter Two

Chapter 2

Life is like a box of chocolates. Wrong. I get the meaning behind that phrase; that you never know what you are getting until you jump in and take a bite. That life is unpredictable. But, I find several inconsistencies with that logic. Unlike the naïve Forrest Gump, I know that it isn’t as simple as that.

See, my life isn’t all that unpredictable. As a matter of fact, it is quite mundane. I wake up alone. I go to work alone. I come home to an empty apartment. I eat dinner alone. I watch television for a few hours alone. I go to bed alone. Everyday it’s the same. Every activity is always done with the same person.

Plus, I like chocolate. It is sweet, sometimes bitter, and it melts in your mouth in a puddle of brown heaven. I put a piece in my mouth and for a small amount of time, I am happy. With chocolate, I am content and I know that I will have this feeling each and every time. Chocolate never lets me down; life does every day.

No matter how unpredictable I want days to be, nothing seems to change. Some would think that I like things this say; I don’t. I want to do new things, experience new tastes and smells, converse with new people every day, and see new places. I just don’t know how to go about doing any of these things. I’ve found myself in a runt; I can’t seem to climb my way out of it.
I am a walking contradiction of myself. I desire interactions with new people, yet I am terrified of people seeing and coming close to me. I want to go to new places, but am afraid of any place outside my comfort area. I want adventure, but shy away from anything isn’t the norm. I want, but don’t want. I need, but don’t need. I desire change, but is committed and dependant on my daily ritual.

Take tonight for instance. I came home from work, changed out of my work clothes, fried some chicken and French fries, and turned on the television in the front room. I have a riddle for you. Which one of those activities I haven’t done at least a million times in that precise order? That’s easy; none of them? My dinner menu may vary from time to time, but beyond that, nothing.

‘Ring, ring.’

Even the phone ringing at 6:35 isn’t a surprise. I know exactly who it is; the same person who calls me every night, although not always at the same time. When I think of it, other than your ‘run of the mill’ telemarketers and my parents (who doesn’t really call all that much), there is only one person who knows my phone number. Maybe if I give it out to more people, then maybe for a split second before looking at my caller id, I can have that sense of mystery in my life. What interesting person is calling today? What adventurous things they have to tell me now?

“Hi, Joie.”

“What the hell are you doing at home?”

My sister, Joie (pronounced like Joy), is queen of stupid questions. She asks things she already knows the answer to just to come off wiser than she really is. Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely adore the girl. Why wouldn’t I? Everyone adores Joie; she is the personification of perfection. Ask anybody they would tell you the same. Everyone adores her, especially my parents; she is their favorite.

“Ummm…because it is my home? And, I like it here?” I know I am being a smart-ass, but that is to be expected when I am talking with Joie. She is the only person in the world I am comfortable talking to like that. For the most part, and my jealousy aside, she is my best friend.

“Ha, ha, very funny. Let me rephrase that. Why aren’t you on your way to my house?”

“Why, dear sister, would I be on my way to your house?” I know what she was referring to, but I couldn’t skip on an opportunity to give her a hard time.

“I don’t know, to come to my party, maybe?”

“Party?”

“You know that thing where people gather to share food, music, and semi-interesting conversation. Don’t tell me it has been so long since you allowed yourself to enjoy something that you actually forgot what a party is?” That is what I love about Joie. She gives as good as she gets.

“Joie, not tonight. I’m not in the mood to be in a room full of your friends trying to out-do each other in the most obnoxious pissing contest ever. Why are you even friends with those people, just to have someone to brag to?”

Joie friends were lawyers, doctors, political leaders, and parents of overachieving children who wins beauty contests or something. On their own, I am pretty sure they are really nice people. But together, their desperation to be the only significant person in a single confined space brings out the monsters that Joie keeps subjecting me to over and over again. Imagine me, the loser, in the same room with these people? Breathing becomes difficult with the air so thick you can cut the stint of ego with a knife.

“Happiness, they aren’t that bad.” She’s pulling out the big guns. She knows how much I hate that name, but for some reason it pulls at my heartstrings to hear her say it. When we were little and the force from being in her shadow was too heavy for me to carry, she would tell me that it didn’t matter what other people thought about me because I was her happiness. That made me feel more than significant. How momentous is it to be the happiness of the person that everyone considered as their joy. Just the sheer magnitude of what that meant kept me content at night.

“Joie….” I already felt myself weakening. It would be nice to see my sister. We don’t see each other all that much since she moved to Elgin, the suburban community right outside Chicago, with her husband and child.

“What else do you have to do? The most you have to look forward to is watching someone else’s life on television.” She just had to ask, didn’t she? Why did she have to throw in my face that my life is about as exciting as shopping for white paint. True enough, the sense of nostalgia that I was starting to feel starts to wear off.

“What type of self-absorbed idiot throws a party on a Thursday night and expects the world to show up, anyway?” I lash out. It’d stupid and immature, but I don’t care. What can I say, it is my defensive mechanism; every creature made by God has one. “I guess if I had a rich husband and could afford to sit around all day and polish my toenails, I’ll have enough energy to party on a weekday also.”

“Happye, you know good and damn well I don’t sit around all day. I have a thriving career and a two-year old,” Joie comments, not even remotely taking the bait. “Throwing down the glove, showing your claws, and turning into Super Bitch will not make let up on you. Remember who I am. I won’t hide my tail between my legs and walk away.”

“You’re full of colorful metaphors tonight, aren’t you?”

“Happiness, please come.” When all else fails, beg. It works at least 38% of the time.

“Why do you even need me there? I’m pretty sure the party will go on without me.” On my list of things I want to do tonight, being stuck holding the measuring stick to Joie’s friends’ comparison of accomplishments is at the very bottom.

“I don’t need you here; I want you here. You’re my sister and I love you.” Oh, she is really laying it on thick now.

“Cut the crap, Joie. This is a pity invite and you know it.” My sister loves me; I admit that. The very thought of me being stuck clogging my mind and arteries with mindless sitcoms and fried food while she was hobnobbing with the Joneses sends her into a tailspin. Her invite has nothing to do with her needing to see me or wanting to be around me, but because she feels an need to rescue me and place me dead smack in the middle of her sophisticated lifestyle to bring a resemblance of purpose in my own uneventful life.

“Will you stop overanalyzing everything and just enjoy the moment for once in your life. Most people get invited to a party and take it just as that, a party invitation. You: you take it as an opportunity to psychoanalyze the method behind the madness.” Someone has been making good use of the thesaurus she got for her birthday. “I’m having a party. I invited my sister. It’s just that simple.”

“Okay, Joie. You win.” How can I not go when she puts it like that?

“So you’re coming.”

“Yes. I am searching for uncomfortable shoes to put on as we speak.” Not to mention an uncomfortable black dress to go with them.

“Boki-yii!”

“Boki-yii?” I giggled. “Joie, sweetie, please don’t say things like that.”

“What? Dennis says it all the time.”

“Dennis is 6 “2”, 285 pounds, and a professional football player. He can get away with it. You? Not so much.” Dennis is a running back for the Chicago Bears and is constantly thinking of new phrases he can scream out after a touchdown. For some reason, Joie thinks that she has the right to mimic his idiotic non-existent words.

“Whatever. Just hurry up; the guests are starting to arrive.”

“Okay, Joie.”

“Oh, and wear those earrings that I bought you for Christmas.” Great. I thought I would make it though the conversation without her giving me a wardrobe suggestion.

“Okay, Joie.”

“And wear your hair up. I don’t like it when you wear it down and cover up that pretty face.”

“Goodbye, Joie.”

“You know, come to think of it, you shouldn’t be driving alone at night all the way out here.”

“Good because you know I don’t like driving in this city. I’ll take public transportation.”

“No, you can’t do that. It isn’t safe. I’ll send someone for you.”

Uh-oh. “What do you mean you will send someone for me?”

“Dennis has a friend who lives not far from you. He can pick you up.”

“Joie, I don’t think…”

“It’s settled then. I’ll call John, that’s his name.”

“Joie….”

“Happye, stop talking and get ready. John will be there in a minute. See you soon. Love ya.”
How does she do that? She can go into one of her spills that will and leave me completely speechless. I mean, even my thoughts go utterly silent. Not only did my beloved sister talk me into coming to her useless party, she is arranging for me to spend forty-five minutes in a car alone with one of Dennis’ friends. Does Dennis even have friends that don’t make a living throwing other men on the ground?

“I highly doubt it.” I say to no one in particular.

I really hope this isn’t one of Joie’s attempts at matching. If it is, please let it be of the ‘if they meet each other hopefully they will hit it off’ variety and not the ‘hey, will you please go out with my lonely single sister before she give up on love and start adopting cats’ type of thing. I can just imagine the conversation. I wonder if money changed hands.

“I wonder if she told him that I’m fat.” I continue to talk to myself as I pull my only black dress out of the closet. I hate the way this particular dress fits me; I prefer something less form fitting. If shopping wasn’t so depressing, I’d buy a new one. Nothing gets me down more than having a skinny saleswoman suggest the men’s ‘big & short’ store for my slacks.
I quickly take a shower and throw on the dress. I decide to wear my black leather boots because it is winter and I don’t want my pudgy little legs to get cold. Taking Joie’s advice, I pull my long black hair into an elegant bun at the nape of my neck. I finished off by putting on the diamond earrings that she gave me this past Christmas and just a touch of lip-gloss.

For a moment, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, assessing my appearance. Am I really pretty? That was what she said right; not to hide my pretty face? She’s the second person to call me pretty this week. Either they are seeing something I am not or I’ve had the privilege of encountering two crazy and blind people in one week. I wouldn’t say I’m pretty; I’m not absolutely hideous either. If I wasn’t so chubby, maybe I’ll be a little pretty.

And if I am kind of pretty or have the potential to be pretty; I crave to be beautiful. You know the type of beauty I am talking about. The kind of exquisiteness that stops traffic and makes the sun pause for a second. The kind of splendor that the causes the wind to blow and the reason why the birds sing. The kind of unique wonder that all love songs was written about, the definition of magnificence. That is what Joie is, what I want to be.

The outside intercom buzzes and I nearly jump out of my calf-high boots. All of a sudden, I’m nervous again. For a moment there I forgot that I was expecting a traveling partner; a man at that, of all people.

“Yeah, who is it?” I know who it is. Who else would it be?

“Hey, it’s me, John, Dennis’ friend.”

“I’ll be right down.”

If I didn’t already have anxiety about going to this party, now it is magnified ten times over. I have to be alone in a confined space with a man who would likely look at me; judge me. I really hope this isn’t a matchmaking attempt by Joie. Please let it be anything but a matchmaking attempt. I’ll die happy if we drove all the way to Elgin and he not even notice I was riding shotgun.

By the time I descended the two flights of stairs, I see him standing outside the glass outer doors. John Whitmore; she sent freaking John Whitmore, the quarterback of the Chicago Bears. I don’t know much about football, but everyone knows the quarterback. I also know from the tabloids that he is the epitome of a ladies’ man, often even leaving the clubs with a different woman than the one he came with. Nervous doesn’t even describe what I am feeling right now.
I am going to kill Joie. I am going to wrap my chubby fingers around her scrawny neck and squeeze until her head pop off. She knows me. She knows me better than anyone. She had to have guessed that this would make me uncomfortable. How could she have not known that I would rather ride a bus full of homicidal psychos than to be stuck riding alone with this smooth-talking, womanizing, handsome millionaire in his canary yellow……what a minute. Is that a Lamborghini?

Feeling even more self-conscious, I wrap my long coat around my body even more to hide the rolls of flesh that is visible through my dress. ‘You might as well get it over with, Happye,’ I tell myself before exiting the building and taking John’s hand to be escorted to his very expensive piece of Italian engineering.

When I woke this morning, I couldn’t have predicted that by 7:15 I would be going to a party, no less riding with the most famous man in Chicago in his $400,000 car. In some ways, I have to say that life has it way of making the unexpected happen. I heard this quote one time that describes what I am going through right now; Life is like a box of chocolates.