The Valeditztorian (17 page)

Chapter Ten

Misery and Happiness

The next few days of my unexpected vacation are spent frolicking around m
y favorite playground for grownups: New York City. Hours are wasted strolling up and down Madison Avenue, staring through shop windows at exorbitantly expensive art work, jewelry and clothing. Eight dollars are spent on a single truffle consisting of gourmet dark chocolate and Bailey’s Irish Cream, a deliciously sinful confection designed to siphon money and inspire guilty pleasure. Salty hot dogs and pretzels are gobbled up from weenie man in large quantities. Excessive calories are optimistically (unrealistically?) expended on jogging expeditions in Central Park. Rollerblading is strictly avoided, given a previous collision with another skater resulting in a broken clavicle (mine). With the dogwood and cherry trees just sprouting new leaves, the park is an island of natural beauty, a harbinger of the coming season.

V
itality pulses from every crevice and creature in the city: the cracks in the sidewalks on the Upper East Side; plasticized, Fifth Avenue matrons clicking high-heeled shoes while walking frilly poodles; skaters jamming in the park; children racing through the urban playgrounds. Energy flows through the city like a life force, and I try to absorb it all.

Midweek Thomas and
I decide to spend an evening together on the town. Though I’m not particularly fond of Jackson Hole, Thomas loves their enormous hamburgers, and I’m happy to indulge him. As usual, before heading out, Thomas bemoans his lack of financial support, and I offer to foot the bill; yet from a monetary standpoint, I’m no better off than he is. The dinner situation epitomizes an essential inequality in our relationship. Namely, I’m a giver, and Thomas is a taker. More specifically, while he’s happy to take my money and love, aside from the mind-blowing sex, he gives very little in return.

A few months ago, for example, Thomas lef
t me hanging prior to a movie date. I suppose that even if he had shown up,
Breaking the Waves
still would’ve been completely depressing.

Follo
wing some excellent makeup sex the very next day, I said, “Explain to me why you stood me up yesterday.”

“I’m
just not good at relationships,” Thomas replied.

“Why not?” I asked
, resting my head on his well-defined deltoid.

“You’ve
heard all of this already.”

“Tell me again
, then.”

“Because my father was
a schmuck. The man was always out drinking when I was kid.”

“Okay…
so he wasn’t a great role model. Do you think he loved your mom?”

“Depends on your definition of love
. I’d say they loved fighting with each another. When my dad happened to be home, they never stopped yelling. I actually kept ear plugs in my room, just in case.”

“Did he hit her?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about you?”

“He used a belt on me and my brother.”

Ev
er so gently, I kissed his neck, saying, “I’m sorry he hurt you. How did you cope with it all?

“I’m not sure that I did,” he replied
. “As a kid, I practically lived at the neighbor’s house. When I got older, I went out and played a lot of pool.”

“Is that where you were last night—playing pool
?”

“Actually, yeah,” he said.

“Were you hustling again?”

“Mm
.”

“Why do you do that, Thomas?”

“Because playing pool for money is such a rush.”

“But I can give you a
much better rush, right here, in the comfort of your own home.”

I ran
my fingertips suggestively over his pectorals.

“Hustl
ing is a different kind of fun,” he said, staring at the ceiling with a faraway look in his eyes.

“
If you say so. What about your mom?”

“What about her?”

“How did she cope with your dad?”

“She took a lot of V
alium, and eventually she divorced him. Then she married another schmuck.”

“Your stepfather?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he like?’

“I just told you. He’s a schmuck.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The guy has so much money. You should see their new house. It looks like a museum, filled with all the trashy, expensive stuff they’ve bought. You can’t even walk through the living room without worrying about accidentally breaking their pricey junk. And with all that money, do you think the bastard has ever given me a dime toward medical school?”

“Uh, no?”

“That’s right
. Not one penny.”

Though Thomas intermittently blames his mother, father, and stepfather for his emotional problems,
from my perspective, he’s a 20-something-year-old grown man, with no one but himself to blame for his unhappiness.

Then ag
ain, maybe I’m being unfair, since my upbringing was radically different than his.

“
Happiness is a choice,” my mother said one day when I was 13-years-old.

“
Then I’m choosing to be miserable,” I yelled from beneath the comforter on my bed.

“If you cho
ose to be miserable, then miserable is what you’ll be.”

“Miserable is how
I feel,” I said. “Hey, gimmee back my blanket!”

“It’s one o’
clock in the afternoon, Emma…way past getting up time!”

She
grabbed my comforter and threw it onto the floor.

“
C’mon, Mom…I wanna keep sleeping,” I whined.

“If you sleep any longer, it
’ll be bedtime again. Enough laying around. Time’s a wastin’. That’s better—sitting up is a good start. What’s with the frown face?”

“
You woke me up and stole my blanket. I’m allowed to frown,” I said.

“Oh, no
you’re not,” countered my mom. “You’re a privileged child with no real reason to be unhappy.”

“
You’re not letting me go to Helen’s birthday party tonight.”

“
True. But Great Aunt Maude’s anniversary dinner is a very special occasion.”

“
Yeah, sure. Dinner with Aunt Maude and the ‘ladies’ at the Victorian House should be really spectacular.”

“Since when did you master the art of sarcasm
? Don’t turn your back on me, young lady. Now, before I give you a consequence, look out the window.”

“What?”
I asked.

“Look out the w
indow, and tell me what you see,” said my mom.

“I don’t see why….”

“Just do it, before I get upset,” said my mother, pressing her fingertips to her temples.

“Oh, alright
. I see snow. A whole lot of snow.”

“Anything else?”

“Umm…lots of clouds, so we’re probably going to get more snow. Yay.”

“Is that it
?”

“There’
s some dog poop in the snow, down by the mailbox.”

“Okay, dog poop
. Now, do you want to know what I see?” asked my mom.

“Not really,”
I replied unenthusiastically.

“First,
with all the snow on the ground, I see excellent skiing conditions at Mount Southington this weekend.”

“You don’t even ski, Mom
.”

“And you were right about the clouds
. When we get the next big storm—which is arriving tomorrow morning, by the way—I see a chance to curl up by the fire, sip hot chocolate, and catch up on some books I’ve been meaning to read.”

“How exciting.”

“And Inky’s present down by the mailbox isn’t just dog poop.”

I
rolled my eyes at her.

“
No, really. It isn’t.”

“
What is it, then?” I asked.

“Lawn fertilizer.”

“But dog poop always turns the grass yellow.”

“In the long run, it’s good for the soil
. That’s why the tulips I planted around our mailbox will be the biggest ones in the neighborhood when springtime comes. Do you understand what I’m trying to say here, Emma?”

“That dog poop is good manure?”

“No. That the way you view your circumstances is up to you. If you wish, you can go through life feeling depressed about every bad thing that happens to you. And unfortunately, lots of bad things are going to happen.”

“Gee
, Mom, that’s so optimistic.”

“That’s
reality, Emma. In life, each new day is a mixture of good and bad events. The important thing is not so much what happens, but how you choose to view these events. Cultivating a positive attitude—or not—is your choice.”

“What if I don’t want to be happy?”

“Then you can choose a lifetime of depression and misery. From experience, though, I’d strongly recommend choosing happiness, since it’s a whole lot more pleasant.”

Too bad Thomas d
idn’t get whacked over the head with this speech as a child, instead of his father’s belt.

During my trip to Brazil, Thomas
started seeing a therapist, but thus far I can’t see that he’s made much progress. Tonight, as he wolfs down a cow-sized hamburger, his mood seems off, twitchy and withdrawn. Fabulous. Looks like I’m stuck with Mr. Gloomy, one of my least favorite personalities, for the duration for the evening. Okay, I admit it. Much of the fault here is mine, since I’m only encouraging Thomas by putting up with these mercurial mood swings.

During our
uncomfortably quiet dinner, I try for some normal conversation.

“So how was your day?” I ask.

“Hmph,” grunts Thomas.

“That good?”

He glares at me momentarily before turning back to his burger.

“Mine was pretty good
. Want to hear about it?” I ask hopefully.

“No.”

Further attempts at communication are shot down with grunting noises and/or brooding stares.

Eventually I pick up the tab.

“Can’t say that I love your hairstyle,” Thomas comments on our way to the subway.

“Whoa—t
he man speaks. At least the hairstyle got you talking,” I say.

“Harrumph,
” says Thomas.

“What—y
ou don’t like ponytails?”

“You look about ten-years-old,
” he says.

“
Which makes you a lucky man.”

“What do you mean?”
he asks.

“
Most men prefer dating younger women,” I say.

“Not that young
.”

That’s another problem with my boyfriend
. When he’s in a bad mood, demeaning statements fly out of his mouth without warning.   

Following a quick subway ride downtown, we arrive at the club and find our seats
. Along with dinner, I’ve also purchased our tickets, but Thomas knows I draw the line at alcohol. If he wants to drink himself into oblivion, he’ll have to pay for it himself.

“Can I get you anything?” asks our waitre
ss, batting her eyelashes at Thomas.

“I’ll have
a beer,” he answers without hesitation.

“Sure thing,” she says
, smiling sycophantically.

After
taking Thomas’s order, the waitress heads toward the bar without even glancing in my direction.

The concert turns out to be
fabulous. Previously I’ve enjoyed Luka’s music at the Newport Folk Festival, but his voice resonates even more poignantly in the smaller setting of the Bottom Line. Unfortunately, Luka’s sexy, Irish brogue isn’t enough to exorcise Mr. Gloomy. Ignoring the music, Thomas continues to wallow in despair, focusing his stormy gaze on his beer, hardly noticing my presence. Our interaction, or lack thereof, reminds me of the song “Mr. Cellophane,” from
Chicago
.

“
Ladies and gentlemen,” says a fantasy director inside my head, “please welcome Emma Silberlight. Tonight, for the hundredth time, she’ll be playing the role of Mrs. Cellophane.”

Ugh
. I’m more than ready to ditch the part of this leading lady.

Exce
pt that halfway through the concert, I’m the one who gets ditched, when Thomas announces, “I’m going out.”

Other than his critique of my hairstyle
, this is the longest chain of words the man has strung together all night.

“What do you mean
, you’re ‘going out’?”

“I mean, I’m going out.”