Make Happy: Writing Exercise #1

My legs are burning hot in the October sun. Only the lower part of me is exposed to the rays as I swing on my porch. The swing creaks and pops like my right knee when I crouch down to pick something up. It shouldn’t do that. I’m only 41. 

My phone dings, “What are you doing the rest of the day?”, my girlfriend, Morgan, texts as she’s heading home.

“I’ve got a date with this guy…” I send a photo of the latest book I’m reading, Accelerant by T.L. Simpson, the cover features a masked vigilante standing behind his motorcycle with flames engulfing the world behind him. 

“Damn. He’s sexy. And I’m jealous.”, Morgan says. 

“Well, if you’re jelly. I’m peanut butter.”, I know exactly the response this text will cause, even though her face is currently 33 miles away from me. A slight half smile accompanied by an eye roll. That stupid, stupid eye roll. If I’m lucky there was some air blown from her nose. Which is what most people mean when they say “lol”- they’re just blowing air from their nose. Guess BAFN isn’t quite as succinct or trendy. 

Through the window, I hear the faint guttural growls and crunchy guitars coming from my record player inside - some album I grabbed at a store in Eureka Springs because the cover looked tough as hell. Only adding a skull would make it quintessentially tougher. They say don’t judge a book by its cover, but albums are free reign. I think that’s how the adage goes, anyway. 

Grabbing my lukewarm coffee and heading inside, I nearly trip on a package at the door. I scoot it inside with my foot (because bending causes knee popping as we've covered). Ordering things online truly is like Christmas for me because my memory is so shot I can’t remember what I ordered just a few days ago. Hell, probably a few hours ago at the speed things are delivered these days. 

Once inside, I close the door a bit too hard and the record skips. Old houses, they sure do have character. ‘Slamming doors makes records skip’ - I’ll remember to put that in the listing when it goes up for sale soon. 

It’s not that I don’t like my house, I do. But when a house doesn’t feel like home there’s probably a reason. Of course, I attribute that reason to Morgan living 90 miles away. It’s hard to feel at home in a place your heart doesn’t reside. 

“Oh yeah…” I mumble as I open my package and toss the box on the table. It’s the shoes for my Halloween outfit. I’m dressing up as Pony Boy Curtis from the Outsiders. So, typical 50’s greaser footwear was likely Converse, right? Right. Okay, maybe I just wanted an excuse to finally buy some Chucks. Either excuse is plausible. 

Deciding to be Pony Boy isn’t such a stretch seeing as I have “Stay Gold” tattooed onto my knuckles. Even though the line comes from a Robert Frost poem, Nothing Gold Can Stay, the first time I was exposed to it was reading The Outsiders. So, I like to give Pony Boy the credit. It's the least I can do for the kid.

The record stops playing as I go to collapse in my comfy chair to read. Silence unnerves me so I get up to flip the record. I push play and get bombarded with static-y noise as the needle skips over the record at a speed that can’t be right. “Hm. It’s only one-sided. Interesting.” I, instead, put on Give One, Take One by ‘68 to solve the silence issue. “I can’t stop the feeling that I’m feeling, yeah” the speakers spit out while I head back to my chair, humming along.

I sit down and open my book to meet Briar and Asher. Then I realize my coffee is ready for round 4 of reheating. I wonder if sitting down is in the cards for me today. I did remember to take my meds, so I must be in do-shit mode. I suppose I can gather another load of laundry to do. And I have been a bit lax with sweeping. I can tell by how haphazardly I have been filling my bowl with cereal, spilling little crumblies onto the floor. I'll sweep then I'll sit and read.

I miss Finn. When you’ve had a dog your whole life you don’t realize how dependent you are on them to be good little vacuums for poor cereal pouring etiquette. Finn, my tripod dog I had to re-home because of my life becoming less than predictable, is in a good home now, he even has brothers to play with. But selfishly, I miss his stinky face and dropping food on the floor will always remind me of his vacuum talents. 

The microwave beeps letting me know the coffee is, yet again, heated to make drinking it enjoyable. Is coffee enjoyable? I often wonder this, even though I own a coffee shop that depends on people finding it so. Are we just pressured into washing down our daily anxieties with a cup of brown go-juice because of the status quo? Maybe. Business seems to indicate that. I don’t dwell on it too long or I start to spiral in the “what am I doing with my life” variety. 

Opening the microwave I catch my reflection in its door. Hm. I look sad. My eyes have a vacancy that would shut down a motel. My mouth, at a perpetual downward angle. Am I sad? I don’t think happy people look like this. Fine, maybe I’m a little sad, but isn’t everyone? Feeling sadness these days is as normal as breathing. Look at the news, or don’t, actually. The news is where the sads pile up, just waiting for you to turn the screen on for them to bombard our eyes and ears.

My mug is too hot and burns my hand. I drink it anyway wondering if a beverage can make burns, can it make happy?