My American Unhappiness Read online

  Leslie J., 33, graphic designer, Ypsilanti, MI:

  Unhappy? I don't know. I'm not really an unhappy person. I'm not. I'm lucky that way. [Long pause. Subject begins weeping.]

  Swanson B., 31, high school history teacher, Seattle, WA:

  Lots of things. It doesn't take much to make me unhappy. I'm thirty-one. That alone makes me unhappy. But, for instance, the other day I had eaten an apple Jolly Rancher one of my students gave me. And it was pretty good. It had been years since I'd had a Jolly Rancher. But then I went over to the coffee shop for some coffee. That's the best part of my day. Double-cap, low foam. But it tasted like shit because I had just sucked on this Jolly Rancher for forty minutes. I was so disappointed. I guess disappointment makes me unhappy. And my name. I hate my name. Three months ago, my father—my mom's dead—admitted that they were eating frozen dinners in front of the TV when they came up with it. I'm named after a convenience food. That's not exactly a bright spot for me either.

  Martha N., 39, cabdriver, Madison, WI:

  Well, the war. The president. Lies. Liars. Secrets and lies. Most everything political. I've gone from anger to sadness about most things. Health care. Global warming. I guess that's the way you can control a population, you know? Appease their rage with products and cheap credit. Then everybody gets surrounded by stuff and crap they can't pay for and they get totally down. You want to control everything? Just make everybody really unhappy. Then put them all on the same pill.

  Cory, 19, college student, Knoxville, TN:

  Suffering, I guess. Is that what you mean? I don't know. This is sort of a dumb question.

  Holly R., 28, editor, New York, NY:

  Everything. I'm totally serious. Elevators, pigeons, that plump woman over there in stilettos? All of those things, that's a start. My boyfriend makes me unhappy most of the time. I know, I know, that sounds awful, right? Well, there you go. That's what makes me unhappy.

  [Interviewer: Do you think I could make you happy?]

  What? No. Oh, shit. You are some creep. I knew it. No.

  Sara B., 28, wedding planner, Tucson, AZ:

  My ankles. I hate my ankles and every day I have to engage with them and notice how fucking unattractive they are and if that makes me petty, fine. There's a lot to be unhappy about. A lot of things make me unhappy. But, that's what my predominant unhappiness is. Ankles.

  God. Do you do this for a living?

  Kyle, 27, waiter, Houston, TX:

  Um, geez. Jay Leno, I guess. Can't stand him and if I watch it, if I get sucked into his monologue, I can't sleep the whole night. I just lie there in bed perplexed by his fame and appeal.

  Wayne, 34, real estate agent, Dodgeville, WI:

  Not much. I'm a pretty happy guy.

  [Interviewer: You never get unhappy?]

  No. No, I just don't. Happiness is a choice. You know? Well, good luck with your project. And make it a great day!

  Larson, 32, Presbyterian minister, Ames, IA:

  Faith. I know that is supposed to make you happy, right? Right? Anyway, lately, I feel like nobody is living according to Jesus's standards. I mean, how greedy can we get as a nation? How violent, how shallow, how full of selfishness? And then here I am, believing in this guy, this god, who was on earth two thousand years ago and said, "Give away your money, turn the other cheek, judge not." Who else is listening to him, I mean, really listening to him? Am I some freak because I listen to him? I actually talk to him every morning and think he is listening. Yeah, no, seriously—having faith in God can be miserable.

  Leah, 27, yoga and Pilates instructor, Austin, TX:

  Oh, God, I don't know, I don't think about it so much anymore. I mean, well, a lot of things. But I'm a pretty positive person, really. Why don't you ask people what makes them happy?

  [Interviewer: That's not the aim of my project.]

  What is the aim of your project?

  [Interviewer: To uncover why so many people in our prosperous, abundant nation are unhappy.]

  Oh, that's easy. Clutter. We have too much stuff. We have too much body fat on our bodies and that messes with your energy and we have too much crap in our homes and that messes with your energy. We need to have a massive garage sale, send all our stuff to poor people in other countries. And then we need to go on a thirty-day juice fast, collectively, the whole nation. I'm serious. It'd be that easy. A mandatory cleanse. Then, worldwide peace and prosperity.

  I now have over five hundred of these short interviews, compiled on my travels across the country and funded by the Great Midwestern Humanities Initiative. I do a number of these interviews in airports, where, I find, many people are feeling ill at ease and killing time and thus, some time with a man and his tape recorder is time well spent, a perfect distraction. I confess that, on occasion, I do tell my subjects that I work for National Public Radio, as a reporter for All Things Considered. It lends legitimacy to my claim, and, well, I like to think that my project adheres to the same professional standards as their programs. And, in theory, I could submit some of these to All Things Considered someday and they might do a story on my project. (In fact, often, while driving, I do pretend to be a guest on Terry Gross's Fresh Air, giving an interview that is warm, engaging, and witty, or on Rachel Maddow's show on Air America, where I make her laugh and laugh and later, off-mic, I say, "Oh, Rachel, you crack me up and I crack you up! Are you sure you prefer women?")

  I have other interviews done by phone, some by e-mail. But the ones I have done in person are my favorites to review; often I can see myself just as I was on the day I asked the questions—what sport coat or cotton half-zip pullover I might have been wearing, what shoes—my chukkas or my slip-on loafers or my L. L. Bean walking shoes. At night, when I look through the interviews, at random, I am hoping to see that some sort of pattern is emerging. Can I illuminate our darkness? Can I find out why, over and over again, we Americans, without even being pressed, admit to a paralyzing unhappiness? I have to admit that, unless some sort of insight is gained from my inventory project, it does little for the common good. I learned that from reading the works of Studs Terkel—as individual pieces, his interviews are compelling for their voyeurism, but collectively, they are the greatest chronicles of the twentieth century ever compiled by one man. The truth is I am not unhappy. I am not unhappy at all!

  6. Zeke Pappas journeys, long-day-style, into night.

  THE NEXT MORNING I open the door to our office, which was an old grocery store in the days when this neighborhood was still an Italian enclave known as the Greenbush. The dark brick and large shop-style windows make it a pleasant building to work in, and I have seen pictures of what it once looked like, its windows full of bounty—meat, cheese, onions, peppers, and bread.

  In the common area of the office Lara is making herself a cup of tea.

  "Good morning, Lara," I say.

  "Hey," she says. "I'm ready to take that letter."

  "We'll get to that."

  "I actually need to get it out of the way first thing if you want it done today, Zeke. I have an appointment."

  "Do you?"

  "Or, you could probably type it yourself, Zeke. Couldn't you?"

  "I'd rather not."

  "Seriously, Zeke? Come on! You know you type just as fast as me."

  "I think better orally," I say. "I'm sorry."

  I sit in the reception area of the GMHI, my feet up on the coffee table. Lara sits at her desk. From my slouched position on the sofa I have a good view of her legs. She is dressed a bit more formally than normal, a smart black suit I have never seen before with a crisp white blouse unbuttoned just enough to be both sexy and professional. The skirt is flattering to the extreme. What I wouldn't do to those legs on our wedding night! I would ravage them! I would leave no cell neglected, not one!

  At this point, however, I can't say that she is behaving like a good prospect at all. She is distant and impatient.

  "I'm ready," she says. "Let's go."

  "Right, right," I say.
"Sorry."

  "Another reverie?"

  "Of sorts."

  "Shall I start?" she says. "The usual way? 'Dear Friend of the Humanities'?"

  "Yes. Yes," I say. "Okay, Dear Friend of the Humanities: This year, the Great Midwestern Humanities Initiative (GMHI) has embarked on an exciting new focus. You already know that, since our inception in 1999, we have funded a number of innovative public humanities projects that bring some of our region's brightest scholars into a diverse group of rural, suburban, and urban communities. From a project in which high school filmmakers chronicled the contents of their families' basements as an exercise in historical analysis to a program that brought together dozens of senior citizens to discuss the social and economic prophecies contained in the novels of native son F. Scott Fitzgerald, GMHI projects focus on the telling details of our world, in an attempt to distill the true core of our communities and culture, particularly our shared Midwestern heritage."

  "Amazing. Off the top of your head! Shall I read it back to you so far?" Lara asks.

  "No, no, I'm on a roll."

  "You certainly are," she says, "A roll of BS."

  I shoot her a look that is, I hope, simultaneously admonishing and flirtatious.

  "Now, our organization," I begin, "is working on a major, multiyear project that will examine the peculiar and troublingly prevalent phenomenon of American unhappiness. Through a number of oral history initiatives, new media projects, public symposiums, and original scholarly research, we hope to find answers to one of the most crushing spiritual questions of our time: Why are we so unhappy?"

  "Zeke this isn't very uplifting."

  "It's moving," I say. "That's what raises money. You have to move the donors."

  "You're the boss," she says.

  "Here, how's this: In 1999, our national leaders understood the compelling reasons for public funding of ambitious and original humanities projects. Today, we are in a new and daunting era. Federal and state support for important programs like the GMHI is waning, if not extinct. That's why we rely, now more than ever, on visionary and generous donors like you. Please consider joining our efforts with some significant financial support. The future of humanity, or at least the humanities, depends on our culture's ability to reflect upon and connect with the overwhelming and unprecedented changes that the twenty-first century has brought and will continue to bring."

  "Jesus," Lara says.

  "What?"

  "A little thick, don't you think? The future of humanity?"

  "Sign it like this: With great vision and in solidarity, Zeke Pappas."

  "Geez."

  "Geez," I say. "Done. Send it."

  "Do you want me to read it back to you?"

  "No," I say.

  "Do you want to read a printout before I send it? It's a little long."

  "Use eleven-point font. Garamond. Check for typos."

  "You don't want to reread it?"

  "No, no. It would sully the message. I spoke from the heart. With great passion and belief. This is how you engage donors."

  "Zeke," Lara says.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," she says.

  "Very well," I say. "Many thanks."

  "Zeke," she says.

  "What is it?"

  "We had another midyear narrative due to the Department of the Interior's Office of Cultural Affairs on June 1, okay? Don't forget. We're late. They keep calling."

  "Yes, yes, of course. I'll get right on that. Soon."

  "They have a new solicitor general. He's not at all pleasant," she says. "I hate it when he calls."

  "Consider it done, Lara," I say, and then add, swiftly, "My dear."

  A moment later, she is back in the doorway to my office. A fine image.

  "Zeke, I have a job interview today. At ten o'clock. And I am hoping you will be a good reference."

  "You're kidding me."

  "No. No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look at the books, Zeke. How much longer do you think you can go on paying me?"

  "That is my concern," I say. "You will do nothing so foolish as to go to that interview."

  "Zeke, I don't know if I trust you anymore," she says. "How can I?"

  "Please shut the door," I say.

  I do like having the door shut and, frankly, am glad for a moment when Lara isn't hounding me to write the narrative for this report or comply with this information request. I am always happy to have some time to work on my project by myself, without the distraction of other energies in the office. My office is in the back of the building, in the rear corner, with two bright windows and many books. There are three plants on top of my lone file cabinet, which is largely empty (I love how little need we have for paper files anymore!). Lara purchased the plants and cares for and waters them. It is a fine highlight of my day when she walks in with her watering can, smiles, walks to the corner near a window, stretches slightly, her backside to me, her calves flexing, and she waters the plants. Even describing it to you now, I tremble slightly. I have air in my palms. Some days, I'm sure she knows what the sight of her stirs in me. Some nights, I imagine coming up behind her as she waters.

  But enough about Lara!

  I begin by sifting through my inbox, signing several forms from the federal government which I do not read and then perusing two overdue reports from past grantees—Kirkegaard's Labels: Multicultural Identity Politics and the End of Community and Flaubert's Madame Bovary and the Plight of American Sex Workers: A Consideration. Once my inbox is cleared, I pick one of the many Penguin Classics off my shelf at random, as is my daily ritual, open the book to a random page, and begin reading. Today the volume chosen is Lermontov's A Hero of Our Time, one of the first great misanthropic novels; I confess this morning has found me feeling like quite the misanthrope myself.

  After reading three pages, I check my voice mail. The only message is from Josh Farnsworth: "Hello, Mr. Pappas. We really need you to return this phone call from the Department of Departmental Compliance and Oversight. Please call my cell phone..."

  I delete the message.

  I check my e-mail. Nothing. I double-check my spam folder just to be sure no messages were accidentally filtered from my inbox. Nothing.

  I dislike an empty inbox. I actually like a long queue of e-mails to return. It feels as if you're on a ship headed to port with a gaggle of admirers awaiting your arrival.

  The empty office, coupled with the warm sunlight coming through the windows, creates a pensive, reflective milieu in which to do some contemplative writing. I open the file on my computer called "The Inventory Essay 16.doc." I stare at the open file for a long time, change the font of the title to Copperplate, and add my name to the title page. After a few minutes of staring at the text, I add an epigraph, which tends to change weekly. Today, I add a quote from Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, the final lines: "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."

  Then I hit Save and close my file.

  Not in the right frame of mind for creative or intellectual work, I look over the budget reports that Lara prepared for me weeks ago. There is no good news in them, not in a plus-and-minus sort of way. We are certainly on our way to being out of money, but then again it seems as if we are no different from the entire nation in this way.

  On my desk there is a copy of a report I filed last month with the Department of the Interior, the federal agency where the GMHI funding earmark came from so many years ago, as did a smaller, second earmark four years ago. On it, in red ink, is a message from Lara: You received a call, three calls actually, from a Josh Farnsworth regarding this report. Please call him. There is a phone number next to that note, on a separate Post-it, beginning with the area code 202.

  I open the manila folder, labeled "Interim Report, Spring 2008." In it I see my handwriting on a federal form, though I barely remember writing out the report. The question: What sort of progress has your organization made in terms of solving the initial problem you aimed to address with your federal fun
ding? What major steps still need to be undertaken in order to achieve the quantifiable outcomes your project outlined in its initial planning phase?

  My answer: We have made significant progress toward the elimination of ignorance, malice, and greed that plagues American culture. If one measures progress, for instance, in the same way that our current administration measures progress in, say, Iraq, then we are a deliriously successful operation at the GMHI. We simply could use a surge.

  I continued: We are now embarking on a revolutionary study of American unhappiness, one that will illuminate the darkest corners of our collective psyche. In order to understand the crisis of American intellect and spirit that we are experiencing as a nation, particularly here in the American Midwest, we must first understand the peculiar nature and complexity of our own discontent. Thus, we have begun to collect a series of interviews with average Americans, which will, I have no doubt, be successful in identifying, if not solving, the sadnesses we share.

  I'm not all that aware of having written such things, but in the world of cultural nonprofits, one gets used to shoveling a certain amount of shit, usually in the form of grant applications that save one's bacon, and so I have a faint recollection of writing out my answers, with great haste, one afternoon while chatting on the phone. I think they are honest and accurate answers. I look at Josh Farnsworth's name and phone number again, scrawled in what seems to be angry handwriting from my dear Lara, and decide, well, if it's urgent, Farnsworth, you can just call me back. Nothing depresses me more than jousting with bureaucrats.