The Lightness of Heavy Objects

“If it weren’t for cilantro, I’d be completely happy,” Lenny said.

The other members of the HOOD (Helping Others Overcome Depression) therapy group stared at Lenny. Some had looks of amazement on their faces, some nodded knowingly. Dr. Angstrom cleared his throat and popped an Altoids into his mouth.

“That’s some bullshit, Lenny. Nothin’ wrong with cilantro,” Rudy stated.

“Shut up, Rudy.” Belinda glared at Rudy after she spoke. She didn’t like Rudy; he was a pudgy, sweaty splodge of a man who always arrived at the HOOD meetings with alcohol on his breath and a creepy glint in his eye. She shifted uncomfortably when he turned his gaze on her.

“You shut up, Bel.”

“Don’t call me Bel. We ain’t friends.”

“So,” Dr. Angstrom spoke, “what is it about cilantro that bothers you, Lenny?”

Lenny stood up and paced around the front of the room. Dr. Angstrom kept turning his head to the left and to the right to keep up with Lenny’s movements. He finally gave up and stared straight ahead.

“It tastes like soap. And everyone uses it. I can’t get away from it. Hell, they even put it on onion rings!”

“You’re such a drama queen, Len. Just let it go,” Horace said. He chewed on an unlit cigar and leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head.

“Let the man talk,” Belinda said.

“He did. It’s weak sauce. Some of us have real problems, you know. Screw him and his cilantro problem,” Horace said.

“Hear hear! Lenny, sit down and shut up. Let the real men talk,” Rudy said. He shifted in his seat, revealing a gut lovingly constructed by fried foods and beer.

“Don’t you think you might be overreacting, Lenny? Your affliction stems from a chemical imbalance, just like everyone else here. We are all here to find ways to cope with our disability and to offer each other…”

“Yeah. Ok, doc. But I know that my so-called chemical imbalance is caused by cilantro. I’d be so damn happy if cilantro disappeared from the face of the earth. Chemical imbalance? Balanced!”

“It doesn’t work that way…”

“Even my wife likes the stuff!”

“Why don’t you get rid of your wife?” Horace said, chuckling.

“Because that would be trading one problem for another. Don’t be a smartass, Horace. I got my issues, you got yours.”

“I have many issues, Len. Better issues than you.”

“This isn’t a competition…”

“Can I say something?” Belinda turned to Lenny. “I get you. I’d be perfectly happy if handblown glass vases disappeared from my life.”

Rudy and Horace laughed out loud and pointed fingers at Belinda. She offered them each a finger of her own. The laughter soon died out.

“Handblown…vases?” Dr. Angstrom cleaned his glasses with a handkerchief.

“Nice hanky, doc. I think the eighteenth century is lookin’ for that,” Horace said.

“Yeah, nice hanky,” Rudy echoed Horace’s statement. He wasn’t bright enough to come up with anything else.

“I don’t know what it is, doc. Handblown glass vases just give me the creeps. I feel like my skin is crawling and someone’s squeezing my chest. Then I get depressed because it’s so ridiculous. I stay depressed for a week.”

“You and Lenny are crazy. Plumb crazy. Who the hell ever heard of such nonsense? Cilantro and handblown vases? How about me? I have real problems. I’ll never be happy. The sun depresses me, the night depresses me, people depress me, animals depress me, television depresses me, diet soda depresses me, poultry meat depresses me, sidewalk cracks depress me, glass doors depress me, modern art…”

“Ok, Horace. You win! Take a pill and let someone else talk, for God’s sake. You and your damn issues would depress Jesus,” Belinda said. She stood up and stalked outside to smoke a cigarette. Rudy followed her until she snapped at him to stay behind.

“Oh yeah? Go blow a vase!” Horace yelled at the back of the retreating Belinda.

“Let’s all take a break, shall we? And I might remind you of proper etiquette during group. We respect each other’s faults and viewpoints. I feel like we’re letting our emotions get the better…”

“Ok, doc. My bad. Rudy, too. We’ll do better,” Horace said without any conviction at all. Rudy nodded without conviction, if that was possible. Dr. Angstrom was either polite enough to not say anything or he was obtuse enough to not notice.

Horace drank two cups of coffee during the five-minute break. He also ate three donuts and cleaned his fingers on Rudy’s tee shirt. Belinda came back in and grabbed a bottled water before sitting down. Another Altoids found its way into Dr. Angstrom’s mouth as he approached his chair, indicating that they should resume. Rudy sat heavily in his chair, causing Belinda to wince. Horace, though, remained standing. The rest of the group looked at him. He pointed to the back of the room.

“Hey, who’s that?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Angstrom could hardly be blamed for not noticing the stranger lurking in the shadows at the back of the room. His eyesight was poor and he only cared about getting through group sessions with the minimum of vitriol from the members.

Of the six members in the group, only four attended tonight’s session, and they spoke up vociferously. The other two, when they showed up, were quiet and unobtrusive. Dr. Angstrom liked them the best.

Although the good doctor didn’t care for these group sessions, he found value in them. The state paid him well for it, and he was afforded a couple of evenings away from home. Faye Angstrom was a wonderful woman, he would be the first to tell anyone, but she insisted on watching “Andy Griffith” reruns every night. His marriage was almost perfect, but Andy and his merry band of misfits kept perfection at bay. His colleagues could care less, but not by much.

“…I have nothing against the show, per se, but I do tire of his homespun wisdom. The man simply drips with cornball…”

And on it went. It was normally at about this point in the conversation that his colleagues would make hasty exits with contrived excuses. Dr. Angstrom, not one to let this topic die a dignified death, continued to mutter to himself until he was satisfied.

So, it was with some irritation and a slight amount of curiosity that Dr. Angstrom addressed the stranger. He hoped that the man wouldn’t be a problem.

“This is a closed group, sir. What is your name and your business here?” Dr. Angstrom said. He sounded whiny.

The man in the shadows came forward and stood at the edge of the semi-circle of chairs. He was smiling, but he looked wan. Haggard even, thought Dr. Angstrom.

“My name is Garrison Lombardy, and I will die from my curse tonight.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The theory of Black Swan events explains the psychological biases that blind people, both individually and collectively, to uncertainty and the substantial role of rare events in historical affairs. Simply put: just because you haven’t seen it or experienced it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

Recent examples of Black Swan events are the financial crisis of 2008, and a politician in Wales who actually said something insightful.

And then there is the Garrison Lombardy event. He uncorked a genie (or jinn) and received three wishes. He only got one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It was the wording, you see. I said that ‘I just want to be happy.’ Well, that one word did me in. ‘Just.’ He said that the other two wishes were null and void after I used that word. I mean, you can’t argue with a genie and hope to win. He holds all the cards.”

The members of the group stared at Garrison as if he had a cucumber growing out of his forehead. Dr. Angstrom cleared his throat and popped another Altoids.

“I see. The problem is, Garrison, that your, uh…experience with this genie fellow doesn’t quite…quite…”

“It’s absurd!”

“Ridiculous!”

“C’mon, man. A genie?”

“Really? That’s the best you can do?”

“…well, quite ring true. Genies are mythological…”

“Black Swan event,” Garrison said, still smiling.

The members murmured, confused and looking at Garrison suspiciously.

“Why don’t you just swan on outta here buddy. We have things to talk about,” Horace said.

“Hey, leave the man alone. Can’t you see he’s in bad shape? C’mon, sweetie. Sit down,” Belinda guided Garrison to a chair. He slumped down tiredly, his head resting against the back of the chair. Everyone crowded around him.

“Yeah, he looks exhausted.”

“Poor man.”

“He’s not one of us. He needs to leave.”

“Yeah, he needs to leave.”

Dr. Angstrom got closer and peered into Garrison’s face. Garrison’s eyes suddenly popped open, causing the doctor to back away precipitously and stumble.

“So. Buddy. What’s your curse?” Horace stood before Garrison, arms akimbo and a look of skepticism on his face.

“I’m cursed to be continuously happy.”

“Uh huh. Sure thing. I think you’re here to make fun of us depressives,” Horace said.

“Now Horace, the gentleman here doesn’t seem to be in any shape to…”

“C’mon, doc. People don’t understand us. They say what we have isn’t a real disability. You know how it is. Kick a depressive while he’s down,” Horace countered.

Garrison sat up and sighed resignedly.

“Let me tell you why you’re the luckiest people alive,” he said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The first few days were great,” Garrison said. “It was a euphoria that I had never experienced before. Nothing bothered me. In fact, everything made me deliriously happy. My father complaining about my lack of work ethic made me happy. My girlfriend demanding that we get married made me happy. My sister’s cat scratched my arm and drew blood; that made me happy.”

The members of the group sat around Garrison, scooting their chairs closer and closer. His eyes were kind and his manner gentle. His thin frame and lethargic movements spoke of a life of recent attrition. He used to be handsome, Belinda thought.

“But that happiness soon became…taxing. And it became a problem for those around me. My family, my girlfriend, my friends, they all started to shy away from me. Said I didn’t act like myself any longer. They were right, of course. I was always smiling. Always happy.”

“But still,” Belinda said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Garrison leaned forward and gave each member a look. It was a beautiful, smiling look, but it disconcerted them.

“So, not only had I become alienated over the next few months, I was also tired. Very tired. I couldn’t sleep, but I was happy nonetheless. I had no impetus to do anything because…well…my happiness brought about a certain degree of lassitude. I didn’t want to do anything but just sit around and be happy. In fact, I felt like I was forced into laziness.”

“Hmm,” Rudy muttered. He couldn’t relate to this feeling. Nor the vocabulary.

“Interesting, young man. Very interesting,” Dr. Angstrom said quietly.

“Did you know,” Garrison looked at each member again, his head turning slowly to meet each individual’s eyes, “that there are twenty-eight types of happiness? Oh yes! I know them all by heart.”

“Wha?” Rudy said wonderingly.

“Truly. Take happiness #1, for example. The euphoric happiness. You are untouchable. Invincible. Nothing can penetrate the fog of well-being and goose-bump happiness. You are a god.”

“Wow!”

“Indeed,” Garrison said, sighing. “That happened to me only once, and that was at the beginning. I’ve been seeking that particular happiness ever since.”

“Chasing the dragon,” Horace said, nodding. He knew about that, as did other members of the group. Chemical solutions were always popular with depressives.

“And then there’s happiness #17. A muted happiness. Understated. Smug. You feel like you know more than the next guy. You’re superior. You give knowing smiles to no one in particular. A happiness that comes from feeling better than everyone else.”

“Damn!”

“And, of course, happiness #28. That’s where I am right now. My end is near and I feel happy about it. A relieved happiness. Resolution is coming. Happiness #7 is glee. Shining, bright glee. It never lasts long and leaves one feeling washed out, but it’s worth it. And happiness #17 is joy. Sheer joy at just…being. Inexplicable and uncontrollable. It can last a few seconds or a few days. You’ll giggle at nothing. And then…”

“Yeah, we get it. Happiness comes in different flavors. Why don’t you get married? That’ll cure you,” Horace smirked.

“Alas, no one will have me. I have tried, you know. To not be happy. I think of my death and how unhappy it will make my parents, and I am happy about it (#13). I think about the suffering of others and I’m happy (#5). I even hired someone to beat me up. The pain was terrific and I lost three teeth, but I was happy during the assault (#26) and I was happy after the assault (#11).”

Garrison’s head drooped from the effort of talking so much. Belinda brought him a glass of water and held it to his lips.

“So, this is where I can go no further. I am spent. Happiness has killed me, and I implore you to embrace your non-happiness when it comes. Without it, you will be doomed.”

“We’re depressives you know. Non-happiness is here way too much.”

“But not always, right?”

“No. Guess not,” Horace said, kneeling by Garrison. His bluster and bravado had given way to compassion. Even Rudy felt sorry for the man.

Garrison coughed and leaned back in the chair. His shallow breathing bothered Dr. Angstrom, as did his pale skin and sweaty brow.

“The secret to a good life is to never, ever be happy all the time. I…ah…I think I must die now. Don’t worry. I’m happy about…ah…”

Garrison winced, exhaled, and then sat back, trying to catch his breath. He smiled again, a smile of surpassing beauty. A genuine smile. It didn’t last long, though; he clutched his chest, groaned, smiled, and closed his eyes.

Garrison’s head slumped forward and Lenny had to catch him to keep him from falling from the chair. Dr. Angstrom moved quickly to Garrison and felt his pulse. He checked his eyes. Without saying anything, he called 911.

“The man has passed,” Dr. Angstrom said before sitting down heavily. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief. No one made fun of his handkerchief this time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ok, I think we should begin. First, though, I’d like for us to have a moment of silence for the passing of…uh…”

“Garrison Lombardy,” Lenny interjected.

“Yes, Garrison Lombardy. It’s been a couple of months since his passing. We only knew him for a short time, I know, but I’ve noticed a change in all of you. I think…”

“You’re right, doc. The man was the real thing,” Horace said.

Everyone looked at Horace, surprise written on every face.

“Well, I liked the man. He kinda changed my outlook on things, you know?” Horace sat up and looked at Dr. Angstrom. The doctor popped an Altoids before speaking again.

“So, yes. A moment of silence, I think, and then we can get on with our session.”

The scraping of chairs stopped. The only sounds heard for the next thirty-seven seconds was the ticking of the ancient analogue clock on the wall and the sounds from the street. Sunlight filtered through cheap curtains threw tessellated patterns across the far wall, the shapes a comforting blend of sharp angles and soft edges.

“Well, I loved the man. He pulled me back from the abyss,” Belinda broke the silence with soft, lilting words.

“Me too. I reckon the guy was happy to die and happy to help us out,” Rudy spoke up. He was wearing a clean shirt and had clean breath today. Another minor miracle.

“Deliverance,” Dr. Angstrom said.

“Huh?”

“He pulled us from where we were and pushed us to where we need to be. Like Moses did.”

“Moses did that?”

“Sort of,” Dr. Angstrom said. He sucked on his latest Altoids and remained silent afterwards.

“Well, I still hate cilantro, but I guess it’s better than being happy all the time,” Lenny said.

“And I can deal with the hand-blown glass vases now. Kind of. I just think of that poor man dying. The vases seem so…”

“Overblown?” Horace quipped.

“Shut up, Horace,” Belinda snapped.

“Yeah, ok. The guy made me see things a little better. I mean, you with the cilantro thing and you with the vase thing, that’s all minor league. I got real problems, but maybe they aren’t all that bad. I mean…”

“Shut up, Horace.”

“You shut up.”

“It’s weird, comin’ in here sober. Is it always this bright?”

“You shut up as well, Rudy.”

Dr. Angstrom listened to the arguments quietly, comfortably lost in a haze of curiously strong mints, and with images of Andy Griffith imparting some wisdom to the denizens of Mayberry. Yeah, Andy was ok. Even in large doses.

The meeting broke up early. Dr. Angstrom was anxious to get home to his wife. She and Andy were waiting for him.

He turned off the lights and locked the door. Nighttime was descending on the city, cooling the streets and sending the citizens off to home and hearth. A siren sounded off in the distance, heralding a vehicular mishap of not-so-epic proportions. Dr. Angstrom pulled out of the decrepit parking lot onto smooth asphalt. Bridges were crossed. Turns were made. A driveway beckoned.

Mrs. Angstrom was on the couch, watching “The Andy Griffith Show.” Opie was talking. Andy was listening.

Dr. Angstrom kissed his wife on the cheek and sat beside her. She reached out for his hand.

My type of threesome, he thought.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Happiness could wait until tomorrow.