“I’m sick.”
Is what she wanted to say.
“I cry a lot. I don’t like anything, and I don’t know what could make me happy right now.” And she wanted to add: “I have these really bad thoughts, and I only know one way to stop them.” She wanted the doctor to understand when she would say: “I don’t like leaving my house for days at a time because it’s just too scary.”
This doctor had prescribed valium and suggested a muscle relaxer to help her get through work. She wanted to say more, but all she could express was: “I am having really bad cramps. I can’t sleep and work is unbearable.” She couldn’t find the strength to explain it in a way that wouldn’t fill her with more shame.
This happened on a Thursday. With pills in her purse and foul-smelling clothes in the trunk of her car, she drove to the laundromat nearest to her home. She watched the machine spin continuously. Numbed by her self-loathing thoughts, she focused on all the little movements around her. Children running. Parents screaming for them to stop. And the machines turning and buzzing. Spinning clumps of clothes making crisp clamping sounds as they landed on the round bottom of the machine over and over again. She knew this was, for a lack of better words, a dead end. The feeling was unbearable, yet she sat in it. It forced her to do nothing. So nothing happened. All she knew was how she couldn’t wait to go home, pop a pill, and go to sleep.
***
Happy was the name her birth mother gave her.
The ceiling is peeling.
She lay still in her bed. Days seemed to pass without notice. To her left, on the lonely side where no one slept, were clothes tossed carelessly on her bed, treated with little concern since her trip to the laundromat. It was a new summer day and only days away from her vacation. This was exciting to most teachers ready to spend endless weeks not working or taking care of other people’s kids. Though for her, the pain in her body left no room for any anticipation of that. She had been stuck in this feeling of nothingness for several days and had no idea when it would end. She, at the moment, was not in control of any of it.
So she lay there with the paint curls on her ceiling, trying to think of a reason why she should get up. The pill bottle was now empty. What was she going to do when she returned home?
An endless buzzing encouraged her to reach over to silence the annoying sound coming from her nightstand. She saw Ms. Barnett’s name and decided to answer. “Hi Ms. Barnett,” she managed get the words out of her mouth.
“Are you dressed? I told you I was gonna wake your ass up so you can get to work on time today.” Her coworker’s voice was loud.
She moved the phone away from her face to rescue herself from the aggressive voice.
“Well, I’m up now,” she muttered.
“Good, but you still gonna be late if you’re only now getting up. How are you getting to work? Your car still in the shop?”
“Yeah,” Happy lied. The car was dead and still sitting in front of her apartment building. “Can you pick me up?” She was now scavenging through the neglected laundry on her messy bed to find a shirt and underwear.
“No honey. I’m dropping my son off to school and I’m heading to the building. I can’t be late. Take a cab like usual. Get there before the bell rings.” Ms. Barnett hung up.
“Hello?”
The phone was quiet. Happy got up, took a bird bath in the sink, put her hair in a bun, and called a cab. As she reached her apartment door, she heard a bark. Junior, her small brown Yorkie, barked to remind her to feed him. Happy grunted, dropped her bag, and ran to the kitchen to scoop what was left of his dog food from the bag. She let it fall into the bowl. Junior ran for it and started munching.
“I hope that’s enough until I get home from work, cause that’s all you got dog.”
She picked up her bag and left her apartment.
Stuck with her broken down vehicle, she relied on her local car service to get her to work. Her truth was her car was not her disability. She was often late for anything she was set to attend. Her failure to get to anything on time was part of her. She owned it. She surrendered trying to be on time for anything.
Her cab company was Lucky Car Service. Uninstalling her Uber App was a no brainer. The drivers seemed to never know where they were going, and she wasn’t comfortable with a car service having access to her bank account. With Lucky Car Service there was no small talk, you got to your destination on time, you paid, and got out.
When she got downstairs, she thought she’d try her luck again with her immobilized car. She knew it wouldn’t run, but failure was a constant in her life. She crossed her fingers and visualized the sound of the engine running once she turned the key. Nothing. It was dead, gone wrong, broken, or imploded. Life not working in her favor.
She got out. Slammed the door like it had broken her heart and grunted like she expected a different outcome. Her car was always an issue, and she was late—again. Not the car’s fault. It was her inability to respond to an alarm. That endless buzzing sound only frustrated her instead of inspiring movement.
An almost daily call, she dialed the school secretary to let her know she would be late. All she heard was the sound of Ms. Maloney sucking her teeth, then silence. The consequence of her chronic late calls.
A grey Chevrolet had arrived in front of the building. Happy got in and let out a deep breath. She then looked to see if she received a morning text. Nothing. Then it was on to Facebook.
Carla seems so happy with her husband, kids, and their mini mansion in Virginia. I should have that life.
The images of someone else’s happiness triggered her.
Fuck Carla!
She continued to scroll the screen. Investigating through her search options, she typed the letter L. His name popped up. Her phone was keen to her daily stalking ritual and knew L was for Lucian and no one else.
“You’re late again Miss?” The driver interrupted her. Happy looked up in frustration.
Why is he talking to me? Doesn’t he see me social media-stalking my boyfriend?
Lucian had nothing on his page. He rarely posted, and when he did, it was a funny meme stolen from someone else. She decided to search for the letter G.
“Miss?” the driver spoke again. “Did you hear me?”
“How do you know I’m late?” she asked. Looking up from her phone again, she squinted her eyes trying to see the face in the rearview mirror.
“You were late three days last week. I took you to the same building. You looked very…” he hesitated while trying to meet her eyes through the mirror. “…frustrated,” he smiled lightly.
Happy didn’t recognize her driver. She began to feel an uneasiness and thought about looking through her crowded bag for her mace. “I’m not very late,” she insisted.
Gail’s name popped up on her screen. Her latest post was yesterday morning. A picture of two plates of bacon, eggs, and strawberries modeling on what looked like her best china.
“Two plates.” She frowned, then closed the screen.
“I don’t know Miss. I had a passenger who subbed at that school. I used to drop him off at 7:30 a.m. every morning for a few months. I think you’re late.” He smiled and chuckled.
Happy twisted her lip, wanting him to shut up. “What’s your name so I can make sure the dispatcher doesn’t send you my way again.”
He laughed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you upset. I notice things like that—that’s all.”
“I guess you’re paid to be vigilant.” She contemplated opening her phone again. She paused, then decided to put it into the side pocket of her purse and dug deeper for her mace.
“This is very true,” the driver continued. “I have to notice my passengers and the streets. It’s crazy out here.”
Happy didn’t respond. She figured if she gave no reply, he would get the hint and stop talking.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
He was relentless. She rolled her eyes and flung her head back, not caring if he could see her. “My name is Happy.” She dug in to retrieve her phone again for a distraction.
“Happy? Like the feeling? Your mother named you Happy? That’s your real name?” His eyebrows went up.
“That’s my name.” She was now Google searching Lucian Jones on her phone. The driver laughed and shook his head.
Happy looked out of her window to predict when this exasperating ride would end. A sudden jolt alerted her. With force, her head lunged forward, almost hitting the passenger seat before her.
“Fucking asshole!” The driver yelled out of his window. “Sorry, Happy. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She put her head back up against the leather seat.
“I swear, some people can’t drive.” He sighed in frustration, shaking his head back and forth.
Happy gathered herself in her seat and stayed quiet, trying to avoid more small talk from her driver. When the car arrived at a stop light, he turned his upper body to look at her over the lowered partition.
“I don’t know what your situation is, but I can bring you to work every day on time. You can pay me weekly.”
Instead of processing what she was being asked, she took him in visually. His face was chubby. His eyes glassy brown. His coffee toned hair curled tight, parted, and gelled. She assumed he was of Dominican descent despite not having an accent. And not only because he drove a cab, but because of his tan skin and thick hair texture. He reminded her of a Latin baseball player. She hated baseball, but Lucian insisted they watch. While watching, he would insult the players, always yelling profanities at the screen. “I’m having some car trouble. Sometimes it works and sometimes I have to call a cab last minute. When I get it fixed, I’ll be fine.” She gave him a forced grin.
“When will that be?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about it.” She reached her arm over toward the driver and passed him an overused ten-dollar bill.
“Okay.” He gave in. “In the meantime, I can give you my number and you can call me until you get it fixed.”
“Thanks.”
Happy looked up and saw the school. With swiftness, she grabbed her bag and glanced around to make sure she didn’t drop anything.
“Wait, don’t forget the number.” He reached over the partition to give her the generic card with his cell number scribbled on it.
She grabbed the card and left the grey car.
How stalker-ish.
She escaped the car and ran into the building, like she was looking forward to the day.
Happy whizzed by familiar faces, waving and saying her good mornings. Hurrying into the main office out of breath, she searched feverishly for her timecard. She couldn’t find it, so she gazed through every row, assuming someone had moved it.
“Don’t bother. Principal Harris has your card.”
Happy turned around and saw Ms. Maloney standing behind her, her hands in the pockets of her overworn blue slacks, an evil smirk on her face. The villain in her bad movie. Happy had no idea why this woman hated her so much. At this point, she hated Ms. Maloney, too. She often fantasized about dragging Ms. Maloney by her hair through the halls of the building. But she needed her job to pay her bills. Unemployment and criminal charges were not an option. Not to mention, prison jumpsuits and lesbian sex were off the table.
Instead of killing Ms. Maloney, she ignored her. Only mumbling her retaliation, “Stupid bitch,” and made her way to Mr. Harris’ office. She was ready to give Mr. Harris reasons why he should leave her alone. Life for her was tough enough, especially with her car not working. Happy didn’t need him adding to her struggles with life.
She knocked and was summoned to enter. The smell of halitosis and coffee invaded her senses. She regarded him with respect, but the smell that flowed when he spoke annoyed her intensely. She hated bad smells, especially when they came from another human being. The rotten stench seemed to be part of his genetic makeup. No matter the time of day, Mr. Harris had bad breath, and he seemed clueless about it.
“Have a seat Ms. Williams.”
She sat down in one of the two cushioned pleather office chairs designated for guests. Her legs crossed. Her hands balled into fists nestled in the front pockets of her Polo hooded sweater.
Principal Harris didn’t look up to see Happy’s face. If he did, he would have felt her resentment. And he would have known today was not the day for this shit.
His eyes stayed on the opened laptop on his grand mahogany desk. His office was neat. Folders stacked with intention and next to it, a mug that read Best Dad 2001. A gold trimmed tray with staples and stapler sat next to his gold-plated credentials positioned on the opposite end of his workspace.
He’s OCD with bad breath.
She refrained from frowning with disgust.
“Noticed your card was missing?” he asked her, still looking at his screen.
“Yes, I called to let Ms. Maloney know that my car broke down,” she said.
“I know. That’s unfortunate. Did you get it to a mechanic?” He showed no concern while moving his fingers across the keyboard.
“No, I left it in front of my house and caught a cab. I tried to get here as fast as I could. It’s not like I wanted to be late.”
Principal Harris nodded his head, pulled the screen down to his keyboard, and finally looked Happy in her face.
“Summer vacation is coming. Are you excited?” he asked her with a smile.
Happy wasn’t expecting the question. She had prepared for an administrator versus tenured teacher confrontation. She planned to match that with the classic shut down comment of “I’m calling my union rep!” Instead, he was sharing small talk and being aloof.
“Yeah, I guess. Mr. Harris, can I have my card so I can get to my students?”
“Oh, now you want to get to your students?” His slight sneer released the sarcasm he was holding on to since she walked into his office.
“Listen Mr. Harris, if you have a problem with me, please do what you need to do. But in the meantime, keep it professional and don’t waste my time.” Happy poked out her chest ready to rumble with her non-union boss. Switching to angry and hostile wouldn’t be that different of a feeling for her. She woke up in a bad mood already.
Mr. Harris stood up from behind his desk and walked around to sit down next to her on the opposite chair. She experienced an uneasy sensation as she realized the bad smell was coming closer. She thought about holding her breath.
“I’m not being unprofessional, Ms. Williams, I am trying to see where you are here. You don’t seem happy. You’re late almost daily and your professional practice is… mediocre.”
“Mediocre?” She backed her head away from him as he continued his speech. She thought about correcting him. He wasn’t wrong. She did not provide adequate homework. Pop quizzes were few. She avoided putting in the same effort at her job as some of the other teachers. Staying late checking papers and preparing for the next day was not her thing. Going straight home was.
“It is obvious you’re not satisfied with your career here. You won’t even apply for advancement. You have two masters and you have been in the same classroom since 2011. Help me help you Ms. Williams.”
His sincere plea was met with silence. She wanted to leave the foul-smelling space and get on with her day. Her stomach grew fear bubbles that tempted her to run out of his office and out of the building. She couldn’t possibly explain herself without lying. But worst of all, his breath was excruciating. Encounters with his stink were one of the many reasons why she hated her job. It became clear that giving him something with nothing in it, would get her an invitation out of the hot box.
“I’m fine. I’m a little bored with the curriculum. And as for my lateness, it’s my car. I have to find a better way to get to work.” She forced another grin and included a shoulder shrug, hoping he would drop it.
Mr. Harris’ attempt to reach her had hit a brick wall in the middle of nowhere. His chest relaxed in defeat. His clever plan to motivate a burnt-out high school teacher failed. “I hope you have a wonderful summer.” He got up from the chair. “I hope your car gets fixed or you get a new car. But we can’t tolerate daily lateness. Think about a transfer. Some new scenery. An administrative position at a district office perhaps?”
He handed her the missing timecard and turned to sit down behind his desk. Her freedom from his halitosis was all she wanted as she ignored his last words and walked out of his office.
She clocked in and looked at the time on her phone. “Great. I have twelve minutes left of my prep period.”
As she approached her classroom, she rolled her eyes and unlocked her door. She placed her bag on her desk and noticed the new notification on her phone.
A text from Lucian.
Hey Babe. Call me back.
“Fuck him!” She declared out loud, shoving the phone back down into the bottom of her purse.