Happy Is A Small Man In Glasses
I saw the happiest man alive standing in line at Starbucks. The three of us looked on, postulating as if psychoanalysis were something one can learn from a Web page. He was short, hair receding, clothes slightly unkempt and wore unfashionable glasses—he ordered two drinks. As he handed money to the cashier I saw a wedding band. I wondered at who his wife was, and how they met, and whether or not they had children or planned to.Mom speculated that it could be a nervous thing, if perhaps he was a genius of some kind. Every genius is eccentric in one way or another, we thought. Some grow their finger nails long, or collect Hitler’s furniture. Maybe some can’t help but act happy all of the time and that’s the vice of their brilliance. I scoured his face and actions for any sense of falsehood, or insanity.
He was what some would call overly polite, or unnecessarily grateful, but the employees didn’t roll their eyes or giggle when they turned away. They seemed to be genuinely smiling. It was infectious. There was nothing pretentious about him. One could surmise that his life was ordinary, and the plainness of that fact wouldn’t bother him even slightly. Never have I experienced the joy of a stranger in such a profound way. He completely disarmed my cynicism. And to my discredit, that doesn't happen very often. Though I pray it will.
