Short Happy Stories

The first volume of Short Happy Stories is now available! The book contains 50 stories. Order here–or ask about it at your local bookstore.

When Jungles Filled His Dreams

He decided to be a monkey.

He started to skip soccer practice and go to the big park for monkey practice. The big park had one particular tree area that was perfect for his ambition.

His ambition made him feel special: many people in the world are good soccer players, but not many people in the world are good monkeys.

It wasn’t easy, this business of trying to be a monkey. Before he started—while still on the ground, imagining—the branches seemed pretty simple, pretty easy. But reality proved him wrong. The sturdy branches he relied on were made complicated by irregular littler branches and frustrating twigs: fluidity of movement was difficult to achieve. Adjustments were always necessary—and so often the necessary adjustment was made barely before too late; and too often the necessary adjustment wasn’t made at all, and blood exited his body.

But those cuts and bruises were nothing compared to the feeling that filled his body when he would find himself, due to the choices he’d made, confronted by a great gap between branches. The great gap would challenge him, taunt him. Take a risk and make the leap—or do you think you’ve reached your limit? Is safety more important to you than success?

This before-decision feeling was double fear: the fear of what would happen if he leapt and failed, and the fear of how he would feel about himself if he learned, by turning away, that while he knew exactly what he wanted to become, he was unwilling to do what was necessary.

Did he want to learn that he was, in actual fact, a coward?

Always, eventually, usually in fear but sometimes in anger or excitement, he would make the leap. Many times he fell. Sometimes he fell because he simply didn’t reach the next branch. Sometimes he fell because he reached the next branch, where an unexpected twig would hurt one of his soft hands—and he wouldn’t be able to hold on.

Once, while falling, another branch turned him around so that his head hit the ground at a strange angle. His instant thought: I’ve broken my neck.

But he hadn’t. He seemed to be fine.

While rolling his head around, to confirm that his neck was indeed OK, he wondered how close he’d been to breaking his neck and wondered if he would break his neck if he kept trying to be a monkey and wondered if he should stop trying to be a monkey. Should he abandon his ambition?

He climbed the same tree to try the same leap again. He didn’t want to live in fear. He fell again.

He wanted to be a monkey. Why? Because he wanted to be a monkey.

After monkey practice he would go home and go to his room and eat a banana and hastily do some homework. Then he would eat another banana and watch videos about monkeys. For the first few weeks of his monkey regimen he wrote notes while watching videos about monkeys—but then, one evening, he had an epiphany and exclaimed “No notes!” and threw his designated monkey notebook across the room.

Because a monkey wouldn’t write notes.

After throwing the notebook across the room he ate another banana. He really liked bananas. When he and his parents would sit at the table for dinner, usually around eight, he usually wouldn’t eat very much because of all the bananas he’d already eaten.

When the soccer season ended he pretended to be on the basketball team and kept going to the big park for monkey practice. During the soccer season he’d made tremendous monkey progress: a rather remarkable degree of tree comfort had been achieved. He could climb so fast. He could swing so easily. He could make great leaps without hesitation. He could fall without being too bothered by pain. His limbs had gotten stronger. His hands and feet had gotten rougher (no shoes during practice). His posture had changed. His gait had changed. He felt half monkey. Jungles filled his dreams.

At some point during each monkey practice he would stop climbing and swinging and leaping and falling, and rest on a branch for a while. In these moments he would look at the leaves that were suspended around him. Not long after the beginning of the basketball season, when the sky was getting too dark too soon, he asked himself if he felt satisfied being in a tree, looking at leaves. His answer to himself: “Kind of.”

One morning someone from school stepped onto the city bus. He knew her name but didn’t know if she knew his name—and he was surprised when she sat next to him. “We just moved to this neighborhood,” she said.

The jungle sounds coming through his headphones made it difficult to hear her words. He took off his headphones.

“Headphones can be tricky,” she said. “I like listening to music, obviously, but I don’t use headphones when I’m out and about because they can make you miss a lot. For example, last week on the 43, which I took to school until today, the two people right behind me were planning a murder. They’re going to make it look like an accident, I know all the details, and I think it’ll work, I really do. They sounded smart and I couldn’t see any holes in their plan. They mentioned Wednesday morning a few times, so I’m essentially certain they’re going to do it tomorrow. So tomorrow afternoon I’m going to try to find a report about this quote-unquote ‘accident,’ and if I find proof that it did indeed happen, I’m going to contact one of the plotters—well, by then she’ll be a murderess, I guess—and I’m going to blackmail her for nine thousand dollars. Maybe you’re wondering how I’ll be able to do that. I’ll be able to do that because I know her name. She got a call while they were talking and the voice coming through the phone said a name—a full name, and I barely heard it, but I heard it—and she, the plotter, said ‘This is she,’ and I wrote down the name even though I knew I wouldn’t forget it—and the point is that I probably wouldn’t have heard this murder plan, and certainly wouldn’t have been able to hear the voice coming through the phone, if I’d been using headphones.”

He considered her words. “Why nine thousand?”

“Nine thousand seems like a fair number. I don’t want her to think I’m being unreasonable. It’s important to always be civilized. Can I look at your music thing?”

She took the device out of his hand and saw six songs: “Monkey Man” by The Rolling Stones and “Apeman” by The Kinks and “Monkey Man” by The Specials and “The Magnificent Seven” by The Clash and, uncredited, “Sounds of the jungle in the daytime” and “Sounds of the jungle in the nighttime.”

She was nodding. “This is very interesting.” She looked up from the device. “You know, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you kind of remind me of a monkey.”

I am a monkey, he thought about saying—but didn’t, because he didn’t want her to think he was crazy.

“Anyway,” she said, “I like the band Radiohead. Do you know the band Radiohead? They’re really moody. They make me laugh.”

“I’ve heard of them, but I don’t know what they sound like,” he said. “Your blackmail plan is really impressive. You’re actually doing something. So many people just don’t do anything interesting. So many people seem fine with, like, doing the same meaningless bullshit that everyone else… And they never… Whatever.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” She handed the music device back to him, then seemed to focus on the advertisement above the window they were facing. “You know, it may not be easy to find a report about the fake accident. And then I’ll have to find that plotter’s phone number. And then I’ll have to call her and tell her what I know and what I’m willing to do. And while I assume she’ll be amenable to my offer, maybe she’ll be… difficult. This project may require some elbow grease. And… If you want, you can help.” She turns her head and looks at him directly. “Do you want to meet right after school tomorrow?”

Unfortunately that’s when he’ll be heading over to the big park… to continue his development… as a monkey. As a monkey?

“Sure,” he says. “I would like to help.”

“That’s really great,” she says. “And if everything works out, you’ll of course get a cut. Maybe… Well, at least five percent.”

He’s laughing.

He’s not a monkey.

He’s in love.

A Dream

A very unusual thing is happening: he is remembering his dream. Some people he’d neither seen nor thought about in years appeared, creating a kind of shock—as though time had collapsed. However, the actual events of the dream were very boring. He has no idea if dreams have meaning, but feels certain that the boringness of this particular dream precludes the possibility of analysis.

Staying in bed, he thinks not about the dream itself, but about the people who appeared in the dream. He thinks about experiences he shared with them in real life—and it’s so strange, how much one experiences and quickly forgets. In so many cases, forever. But, in this moment, some things that were maybe going to be forgotten forever are being remembered.

Some of the memories are good and some of the memories are bad. He has done many things he would never do again, and finds it weird that he actually did some of those things. As he lies in bed, all these years later, some of those things are causing shame—and it’s so strange, how intense that shame is. Maybe the intensity is due to not having spent time with these particular memories. Treasured memories that are frequently revisited contain no surprises, and are consequently diminished; whereas memories that haven’t been seen in years have surprising shapes that make them feel oddly fresh—as though they happened not years but days ago. As though some of the corresponding stuff still matters.

But what’s he thinking? Maybe some of that stuff does still matter…

One person suddenly overshadows all else. If not for some stupid immature behavior, their lives could be totally different. But, of course, he acted the way he acted, and she exited his life and his thoughts. Until now. Now he’s thinking about some of the things that happened; and now he’s thinking he should try to have a conversation with her—maybe today!—and apologize. Or, if an apology seems too overdue, and consequently meaningless, he could just talk with her and find out what her life is like.

But what’s he thinking? Why would she want to talk with him? To think she would be interested in hearing from him, after all this time, is really presumptuous, probably. In all likelihood, maybe, she has thought about him as little as he has thought about her. But now, after all this time, and for no clear purpose, he is thinking about her… And she did some pretty annoying things too! But that one afternoon, when—

Deciding that he has thought about her long enough, he thinks about some of the other people who appeared in his dream—about how they materialized in real life. And he realizes that with those different people he was different people. Well, obviously he wasn’t, but… He has always assumed that he knows what he’s like; but, in actual fact, the decisions and actions that didn’t align with his specific idealized view of himself were unknowingly disregarded, not thought about. Until now. Now he’s remembering a remarkable variety of painful moments; and now he’s remembering a remarkable variety of joyous moments; and now the actions and the joy and the shame and the decisions and the pain and the love all begin to blend together, creating the strange feeling that life is a kind of dream. A dream in which he will always be a stranger.

He gets out of bed and spends the day exactly the way he’d expected to spend the day before getting into bed. The dream and his reaction to the dream are, like so much else, forgotten. When he returns to bed sixteen hours later, tired after a moderately satisfying day, he falls asleep almost immediately—and dreams an adventure worthy of Indiana Jones.

A Strange Strange Way

An orange moon goes up as a blue car drives by; in the house you lift a cup and the baby starts to cry.

Years will pass and you’ll crash and you’ll laugh, but this moment never stops; the future and the past will split you in half until the world pops.

The sky and the sea were meant to be—or maybe they weren’t at all… Still you search for a key, search for an answer, while hoping the moon won’t fall.

The house is now quiet but your mind is a riot because you don’t know the right route; but in a moment you’ll feel saved, in a strange strange way, by an owl’s cool calm hoot.

Model Sailboat

“I appreciate that you’re trying to give him a nice Christmas,” says Tom, “but this is too old for him.”

The shrink-wrapped box he’s holding says “Model Sailboat.”

“That one isn’t for Adam,” says Eliza. “That one’s for me.”

“You bought this model sailboat for yourself?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I just had no idea you were interested in this kind of thing.”

“Everything starts somewhere.”

And this interest started two hours ago, downtown, in a shop where she was looking for a Christmas gift for Adam. Upon inspection she saw that two hundred and thirty-seven little wooden pieces are involved, and knew the model sailboat would be too complex and risky for their four-year-old son—but Eliza kept holding the box, kept looking at it.

Glue not needed for assembly. All two hundred and thirty-seven pieces fit together perfectly without glue. Supposedly.

The box also claims that when you join together all two hundred and thirty-seven pieces, and attach the two sails that are also included in the box, the sailboat will sail. This model sailboat will actually sail!

“How cool is that?” says Eliza.

Tom, examining the box, says “Wow.” Then he sets down the box and looks at the clock that’s hanging on the wall, above a family photograph. “Are you going to make the salmon or should I?”

“If these pieces—these two hundred and thirty-seven pieces—if they actually fit together gluelessly, and if the sailboat actually sails… Won’t that be so incredible?”

“That would be something. I guess I’ll make dinner.”

“I’m going to build this model sailboat. And then I’m going to sail it.”

As has happened too many times, the holidays are over almost before they have a chance to happen. But pleasant and unpleasant things did happen, and some memories will survive for decades—usually lingering in unlit corridors, but occasionally dancing in a spotlight—so there probably isn’t really anything to complain about. Eliza didn’t manage to set aside time to build, or even to start building, the model sailboat during the holidays, as she’d hoped; but she isn’t particularly surprised, and assumes she’ll start building on the soonest calm Saturday or Sunday afternoon.

When she’s halfway down the hallway she realizes she didn’t actually close the front door all the way. But she doesn’t go back and close it all the way right away; that can wait. Right now it’s important to not get distracted from what’s actually important.

Thank God: there on the shelf, exactly where she thought it would probably be, in the back, waits the shrink-wrapped box that says “Model Sailboat.” She takes the box off the shelf and puts it on the kitchen table and shuts the front door.

Sitting there at the kitchen table, leaning over the box with hands clasped, her joy is enormous. Two hundred and thirty-seven pieces, and they all fit together gluelessly! And then, when they’re all together, a magnificent adventure! Just think of all the bodies of water out there, just waiting to be sailed across… How had she forgotten about this?

When Tom gets home Eliza shows him the box and asks if he remembers it and he says “No. I don’t think so… Or maybe I do.”

“Well I had completely forgotten about it,” says Eliza, “until I was out Christmas shopping today. All of a sudden it came back to me.”

“I see,” says Tom, examining the box. “So… you’re giving this to Adam for Christmas? Maybe he’ll like it. Not for anyone under fourteen? That’s ridiculous. Adam can definitely handle this.”

“This is for me.”

“Maybe you and Adam can build it together.”

“This is something I should do on my own.”

“Why?”

“This is for me alone.”

“But…” Tom is on the verge of suggesting that she has a better chance of actually getting around to building the model sailboat if she and Adam agree to work on it together—but, instead of making the suggestion, he just stops talking. She’ll build it the way she wants to build it, or she’ll continue not building it; why should he care? He doesn’t.

Their exchange makes Eliza think Tom doesn’t understand why she’s so interested in this model sailboat—and suddenly she realizes something: she herself doesn’t exactly understand why she’s so interested in this model sailboat. Yes, obviously the fact that so many little pieces fit together gluelessly is extremely impressive… But does that explain the enormous joy she experiences when looking at the box? She doesn’t think so. But why does a feeling have to be explained, understood? It doesn’t.

She crosses the threshold and crosses the distance and opens the door of the yellow taxi, shining in the sun. She hears Tom close their front door—and almost before she understands what she’s doing she’s hurrying back to their front door.

Two minutes later she joins Tom in the taxi. “It occurred to me that I should bring this,” she says, showing him the shrink-wrapped box that says “Model Sailboat.”

“Ah,” says Tom, just barely remembering the box he last saw years and years ago.

Eliza was already very excited about this vacation, but now she is very very excited about it. They’ll be in the countryside for a week, so she’ll definitely have enough time to have a wonderful time building this model sailboat. And, if she remembers correctly, there’s a nice pond quite close to their friends’ house. A pond that will function as the perfect venue for her model sailboat’s maiden voyage.

“Doesn’t that sound like a wonderful plan?” she says to Tom, smiling because she just knows her future will be satisfying.

Wind is moving the pond; the reflections are abstract. “How does it feel to be a grandmother?” says Joan. Not immediately sure how to answer, Eliza looks at the trees. The leaves should be red and brown and leaving their branches; time and wind and gravity should be conveying the dead leaves to the surface of the pond, to conceal the abstract reflections and make it obvious that the year is coming to a close; yes, this really should be, Eliza feels, an autumn scene. But it isn’t. The young leaves are green, vibrant, gripping their branches with ease.

Her week here is almost over. If she had arranged her time differently, she could be watching the model sailboat right now. The sailboat could be sailing across the pond. How easily she can imagine it…

“Whose is this?” says Adam, showing Tom the shrink-wrapped box that says “Model Sailboat.”

“Oh, yes,” says Tom. “That was your mother’s. She would get very excited about that from time to time. Never got around to putting it together. As you can see.”

Tom transfers his attention from the box to the things on the other side of the window and takes another sip of coffee.

“The box says you should be at least fourteen,” says Adam, “but that seems kind of ridiculous. I think Sophie would be fine. And I think she would actually really like this. She’s always been really curious about airplanes and trains… And boats. She asks about why things move the way they do. How they’re built. Do you mind if I give this to her?”

“With my arthritis I wouldn’t be able to build it even if I wanted to. And I don’t. So go ahead.”

“Thanks. The box says you don’t need glue. Two hundred and thirty-seven pieces, and you don’t need glue. Do you think that’s actually true?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that if that model sailboat makes your daughter even half as happy as it made your…”

Tom stops talking because he just forgot the point he was about to make.

Then he remembers: “She’ll be very lucky.”

The Winter Is Now

Snow—bright—covers the lawn, and all of the clouds are gone. Inside the pub voices—not many—float between the wooden walls, and the barkeep waits for a call.

While Fiona waits she listens—or at least tries to listen—to the man sitting at the bar. He’s telling her about some inane problem; she’s pretending to care.

What she finds particularly annoying, though, is the fact that he’s whining.

Fiona never whines. At least not anymore. Unlike Brian, she is tough. Life has taught her that when dealing with a problem it’s always, always better to disregard your emotions. The more you engage with your emotions, the more likely you are to lose perspective and make avoidable mistakes, dangerous compromises.

In this very moment Fiona is demonstrating—only to herself, but that’s important, right?—her own mental strength: the call she has been waiting for could change the course of her life, and she isn’t thinking about the call at all.

Well, she’s constantly aware that she’s waiting for the call—considering the stakes, how could she not be?—but she isn’t actively thinking about any of the corresponding facts, perspectives, issues. Most people would probably fixate on the drama of it all; but stoic Fiona disregards the drama and remains focused, resolutely, on outcomes. And since everything she can do has already been done, there’s nothing for her to think about. So for now, thanks to her mental strength, none of that stuff exists. She’s proud of herself.

But of course she’s kind of thinking about last Wednesday, when—

“Glühwein, if you please.” Due to the new arrival’s accent and request, Fiona assumes he’s German.

“Mulled wine?” says Fiona. “We don’t have any of that.”

“But snow is on the ground,” says the woman who came in with the man. She also speaks with a German accent. “When we were walking here I could see my breaths. I have also seen frozen water. The winter is now. The time for glühwein is now.”

“I suppose I could heat some red wine in a kettle.”

“Red wine, yes,” says the woman. “But red wine alone will not be sufficient. You will add cinnamon sticks and star anise and cloves and zest of orange and orange—”

“I’m afraid you’re dreaming.”

“But the winter is now.”

“The sad truth is that you’ve found yourself in a rather worthless establishment. Some would call it simple, but I think you and I know better than that.”

While the man’s rather expressionless expression has not changed since he submitted the initial glühwein request, the woman’s whole demeanor just changed drastically: a moment ago she seemed stern and entitled, and now she seems terribly sad. Even though she’s middle-aged, she somehow exhibits a child’s disappointment.

“I will have one of your Irish whiskeys,” says the man, moving smoothly into the future.

As Fiona pours whiskey into a glass she says, to the woman, “And you?”

“I require more time to make my decision,” says the woman. “Always in this weather in Germany there is glühwein. The glühwein in essence eliminates the cold. In doing so it reminds us that our species is not required to accept the indifferent and brutal parameters of existence. The warmth of our species can indeed be more powerful than the frigid apathy of the cosmos. But it is a constant war—and when one finds oneself in a situation such as this, in a cold winter day devoid of glühwein, yet another battle is lost.”

“Elke! Mein Gott! You go too far! Enough! Just have one of these Irish whiskeys. If you have one of these Irish whiskeys, all will be wunderbar.”

“But… Friedrich…” She stares at Friedrich with disbelief, as though witnessing a betrayal she could never have imagined. As though realizing she has maybe never known who he actually is.

“We are not in Germany,” says Friedrich. “We are in Ireland.”

What Elke says after lowering her eyes and turning back to Fiona: “May I please have one of your Irish whiskeys?” Her voice is infused with resignation.

As Fiona pours whiskey into a glass she hears Brian again: “If I were to start talking to you two Germans—which appears to be exactly what I am doing—and if I were to put forth the proposition that your dear departed countryman, Herr Thomas Mann, is—”

Brian keeps talking but Fiona stops listening because exactly when she places the drink in front of Elke the telephone rings—and Fiona remembers that she has been waiting for her future to be… decided, she supposes. Is that really what’s about to happen? Amazingly, the glühwein couple had caused all awareness of the call, and of the corresponding facts and perspectives and issues, to temporarily vanish. But this really is a big moment. It’s interesting, how your view of something can completely change in an instant: now that the call and the facts and the perspectives and the issues have returned, the last few minutes seem like a marvelous gravity-free era. As she takes a few quick steps to answer the telephone, with breath held, uncertainties siege her mind.

The voice coming through the telephone makes it clear that what Fiona would prefer to happen—fine, she’ll admit it: what she really wants to happen—is not going to happen. The snow is bright in the sunlight. Yesterday the lawn was green, and today the lawn is white. Nothing can be done to change that snow, so Fiona simply accepts it—just as she will accept the information just communicated.

Well, she supposes she actually could do something about the snow on the lawn: she could heat up kettle after kettle after kettle of water, pour the hot water onto the snow, and systematically, slowly, melt all of the snow. How many times would she have to fill the kettle? And… Would the hot water somehow damage the lawn?

But why is she even thinking about this? She doesn’t really mind the snow. She actually kind of likes the snow. She only wishes it weren’t so bright. Its brightness bothers her eyes.

“Alright,” she says, and hangs up the telephone. While some things can’t be changed—or simply aren’t worth the trouble—there’s always at least one reasonable thing that can be done to improve one’s immediate world; and the thought of pouring steaming kettles of water onto snow makes Fiona realize what she ought to do in this particular immediate world.

“Elke—that’s your name?” Elke turns to Fiona and nods while Friedrich keeps listening—or keeps pretending to listen—to Brian expound on Mynheer Peeperkorn’s waterfall excursion. Fiona continues: “Elke, tell me the glühwein ingredients and I’ll pop over to the shop around the corner and get them all. I want to make a good glühwein. Because you’re right, Elke: the winter is now, and we need true warmth.”

Elke is smiling. “Thank you, but that will not be required. Your Irish whiskey has surpassed my expectations. It provides a perfectly sufficient warmth. Had your pub not been bereft of glühwein, I would not have discovered this delight. Perhaps it is sometimes preferable to have your hopes demolished. Because then you gain space for new things.”

Feel free to contact me at evanpellervo@gmail.com.