Short Happy Stories

Volume 2 is now available! The book contains 50 stories. Order here, or inquire at a bookstore.

A Real Success

Over the course of the party, certain familiar faces said things you never would have expected, so those familiar faces suddenly almost seemed to belong to new people; and you also met actual new people, who seemed like portals to not-quite-imaginable possibilities; and absolutely everyone at the party seemed open, eager to share whatever entered mind; and though, now and then, someone would say something primarily intended to convey superior intelligence, to impress, everyone was used to that sort of thing and, to at least some extent, indulged in it.

All were young and happy.

By the end of the party, you just knew you were all deeply connected; knew you would all—individually and together—accomplish titanic things.

Now, years and years later, you only regularly communicate with two of those people.

You’re pretty sure nobody who was at that party has accomplished anything titanic.

You suspect that your younger self would consider your current self a failure.

But those two friends… They’ve sure made a difference in your life. If you’ve meant as much to them as they’ve meant to you… Well, that would be a real success.

Suburban Bossa Nova

The wind blows water and music and a smell and leaves and an idea.

The water—faint on your skin—comes from a sprinkler that keeps the grass green while making a rainbow with the sun.

The music—bossa nova—comes from the parked car in which someone waits as pleasantly as possible.

The smell—hamburgers on a grill—comes from the backyard where a family in a hard year is about to eat.

The leaves—big and orange—come from a tree far older than the street.

The idea—something that will keep you going—comes from… where?

The Responsibilities

Each responsibility is a pillow-sized stone. The young man has placed each stone on the ground, around his body. It isn’t bad: there aren’t very many stones, and his view of the big world is unobstructed.

Every once in a while a new responsibility materializes, in his hands, and must be placed somewhere. He wants to preserve his view of the big world—city skylines and mountains and so much more—by continuing to place responsibilities directly on the ground, but that approach would consistently make his responsibilities cover a larger and larger area, which would not be practical: if a responsibility is too far away from his body, he could fail to respond to a corresponding crisis with sufficient speed—and he doesn’t even want to think about some of the possible consequences.

So, no: the responsibilities really can’t be scattered all over the place. They really must be kept close. So, yes: he starts to stack them.

With stones stacked around his body, he now exists within a very defined circle; but it isn’t too bad because, turning, he can still see the big world the way he always has; the highest stone only goes a bit higher than his waist.

In the mornings he drinks coffee out of a heavy ceramic mug. Between sips he places the heavy ceramic mug on a stone and looks out, all around, sometimes pondering something he sees. Then he shifts his focus to the stones, the responsibilities, for however many hours are necessary. And then, often in a kind of daze, he raises his gaze, looks out, all around; and, when instinct advises, he raises a restorative—usually a beer—and takes a sip.

So, so nice. He persevered, for however many hours—and now he has a simple yet almost unbelievably satisfying reward. Gulp. Ah. Yes.

One day—a day just like his other recent days—he realizes something: My life is organized pretty perfectly.

But then another responsibility materializes.

And then another.

And now another.

And yet another!

There is always, before long enough, another stone to be stacked.

The current reality: to see over the circle wall, he has to get on his tiptoes.

When he started stacking stones, however long ago that was, it hadn’t occurred to him that he could ever have this many responsibilities. How exactly, he thinks, did all of this happen?

What he thinks next: No! No! No! I’m trapped!

Breathing faster than usual, intensely aware that he is actually encased in responsibilities, he believes he must figure out a way out. Because there’s a lot of interesting stuff out there, in the big world, just waiting to be appreciated.

Palms are placed on a top stone. As he inhales, preparing to push the stone off—I am, he thinks, on the verge of freedom—he notices, on the stretch of stone between his palms, a purple zigzag. The purple almost seems to leap out of the surrounding pale green.

A brilliant bolt of purple lightning, he thinks. How have I never been struck by that before?

Palms still on stone, he looks at the next stone down. This one is like a dying winter fire, in need of a log.

The next stone down is like a crashing wave.

His body turns, turns; eyes examine stone, stone… Each stone, each responsibility, is completely unique, and somehow worthwhile. How had he never looked at this circle wall in this way before? Had he been, all these years, rushing through his responsibilities?

With his new understanding… Well, he still has to get out of here. Because, if he were to stay, he too soon wouldn’t be able to see over the circle wall even on his tiptoes. To see the big world at all, he would need a ladder or some kind of tricky pulley system—neither of which seems appealing.

However… if he does get out now… leaving his job and wife and kids and other responsibilities behind…

This is crazy! Why would he run out into the big world? He’s already in the center of a very special world that he himself actually built.

A Summer Sunday Scene

Two ferries and more sailboats move in the sun, on blues and sparkling golds, tiny trees rejoice on the other side of the water while, over here, signs announce businesses and streets, banners wave, horns are blown and women sing and drums are drummed, a child spins, bicycle wheels spin, the Ferris wheel spins, a kiss is blown and helped along by the wind, which in its excitement disarrays numerous heads of hair and removes a hat—picked up and returned, with a smile, by a stranger—afternoon shadows continue to gain confidence, ice cubes continue to melt, a perfect strawberry rolls off a table, dice are rolled on a different table, Death upstages everything with excruciating volume: an ambulance is trying to save a particular life—how much time, a second or a century, will pass before the end?—but now that wailing memento mori is gone, space seems to expand, breathe, uncountable pleasant sounds are merging in the air into something always new, birds call and swoop, humans chatter and laugh while, way over there, the lone big mountain watches the approach of a lone little cloud and wonders, with hope, Are you a new friend?

Night River Memories

“And the frog! Wasn’t that frog great?”

“Frog…”

“Yes, Emma. The frog. The frog!”

“I don’t remember a frog.”

“But you remember the way the stars were, right? And the light coming out of the occasional house? And just… that great feeling of… drifting on the river. That night was phenomenal. It was phenomenal! Right?”

“Sure,” I say, knowing he wants me to say more, to “wax rhapsodic” about that peculiar night on the river. But that night just doesn’t mean much to me. And it shouldn’t. Because it’s the past.

Too many people, upon having some kind of unfamiliar satisfying experience, proceed to attach huge importance to the experience for weeks, sometimes even decades, at the expense of the present. In my view, you should always be totally focused on trying to enjoy whatever happens to be happening; so you should never even have space for indulgent reminiscences.

“Did you not think it was a very special night?” Charlie no longer sounds enthusiastic. This conversation is going in a bad direction.

A weaker person would smoothly say “I thought it was a very special night”—to quickly eliminate tension. But I hate the idea of saying something I don’t completely believe.

However… if my goal is to enjoy the present, I’m starting to fail.

Should I just tell him what he wants to hear?

“I enjoyed it,” I say, feeling certain he’ll consider the words insufficient, and further dumb discussion warranted.

“Well, I guess that’s good enough,” he says—and suddenly seems relaxed.

Apparently we won’t be venturing into an overdramatic discussion of the nature of our relationship. What a pleasant surprise.

Instinctively (maybe because, while dealing with that tricky threat to my freedom, the room had seemed to be getting smaller and smaller) I look out the window, into the open. Trees are holding Spanish moss—or, as Charlie would say, “Iberian icicles.” And he’s right: a bit of Spanish moss really can look like an icicle. “I guess we should get the check,” I say. “Do you want to go to your place or my place or walk around a while or what?”

“What’s that guy doing?”

Turning to Charlie, I see that he’s looking out the window. Turning again, I see, on the sidewalk, close to the gutter, a guy I hadn’t noticed. It’s odd I hadn’t noticed him, because there’s nobody else out there. This is a quiet street off the main street.

The guy is examining the top of a barrel. Moves his head a foot, examines the top of the barrel from that angle. Takes three steps, to the other side of the barrel, continues his examination. Then another angle. Yet another. Another.

As far as I can tell, the barrel is just a barrel. Faded wood—vertical—rusted metal hoops—horizontal—typical. I don’t know why that solitary barrel is there, on the sidewalk; but there’s probably a very simple explanation. And, anyway, who cares?

Well, that guy has apparently found a reason to care.

He looks like a fairly normal guy: sneakers, jeans, crisp button-down shirt, tidy beard. Lifting and turning his left wrist, a watch is consulted. After a moment of apparent indecision, he reaches into a back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pair of glasses.

Loose glasses. No case.

If he were to sit somewhere without remembering to take the glasses out of the back pocket, the glasses could definitely break. Why does he go around so recklessly? Why doesn’t he keep his glasses in a nice protective case?

Glasses on, his hands are now doing something to the top of the barrel. Annoyingly, I can’t see, from my current position, exactly what his hands are doing.

“What’s that guy doing?” I say—and realize it’s the same question Charlie asked a minute ago.

“I guess we know as much as each other.”

“Meaning nothing.”

Check paid, we go outside, into the company of the Iberian icicles. The man—who was still doing something to the top of the barrel when we left our table—is now on the other side of the street, walking quick.

Wordlessly we go to the barrel.

What’s on top of the barrel: seven leaves, arranged in a way that represents nothing. The arrangement seems totally random, not like an arrangement at all; but since there isn’t even a hint of wind, this must be what that guy intended. Why was he so focused on this?

“Huh,” says Charlie—and I’m in complete agreement. “Should we walk to that park?”

“Sure.”

We’re walking. I’m glad to leave the barrel and the barrel guy in the past.

So that barrel guy… I really don’t want to think about him, but… So he walks the streets alone… stops to do… something inscrutable on a barrel… Could I ever find myself in a similar situation? Adrift, not knowing what to do with myself, investing precious time in nothing?

There is, underneath this sidewalk and these trees and these buildings, a void. Waiting for surface to be unpeeled…

Actually… I think I do remember that frog from that night on the river. Or… am I actually remembering the frog Charlie remembers? Maybe I’m imagining a frog that never existed. Or remembering a frog I saw elsewhere—maybe in a movie or something—and effortlessly transporting that elsewhere frog into my night river memories.

I wish I could know that I’m remembering the frog Charlie remembers.

But I definitely remember the stars! Exactly the way they were. In the sky and on the water.

“I wasn’t thinking about it properly,” I say. “That night on the river really was special.”

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