Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2018-2019

Happy’s attitude. Frisco needed more freedom and expression such as himself.
“You oughta’ take yourself somewhere where everyone is not a zombie,” I said. “These
people won’t appreciate what you’re doing.”
“Do you appreciate me?” Happy asked, jumping into another twirl and pointing
his finger.
“Well…sure,” I stammered. “I was having a pretty lame time in here.”
“Then Happy has done his job for the day!”
I opened my mouth to say more, but Happy danced his way up the sidewalk and disappeared
behind the other cars. The interaction felt so quick. I might have never thought
it happened. Yet, as the light turned green and my car lumbered forward, I felt struck
by awareness. It felt as if Happy’s words had left an impression on me which no coach
or teacher had ever come close to. Beyond my open window, the air felt cooler, the cars
seemed quieter, and the short, hearty trees had sprouted a new layer of color.
For the rest of my drive home, I could not stop replaying the conversation with Happy.
How could some always be so…happy? In a town like this, where the nine-to-five,
suburbia idealism reigned supreme; how could anyone find such joy? Could it be from
the soccer moms who drove eight-seat SUVs to transport only their Teacup Yorkies?
Could it be the painstaking, unavoidable commutes? Or could it be the neighborhood
dads who stood in their driveways and yelled at cars to slow down? How could anyone
be that happy in such a place?
Then it hit me.
As I listed the sarcastic question to myself, I realized it was me who could not be
happy. It was me who chose to be this way, holding onto my pessimistic views of my
environment as if I would lose my “cool-kid” status otherwise. Happy chose to be happy.
And everyone had the same choice every morning they woke up. Happiness could never
be defined by possessions or environment as I had thought. Happiness came from yourself,
from a conscious choice to see the lighter side of life.
A faint smile danced on my lips as I made the turn onto my street. Maybe Happy
hadmagic inside him because I had never felt so relieved. As my house drew closer, I saw
my neighbor, Mr. Torres, standing in his driveway. I could feel his scowl even from this
distance. He held a persistent grudge against my loud car, and I didn’t care for his attitude.
Normally, I would have thrown my gears into neutral and given the engine a good
roar as I passed by, but not today. Today, I took a lesson from Happy and raised my hand
in a polite wave. The shock on Mr. Torres’s face stuck out like a rose bud in the tundra.
He paused, raised his hand, and gave a smile.
non-fiction 17