Read Online My American Unhappiness by Dean Bakopoulos - Free Book Online

and much of my lunch hour, poring over responses to my unhappiness inventory, I come back from lunch in a kind of intellectual fog; I plunk down on the small sofa in our reception area and find myself staring at Lara as she works. This goes on for some time and I find myself still wondering about my mother's inquiry from the night before. Don't I have any prospects? Haven't I even considered the fact that it is time for me to get married, find a wife?
    Finally, Lara stops typing for a moment, looks up at me, and slides her delicate reading glasses down her nose, lifting her eyes to meet mine. She points her small chin right at my heart. "Are you okay, Zeke?"
    "A bit of reverie," I say. "Lost in a bit of a reverie." She pauses and now removes her reading glasses. "What?"
    "I'm afraid I was staring."
    "I didn't notice," she says.
    "Yes, well," I say, "often one can't help it."
    "Who kept calling this morning?" she says.
    "Pardon?" I say.
    "Your direct line's been ringing all day. It must have rung fifty times!"
    "Did it?"
    "You didn't hear it?"
    "I suppose not. I was working on my project."
    "What's wrong with you?"
    "You know I have an amazing ability to tune out distractions when I am engaged in my project."
    "Have you been drinking?" she asks. "No," I say. "Jesus."
    She gazes at me for a minute, but I say nothing else.
    "Have you been crying?" she asks.
    "That's extremely doubtful," I say.
    "Your eyes are all red."
    "Are they?"
    "Yes."
    "Seasonal allergies. Spring! The rise of leaves and vegetation, so ripe with pollen and lust!"
    "I thought I heard weeping."
    "What?"
    "Earlier this morning, when you first came in."
    "You did not!"
    "It's unsettling to hear your boss weeping in this economy," she says. "Did something happen?"
    "Lara! Stop!"
    "Are you okay? Did you eat lunch?"
    "Yes," I say.
    "Did you drink?"
    "I had a drink. Just one."
    "You said you didn't drink," she says.
    "These hardly seem to be the sort of questions an executive director should have to answer after a long lunch. I was meeting with some potential donors, if you must know, and then I was checking my e-mail, and there was a great deal of e-mail that needed my attention."
    "How did the lunch go?"
    "Fine."
    "Are you sure you were not crying?"
    "I do not recall, Lara," I say. "I was in my office all morning, engaged in my work, and that is an emotional trance for me. I do not remember what the trance led to, but usually there is some sort of spiritual epiphany or emotional catharsis of some magnitude. While you were away from your desk, in the powder room or whatnot, I went out, laptop in hand, for a bite to eat. A working lunch."
    "You should eat something else. You seem unsteady. I've got half a sub from Fraboni's in the mini-fridge."
    "That's kind of you, but I am quite satiated at present."
    "Okay, Zeke."
    I have been trying to speak less formally of late, particularly with Lara. As I navigate the superior-subordinate relationship we share, I have a tendency to speak in long sentences and say things like "quite satiated" and "at present" instead of "full" and "right now." It's as if I haven't quite mastered the easy social interaction that coworkers should have after so many years.
    "Did you get that solicitation letter written this morning?" Lara says. "Because if you want to get that mailed out—and we could use some cash infusions right now—I need the text today. Remember, I'm off next week. Your last letter brought in just enough to get through the summer. Maybe you can get us through the fall as well."
    "Right," I say. "Sure. I'll get to it this afternoon."
    "E-mail it to me when you're done and I'll merge it and print the envelopes."
    "I may prefer to dictate it, if you don't mind."
    "You're the boss," she says. "Whatever."
    "If it's unpleasant for you..." I say.
    "It's neither pleasant nor unpleasant," she says, now gone back to the keyboard. "It is simply my job."
    "You know I don't care for that attitude," I say. "I want you to like the work.