Ian WhiteThe Happiest Man
May 24th 2010 22:54
The Happiest Man
The indecisive day had finally settled on cloudy as I boarded the Trolley that would take me to City Hall. Today was different. I only made pilgrimages to the city with a specific task to be completed, and usually after some persuasion/arm pulling. Go to this party, check out this bar, see this person who misses you. However this was not a time to be bombarded with loud rap music while intoxicated strangers attempted to craft meaningful relationships with 5 minutes of meaningless conversation and sensual dancing. And there would be no visits to friends. They’d only wish to do the former anyway. I’d just gone on a whim. Trans pass in hand affording me unlimited travel within the city, I left the house and here I am. I tuned out the ride with my Ipod. People moved freely around my peripheral as Alicia Keys filled my ears.
The trance was on, the world was secondary as I walked with my own soundtrack. Off the trolley, up the stairs, back underneath the infinite sky, it was all the same. I walked by city hall, I walked by couples, I walked by singles, I walked by mistresses planning to make couples single, I kept walking. No destination, just me and my music. And then I stopped. It wasn’t because of the Starbucks, as I do not join the masses in their ritual caffeine injection. No I stopped because of the man in front of it. His gaze was on me, and something in it caught my attention. He was deeply disheveled, loosely holding a trash bag, with sneakers whose relevance hadn’t been realized since I was a high school freshman. He was homeless. A common sight in any metropolis, thus they are usually treated with the awareness of a discarded candy wrapper. But he was different. Hand not extended, desperation not apparent, no cardboard sign announcing a need for a non specific amount of change which was a means to an undisclosed end. Just a man, with a trashbag, looking at me. I pressed pause on my Ipod.
“Hi.” I ventured.
“Hi.” He returned.
“You’re not asking for money.” I observed vocally.
“Neither are you.” He replied, expression shifting to amusement.
“Well, I don’t need it.” I said, slightly confused at his lack of perspective.
“Of course you do. You have an Ipod which is manufactured to need replacement, the same can be said for your cell phone, and a stylish wardrobe implying that you need to look good. But most importantly you must appear fresh and new, so that means more. More stuff to buy. More expectations means more stuff, so actually you need more money than I do.”
I arched an eyebrow, equally amused.
“You’re homeless and without decent clothing. That means no job which requires business casual just for the interview, no means of a consistent meal, and you have no money to shelter yourself. Given your situation you’ve eliminated your romantic prospects and thus hinder your basic human drive to survive and replicate. Correcting all of that will cost a lot more money than a new phone and a pair of sneakers.” I finished, firmly secure on my soapbox.
The homeless man nodded, expression unchanging. His soapbox was taller.
“Very good point, however you and I differ on what the basic human drive is. Your definition is the scientific, mine is the philosophical. And my philosophy is to find happiness, which I have. I get my meals from a kind woman who runs a restaurant and I have my own room at a nice shelter. My basic needs are met. That leaves me the freedom to do what I want, like read. I have but a few possessions and no obligations. Look at that man right there. Power suit, rolex watch, brief case. Looks like a man that has it all according to our societal values. But look closer: bags under the eyes, extra large cup of coffee, no wedding ring, blue tooth, and more telling than all that; his expression. Its empty almost, with a hint of sadness. He’s a slave to the masters of consumerism and power. If you go to foreign countries, as I have in my 50 years of life, you’ll see kids with rags for clothes having the time of their lives. It’s because they value what really matters. You can’t find beauty in gigabytes, a career in a job, meaning in the meaningless, fulfillment in what you own. Happiness can’t be defined by a formula. I can’t tell you what it is. Only you can, and that’s the beauty. It molds itself for the individual. You don’t seem like the others, so I want you to take this and I have confidence you’ll do the right thing.”
He reached in the pocket of his tattered coat and placed something in my hand and bid me good luck. As I walked back in the direction of the trolley, I opened my palm. In it was a 20 dollar bill. I smiled and then did the only thing I could think of at that point. I ripped it in half and gave one to a man in a suit.
The indecisive day had finally settled on cloudy as I boarded the Trolley that would take me to City Hall. Today was different. I only made pilgrimages to the city with a specific task to be completed, and usually after some persuasion/arm pulling. Go to this party, check out this bar, see this person who misses you. However this was not a time to be bombarded with loud rap music while intoxicated strangers attempted to craft meaningful relationships with 5 minutes of meaningless conversation and sensual dancing. And there would be no visits to friends. They’d only wish to do the former anyway. I’d just gone on a whim. Trans pass in hand affording me unlimited travel within the city, I left the house and here I am. I tuned out the ride with my Ipod. People moved freely around my peripheral as Alicia Keys filled my ears.
The trance was on, the world was secondary as I walked with my own soundtrack. Off the trolley, up the stairs, back underneath the infinite sky, it was all the same. I walked by city hall, I walked by couples, I walked by singles, I walked by mistresses planning to make couples single, I kept walking. No destination, just me and my music. And then I stopped. It wasn’t because of the Starbucks, as I do not join the masses in their ritual caffeine injection. No I stopped because of the man in front of it. His gaze was on me, and something in it caught my attention. He was deeply disheveled, loosely holding a trash bag, with sneakers whose relevance hadn’t been realized since I was a high school freshman. He was homeless. A common sight in any metropolis, thus they are usually treated with the awareness of a discarded candy wrapper. But he was different. Hand not extended, desperation not apparent, no cardboard sign announcing a need for a non specific amount of change which was a means to an undisclosed end. Just a man, with a trashbag, looking at me. I pressed pause on my Ipod.
“Hi.” I ventured.
“Hi.” He returned.
“You’re not asking for money.” I observed vocally.
“Neither are you.” He replied, expression shifting to amusement.
“Well, I don’t need it.” I said, slightly confused at his lack of perspective.
“Of course you do. You have an Ipod which is manufactured to need replacement, the same can be said for your cell phone, and a stylish wardrobe implying that you need to look good. But most importantly you must appear fresh and new, so that means more. More stuff to buy. More expectations means more stuff, so actually you need more money than I do.”
I arched an eyebrow, equally amused.
“You’re homeless and without decent clothing. That means no job which requires business casual just for the interview, no means of a consistent meal, and you have no money to shelter yourself. Given your situation you’ve eliminated your romantic prospects and thus hinder your basic human drive to survive and replicate. Correcting all of that will cost a lot more money than a new phone and a pair of sneakers.” I finished, firmly secure on my soapbox.
The homeless man nodded, expression unchanging. His soapbox was taller.
“Very good point, however you and I differ on what the basic human drive is. Your definition is the scientific, mine is the philosophical. And my philosophy is to find happiness, which I have. I get my meals from a kind woman who runs a restaurant and I have my own room at a nice shelter. My basic needs are met. That leaves me the freedom to do what I want, like read. I have but a few possessions and no obligations. Look at that man right there. Power suit, rolex watch, brief case. Looks like a man that has it all according to our societal values. But look closer: bags under the eyes, extra large cup of coffee, no wedding ring, blue tooth, and more telling than all that; his expression. Its empty almost, with a hint of sadness. He’s a slave to the masters of consumerism and power. If you go to foreign countries, as I have in my 50 years of life, you’ll see kids with rags for clothes having the time of their lives. It’s because they value what really matters. You can’t find beauty in gigabytes, a career in a job, meaning in the meaningless, fulfillment in what you own. Happiness can’t be defined by a formula. I can’t tell you what it is. Only you can, and that’s the beauty. It molds itself for the individual. You don’t seem like the others, so I want you to take this and I have confidence you’ll do the right thing.”
He reached in the pocket of his tattered coat and placed something in my hand and bid me good luck. As I walked back in the direction of the trolley, I opened my palm. In it was a 20 dollar bill. I smiled and then did the only thing I could think of at that point. I ripped it in half and gave one to a man in a suit.
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