Laughing Inappropriately

I found Hank on a park bench one fall afternoon. He barely smiled when I said, “What a lovely day.” His lips looked like two straight lines drawn on a once handsome face now tight from too many sad memories and a heart suffering a state of disrepair only a protracted coma could mend. His lips must have been clamped shut years ago from disappointment and a tendency toward pessimism. I wondered how someone could fall into such a gloomy state when sitting on a park bench surrounded by nature’s beauty of golden leaves and the dank smell of rain water caught inside the tree bark.

I sat next to him and further examined his lips. I also wondered if years of compression caused them to hurt along the edges. Just when I was about to ask if his lips hurt, he said, “Do I know you?”

“Mystically speaking we’re all connected so you would know me as one of your soul’s many companions on the journey of life,” I responded and then worried about the gravity of my words. Perhaps, it was too soon in our relationship to mention the divine and would he understand? Possibly not, I sighed.

“Not another nut job.” He sounded disheartened, as though he had been singled out to encounter all the zany people that didn’t fit into the standard mold of societal norms.

“Have you met many? Nut jobs, I mean.”

“Too many. Last week a stranger asked to wear my slippers. I had on wing tips.”

I thought his deadpan delivery was intentional and laughed out loud. I also assumed hanging with Hank possessed the possibility of easing further into my premature dotage on a delightful wave of companionship unencumbered by the general worries of money and children. I was wrong. We exchanged names and agreed to meet at the same time the following day. Of course, I did not know I was wrong so enjoyed twenty-four hours of fantasies filled with our romantic dinners and a lively sex life. I discovered there was no end to my imagination and sometimes it’s best to stay there where daydreams feel better than the heaviness of someone else’s reality.

The next day, I walked along the river path with an animated step to my gait and the expectation the afternoon would be filled with the fun of getting to know a fellow human who held the prospect for romance. Although at this point, my fantasies had worn out my expectations and left me somewhat subdued in the presence of my new companion.

“Hello there,” I said and smiled broadly, feeling good about arriving on time.

He turned toward me and stared for a second before saying, “Yes.” I wondered if he remembered having met me the day before, so I decided to refresh his memory.

“We met yesterday.”

“Yes, of course, I’m not daft.”

I began apologizing for the implication. I then went on to regale my stony companion with stories of my misadventures when inadvertently arriving at the wrong ashram in India only to find myself cooking chapatis and washing the knees of an old man calling himself a prophet.?I hoped this would loosen him up, bring a smile to his handsome face, or pique his curiosity, but his lips remained as compressed as they were the previous day when I made myself at home on his park bench.

Being a tenacious sort, I throttled him with bon mots, pithy rejoinders, and British slang so earthy it would make a Manchester boy blush. I stopped at nothing to get a rise out of my grumpy companion in an effort to help him see the funny side of life.?Perhaps, I viewed Hank as a project, or I possessed a deep-seated desire to bring joy where there was none.?Of course, the possibility Hank’s inner life may be a baleful landscape laden with childhood fears and other hobgoblins that stood between him and pure delight never occurred to me. Finally, I considered giving up.

“Would you rather be alone?” I asked.

“No. You’re good company.” He stared straight ahead. He could have been talking to the squirrel sitting nearby eating an acorn to increase his winter fat storage.

“Really, Hank? I wouldn’t have guessed. You don’t smile much. Do you?” I said in hopes of sparking a lengthy conversation, one that involved both of us.

“What’s to smile about? Climate change, corrupt government, unleashed diseases, and relatives who die too soon,” he responded, now staring at the squirrel.

“Oh wow, Hank, when you put it that way, does appear to be a grim world we’re inhabiting.” I thought it best to agree with him, although being an optimist I believed in the evolution of things leaning toward the better and with patience all would be right again. This required little regard for time constraints. I considered Hank not allowing room for time constraints to be at the root of his dismal outlook. I broached the subject only to be told I suffered from the Pollyanna syndrome. I had no idea there was such a thing. And would it be bad. I briefly imagined the world full of Pollyannas and wondered if it would put an end to wars and corruption. Possibly, I thought but decided not to share this insight with Hank. He was ensconced in his despair and had become an immovable object of loneliness. Or so I thought.

He stood, eyes now glancing briefly at my smile. “Same time tomorrow then?”

“Sounds fun. Shall we bring our dogs?” I thought this might add an element of vivacity that was thus far lacking in our relationship.

“Nope,” he responded and walked down the path. I felt sorry for his dog and wondered what the poor thing got up to when his person rambled the city streets alone and filled with a reality so glum his little Beagle might possibly enjoy his absence.

I spent the rest of the day pondering Hank’s inner recesses based on what I had learned so far. I even arranged to meet my friend Betty at a coffee shop, so we could put our heads together and determine whether Hank was worth the effort.?Betty soon arrived and after ordering two frappuccinos, we began to analyze the problem. It wasn’t clear at this point if the problem might possibly be mine. Afterall, Hank had accused me of laughing inappropriately and then accused me of being a people pleaser as though wanting to make others happy was a flaw in my make-up.

“Toss him. Not worth your time,” Betty said.

“Maybe he could be fixed.”

“He’s not a Doberman!”

We both laughed out loud. I noticed others looking in our direction and smiling, a normal reaction I thought to two women enjoying themselves. I pressed Betty to give Hank’s redemption more thought. “Dig deeper,” I insisted. Afterall, Betty’s advanced degrees in anthropology should enable her to explore a man’s inability to enjoy life.

She strained and then shook her head. “Sorry, he simply doesn’t have the software.”

“So, you’re saying it’s hopeless?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so, sugar plum. Lost cause for someone who enjoys life as much as you do.” Betty continued shaking her head.

“Well, I’ll give it one last try. I’m meeting him tomorrow. Shall I let you know how it goes?”

“I already know.” Betty patted my hand and then called the barista over to top off my frappuccino with whip cream.

The following day, I found myself sitting next to a man seemingly indifferent to my company. I began to wonder if there might be something wrong with me. Was I really a people pleaser and did it matter? Without people pleasers, the world would be a dour place full of self-absorption followed by disappointment. Upon reflection when a small child, I remembered feeling the intensity of joy at noticing the flowers smiling at me. I also noticed dogs happily walked along beside me, tails wagging and grins wider than a horse’s mouth. Eventually, I became aware most people suffered an array of moods that rarely fell in stride with mine. Every emotion laid itself bare and left little room for the playful antics of exuberance and abandonment. Perhaps, this was the moment I realized only a court jester could make them laugh. I had become a court jester.

“Do you have any hobbies?” I asked, ever hopeful for an answer that would allow for dialogue.

“No.”

“What happens in your spare time?”

“Nothing. That’s why they call it spare time.”

I could hear myself laugh as I stood and walked down the path along with several happy squirrels. Oh God, let me be a court jester to the animals and tell them stories of the days before acid rain and sullied rivers, when we watched the stars twinkle brightly without the veil of pollution, and everyone danced in the woods where the tree sloths sang with joy that was and is our natural way of being.?

Bonnie Jae Dane's novels can be found on Amazon. ?