Brock Clarke - The Happiest People in the World

In this way, Henry learned several things. That once Americans were out of the cold and in their trucks, they did not like to get back out into the cold, even if it meant making the inside of their trucks as cold as the outside; that American weathermen liked to refer to snow as “the white stuff”; that American sports talk radio announcers liked to say about something, “There’s no doubt about it,” before then expressing their many doubts about it; that American political commentators liked to preface their comments by saying, “No offense,” before then saying something offensive (the political commentator on the radio had said to whomever he was talking to, “No offense, but you have to be the stupidest human being on the planet”); that Americans were very impatient people with very short attention spans; that Americans believed as long as they were inside their trucks they were invisible, and that as long as they smoked cigarettes inside their trucks they would not then smell like cigarettes once they exited their trucks, and that in general Americans thought their trucks were magic; that while Europeans tended to think of Americans as people who liked to drive incredibly long distances in their pickup trucks, in fact Americans liked to drive incredibly short distances in their pickup trucks as well. These were the lessons Henry learned about Americans during his first minute in Ellen’s truck, and not once was he forced to reconsider them during all his days in Broomeville.

Ellen put the truck in park, but its engine was still running, its wipers still wiping. It was difficult to see anything but snow; the truck headlights were full of it.

“Does it always snow this much here?” he asked.

“Why? Doesn’t it snow like this where you’re from, too?”

“No,” Henry said. He was picturing winter in Skagen, which rhymes with rain in English, although in Danish the word for rain— regn —rhymed with pine and not Skagen or rain. Regardless, it didn’t snow much there, not even in the winter.

“Really?” Ellen said. “Because when I see Sweden, I see snow.”

“Of course, of course,” Henry said. “But then, I’m from southern Sweden.”

“It doesn’t snow in southern Sweden?”

“It does. But not often in October.”

“It doesn’t usually snow this much in October here, either,” Ellen said. She turned off the truck and the headlights, too. But still, there was snow; still, there was light — not too far in front of them and much higher off the ground. A ring of light towers. Henry supposed they had something to do with this baseball game. In a moment he and Ellen would get out of the car and start walking in that direction. And what then? Something is about to happen, Henry thought. But what is about to happen? He wanted to reach across the bench seat to grab Ellen’s hand. Instead, he said, “It’s beautiful.”

“Snow is always beautiful in October,” she said.

“I really think I’m going to like it here,” he said.

“OK, listen,” Ellen said. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

“Talk like what?” Henry asked. He seemed genuinely, almost pedagogically concerned. If he’d had a pad of paper, Ellen was sure he’d have started taking notes on the subject. In fact, he reached into his jacket pocket, as though looking for something to write on and with. And then he reached into the other jacket pocket. There was clearly nothing in either. Then he looked even more concerned. Ellen didn’t think she’d ever seen a face like that, so wide open; Ellen didn’t think she’d ever seen someone who clearly wanted advice, who wanted to be helped.

“Like you talk,” Ellen said. “ ‘I really think I’m going to like it here.’ If you say things like that, these people will eat you alive.”

“Even the students?”

“Especially them.”

“What should I say?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t say anything,” she said. Ellen remembered when Kurt was younger. She would say something he didn’t like, and he would just stand there with his arms crossed, frowning, evidently waiting for her to say something else. Which she inevitably did. She explained this to Henry. “You should just go like this,” she said, and then she demonstrated. Henry did it back, and when he did, Ellen thought of a younger Kurt, and a younger Matty, and a younger self, and suddenly she became so lonely for that time and those people.

“Are you all right?” Henry asked.

“I’ve been a little lonely,” she said. Henry didn’t say anything back. He just frowned at her, as though he disapproved of the inaccuracy of her declaration. “I’m so lonely,” she said. “I’ve been so lonely for a long time.” Still, Henry frowned. Ellen remembered this now: She remembered feeling that she would have done or said anything to get that look off Kurt’s face. Even tell the truth. “I’ve been so lonely ever since Matty told me he’d been cheating on me.”

The frown disappeared. That’s more like it, Henry’s face seemed to say.

Turku!” Lawrence was saying, but Matty was barely listening. He was looking at Kurt, who was standing with his buddies against the fence. None of them were wearing coats. Instead they were wearing sweatshirts, with the hoods up and their hands in the pouches. God, Kurt looked so cold. Matty wanted to go over there and hug him. But then Kurt would say, What are you doing ? and then Matty would feel hurt and then get on Kurt’s case for not even being half smart enough to dress for the weather, and besides, it was possible the clothes Kurt was wearing would smell like pot, and Matty would either have to pretend he didn’t notice or admit he did notice and then make a big scene about it in front of Kurt’s friends, who were also, of course, Matty’s students. If Kurt smelled like pot, then they would also smell like pot, and if Matty made a big scene about Kurt, then he’d have to make a big scene about them, too. Meanwhile, there was this baseball game to be played. Everyone had told him to cancel it. There had been no school that day, because of state-mandated teacher workshops. That would mean that students would have to come back to school for the game. Plus, there was supposed to be a big snowstorm. But it was a tradition: they always held the faculty-student baseball game on the first Wednesday in October. And besides, it was only the first Wednesday in October. They would never actually end up getting that much snow. And yet, it seemed like they really were getting that much snow.

“Turku!” Lawrence was still saying.

“What does that mean?”

“So much snow!” Lawrence said. “It reminds me of that December I spent in Turku.” And then he was off, talking about that December he spent in Turku. Wherever that was. Someplace where there was snow in December, evidently. Just one of many stops on what Lawrence called his “grand tour” and what everyone else thought of as his more than ten years of fucking around after college before settling down and getting a real job back in Broomeville. Although he couldn’t have been entirely fucking around: he must have had a job somewhere doing something to pay for all his traveling. But finally, Lawrence must have run out of money or gotten bored or something, because twelve years earlier he’d come home and Matty had given him a job teaching twelfth-grade history. It had worked out, too. It turned out that Lawrence was a pretty good teacher. He’d even become the Civics Club adviser; the club met down at Doc’s every Friday after school. The students in the club loved him and in fact were younger versions of him: conscientious, smart, eager, not quite right, but not demonstrably wrong, either. Matty sometimes dropped by Doc’s and watched the students listen with big eyes as Lawrence told them about all his travels to all these places where this man and that had welcomed Lawrence into their homes. A few of them even kept in touch with Lawrence after they graduated, would meet him for coffee at Doc’s when they were back in town visiting. Matty thought the whole thing was very sweet; it made him hopeful: everyone finds the people, or person, they’re meant to find, eventually.