Happiness for Sale

Happiness for Sale


That's what the sign said, in
bright friendly letters on
a white background. What a thing,
I thought, to sell happiness. If
there's one thing that
everyone needs and never goes
out of style, it's happiness.

Oh the trends might swing
towards glorifying loneliness,
misery, or depression. The artistic
folk might tell you that only
suffering and longing are deep
and meaningful. The
magazines and songs and movies
can raise statues to the
angry, the brooding, and
the vengeful! But no
one really means it. Not
late at night, during that time
before sleep, where you're
just you and nothing
else. Happiness is always
in demand.

I wondered how one
might sell happiness. Would the
store be filled with shelves of
brightly colored boxes all
in neat rows? Would happiness be
sold in bulk, in great
bins with shiny scoops
and scales? I've heard happiness
floats, so maybe the shop
would have skinny tanks with curling
ribbon and racks of balloons in
every color. Would you
like your happiness in pink or
blue? And what size? What type?

Would the happiness be one size
fits all or would they have
a whole catalog to pick
from? Perhaps some are seasonal
only while others are on
hand all year.

There would of course be
the bright bubbly happiness of
childhood play, that
knows no time or worry. Also, the
swelling heat of the happiness of
a job well done at your
first hiring. The bold, but
steady happiness of graduating
college and the mellow
happiness of a good home. The
cottony down of the happiness
of hugs from grandma and
the tentative but proud
happiness of helping hold
grandpa's tools. These and so
many more would there
be, of course. What would
they have in
stock on their shelves?

Of course with shops and shelves
and boxes, come tags. What
would be the cost of happiness? I've
heard some say it's a steep
price, while others say it's free. How
many bits of colored paper
would I have to part with and how
many numbers would trickle
from my bank account for a bit
of happiness? Did happiness
go on sale? Did they have a payment
plan? Layaway?

All these questions followed me
into the store and the door swung
shut behind me with an
electronic ding sounding my
arrival. I scanned about for my
answers.

On the walls, I saw no shelves
of boxes, no bins, and no ribbons
and balloons. Instead there
were nick-knacks and bits
of decoration on high narrow
shelves that said "don't touch" without
the need of a sign. A few plaques
were hung on the wall
reading "Sales Leader: 1992,"
"Shirts and Shoes Required," and
"Employee of the Month: Natalie
Shore" the last of which had a
picture of nervous trying-to-smile  
teenager with it.

On one side of the room, was
a pair of small, round,
white tables each with two
chairs, all of which looked like
they belonged on a patio
and the other side of
the room was dominated
by a bank of glass display cases
with tubs of ice cream inside.

With the ice cream, were plastic
dispensers for all the toppings I
could imagine: sprinkles, cherries,
chocolate chips, coconut,
marshmallows and more, paired
with squeeze bottles of
syrups labeled with tape strips
from an electronic label maker. I saw
all this, but no happiness.

No boxes, no bins, no
balloons. Nothing at all. Even
the (not Natalie) girl behind
the cases looked bereft
of happiness. It appeared
they were all out and all they
had left to sell was ice cream, but
I couldn't be too angry. It must, I
thought, be hard to
keep happiness in stock. Always
a demand, always a
need. It was bound to clear
out very fast.

A shame I thought, but
still, I was there so I stepped
up and asked the happiness-less
girl for a small scoop of
strawberry. Cone in hand, I headed
back out into the muddy
spring.

Ice cream wasn't happiness but
if you're out of
stock, I suppose you
have to offer something
to customers or close your
doors. Perhaps,

I'll check back

tomorrow.