A Small Conversation

“Happy go lucky” Wilson says to his wife of more years than he can remember, “That’s what everybody always calls me, happy go lucky.”

He turns to the bartender before she can reply and orders another round. “Quisiera Senor, dos mas por favor” His Spanish is uncertain, but he’s pretty sure he’s got that one right.

His wife looks at him a moment wondering where he’s going with this new thought and whether they really need another round. “ Well,”she offers in her always logical straight forward way, “It’s mostly true you know. You usually are happy and of course you’re lucky or you wouldn’t be with me.”

Wilson blurts a “ha” and sprays a little cerveza across the bar. “Yeah and besides that”
he says, smiling at her, “ I’m supposed to be the funny one.”

Wilson’s wife, Emma, still starkly beautiful in her early sixties, gives him an appraising glance and asks, “What’s bothering you?” After thirty-six years she knows this doesn’t come out of the blue, something is on her husband’s mind.

“I don’t want to be mister happy go lucky anymore” he says. “It sounds too flip, too trivial, too, I don’t know, lacking in weight. I mean old happy go lucky is just a sidekick to the dark, brooding, sexy guys. Nobody takes him seriously, he’s just the comic relief. Well, c’mon now, I’ve been working for fifty years and I’ve done good things, important things. I’ve even done serious things, so from now on I want to be thought of as someone with ah, depth and ah…ah, substance.”

Emma points at her husband’s fresh drink. “Substance abuse is more like it.”

Wilson can’t help himself, he laughs again. “And I still want to be the funny one.”

“That’s the point querido mio, most of the time you are the funny one. And you’re good at it. Don’t you think people know you’re smart? Don’t you know that it takes smart to be funny?

Wilson deliberately avoids looking at his wife when he speaks. Even after so many years he knows that if he makes eye contact his current thoughts will dissolve and be replaced by something a whole lot less intellectual and a whole lot more... edgy. She, on the other hand, stares at him like he's the only guy on the planet. Wilson, of course, loves that.

“Well sure I know that and you know that” Wilson says, emphasing the I and the you, “but does anyone else really know ?” Do they know that the life of the party guy may be consciously playing the fool, consciously being the clown, consciously bringing energy to the room? I don’t think so, I really don’t. I think they think he’s just naturally that way.”

“That’s because he is.”

“What?” Wilson says, turning to look at his wife. He hadn’t been expecting this response. He thought maybe something more sympathetic might have come his way, something more supportive. But then, this was Emma talking after all. You are going to get what’s on her mind. “How can you say that?” he says, looking at her, but still dodging her eyes.

“Well, I think it’s like this. You have to be the way you are naturally or it wouldn’t even occur to you that the party needed more energy or laughter or whatever. Even if a few others of us did recognize the need for more juice at the party, we still wouldn’t be compelled to supply it like you are. It's what you do naturally. Myself, I’d fall back in horror if I was just asked to tell a joke while you'd come flying to my rescue and volunteer one.”

Wilson thought a moment then said, “You would, wouldn’t you, withdraw I mean. I guess most people would. Most people are just flat afraid of making a fool of themselves. Bombing as it were. It’s odd when you consider all the hidden fears I live with, that making a fool of myself is not one of them. I gladly risk embarrassment for a good laugh. Hey, if I bomb, I bomb. At least I tried to brighten the moment.”

“And people appreciate that Wilson, they really do. It’s why you get invited in the first place. Besides,” Emma says leaning close to her husband’s ear, “some of us find humor and energy sexy. You can take your dark, gloomy guys some place else. They’re so busy being serious and mysterious they don’t even notice they’re boring you to tears.”

Wilson gives his wife a quick, small kiss. “Thanks” he says. “But c’mon, don’t you ever get weary of your own self, your own schtick, your own big pile of stuff you bring to the world everyday? Doesn’t it just feel old and tiresome sometimes?”

“You mean do I get tired of being the one standing on the sideline looking bored and aloof? Hell yes. But I can’t seem to help it either. It’s my fall-back position. I really don’t know how to be any other way.”

“Well, you’ve got that don’t speak unless you’ve got something to say thing down really well. People respect you for that. But don’t you ever feel uh... uh, carefree or... or frivolous? You know, the I don't give a damn, I'm hell bent for leather kind of thing?

"Well sure“ says Emma, "when I'm suicidal. Or, ah, with you."

“And that" says Wilson, "is redundant! See, I AM the funny one.”