The Tyranny of Happiness

            When I arrived at the food bank on Saturday, November 26^th, as soon as I pulled my bike into the driveway I asked an elderly man standing near the back of what looked like the line-up, who the last one in line was, and he said it was him. As I walked up the driveway to the tree where I lock my bike, a tall, early middle-aged Tibetan man was walking from the very end of the driveway where I’d assumed he’d just urinated behind a building. After I locked my bike and walked back to the line I saw that the Tibetan man was standing behind the man I’d spoken to at first. I asked the Tibetan guy whom he was behind and he pointed to the old man. So I guess he’d gotten there, saw his place in line behind the old man without saying anything, and then went to the back to relieve himself.

            A few more people arrived and I noticed that I was making a mental note of their positions. Some stood in line and some didn’t but I knew their place and reminded some people of their real positions once the line finally tried to form.

            There was a loud conversation going on among the women from the Caribbean and a regular who I think is from Nova Scotia, who sit near the door. The big woman from Jamaica said, “Some people walk around with guns, and that’s their choice! Some people like to take drugs and that’s their choice! Some people go to the food bank, and that’s their choice!” Later she said, “Some backward fucking countries like Granada say that kids don’t need to go to school!”

            Three women arrived that gave off the vibe that they live together in the same group home. They were also all smoking at the same time.

            Joe, the manager and one of the volunteers that work reception, came out to make an announcement that they would be giving out turkey or ham vouchers early this year to avoid the rush, and that they’d start giving out the turkeys on December 9^th. One of the group home women asked, “Can I get a turkey?” and the Caribbean women near the door burst out laughing. Joe told her, “Not today!”

            The people in line have to take turns to go inside the food bank to get a coffee and a pastry. The group home women took turns and the shorter one in the mackinaw came out holding a sheet of white wrapping paper by its bottom centre so that between her fingers and the paper was a pastry inside like the pistil of a flower into which she shoved her face like an overweight bee. “What did you get?” asked one of the other women. She pulled her face out from the cellulose bloom and said, while still chewing, “A donut!” “I didn’t see any donuts!” he friend complained.

            At around 9:50 when I took my place in line, I saw that the Tibetan guy had moved far ahead, butting in while riding inside the Trojan horse of his conversation with the middle aged Tibetan woman who seemed to have a place further up in line. I stepped in behind the older man, but his friend who’d been just ahead of him the whole time as they chatted, had fallen just behind him. Just so I knew for sure where I stood, I asked him to confirm his place. The older man explained that the man behind him was indeed ahead of him and then added, “Don’t worry, be happy!” I responded that I would not worry but didn’t need to be happy. He wanted to know why. I said I don’t think happiness is important. He couldn’t understand why happiness would not be important. I said that it’s more important to be interested. He held two fingers together and extended his hand, arguing, “Happiness and being interested are like this!” I countered that I was interested in what he had just said but it did not make me happy at all. He suggested that if one is not happy, they are lost. I said happiness is only a drug. He made the point that he didn’t smoke happiness.

            While we were talking, next to us at the foot of the fire escape was a disheveled young white man on roller blades, shuffling his skates and nodding his head to the beat of a rap song that he was blasting on his portable system and in which the singer was authoritatively declaring his command over “Bitches” and “Muthafukahs” and indicating that “Niggahs beddah move aside!”

I explained that what I’d said about happiness being a drug was an analogy for the fact that people feel the need to pursue happiness. In our society we are almost bullied from the start of our lives with the insistence that we be happy and so it has been so ingrained in our social conscience that we must be happy that even if we are not happy we will convince ourselves that we are because if we are not happy we are betraying our function as members of society and are in danger of becoming cast out if someone were to discover our secret. He protested that unhappiness results from mistakes. He said that if a person makes a mistake, they become unhappy with themselves and then he indicated, for example, that everybody that comes to the food bank has made a mistake. I pressed him to confirm that he was claiming that everyone that comes to the food bank has made a mistake and is therefore unhappy. He confirmed that that is the case. I challenged that he had already claimed that he was happy and so I wondered if he thought that he was the only happy person here. He suddenly laughed with surprise and then nodded. Then he affirmed that he indeed was the only happy person at the food bank, though I discerned from his laughter a sheepish embarrassment that he’d just been caught.

He wanted to know if I’d lost my job. I answered that I work part time and I go to school part time. He asked what kind of school. I told him that I go to university. He inquired as to what I was studying and I told him that I was an English major, but that I minor in French and Philosophy. He wondered if I was studying French because I planned to go to Quebec to get a job. I said that was not the case and that I study it because I’m Canadian and that Canada is bilingual and that I like the language. I added that my mother spoke French and then he nodded and settled on that being my reason for wanting to learn French.

He then asked why I was studying philosophy. I explained that I’ve always been interested in philosophy. This brought him back to the idea of mistakes. He said that when people make the same mistakes over and over again, they do so because they are stupid. I argued that chances are that if someone is repeating behaviour it’s because they are stuck because of a mental illness. I pointed out that “stupid” is an ugly word. He agreed that he probably shouldn’t use it and then asked me to confirm that I was saying that people that repeat the same mistakes over and over are mentally ill. I explained that there is a mental hospital a few blocks east of Parkdale that no longer houses mentally ill people. Parkdale is the nearest cheap rent neighbourhood to the hospital and that is why there are more mentally ill people here than in any part of Toronto. I was about to describe what I observe from my window looking out on Queen Street in Parkdale, when the door person separated us by letting him in. When I was allowed inside, he was on his way out. We each said, “Nice talking to you!” and I went to get my number and my turkey voucher. Desmond was working reception and confirmed when I asked that I don’t have to pick up my turkey on December 9^th, but could do so anytime up till December 23^rd. I got number 20.

I had time to go home for a few minutes, but stopped off at the Dollarama to buy a light bulb for my bathroom. I opted for a more expensive one in hopes that it wouldn’t burn out as fast as the cheap ones tend to do. The cashier was friendly.

I checked my messages and finished my now cold coffee, then went back to the food bank.

There weren’t that many people in the driveway when I arrived.

There were a few people even at that hour, waiting in line for a number. One of them was a slim, early middle-aged Saturday regular, who is always listening to music through headphones and singing along in a not very musical voice. All one hears is his voice but not the song he’s listening to. This time he was joining in on Steve Goodman’s “City of New Orleans”, as sung, I assume, by Arlo Guthrie. I noticed that he’d some of the lyrics a little wrong when he said, “The sounds of Pullman porters and the sounds of engineers” instead of, “The sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers ride their fathers’ magic carpet made of steel.”

The doorkeeper was the big, prematurely grey guy that sometimes volunteers there. He explained to someone that the only reason they put up with him is that he’s the only volunteer at the Parkdale Food Bank that has a drivers license.

For some strange reason, when he called out the numbers, “Fifteen to twenty”, I was the only one that went in. There was no one else being served. The tiny, elderly volunteer from the Philippines called for 15 but I was the only on in the room, so she just served me.

I took a package of lemon jelly powder and another of corn muffin mix. Corn muffins go great with baked beans. Canned beans are okay with corn bread, but they’re a poor substitute. I’m not a bad cook, but one thing I’ve never been able to recreate is my mother’s home baked beans. She used a crock-pot though, and I’ve never had one. I remember one of her brothers also made a great batch of beans that he called “bean-hole beans” at his cottage on Great East Lake in New Hampshire and that were baked in a buried pot underneath a campfire.

I also took a package of wheat free, gluten free, dairy and egg free quinoa chocolate chip cookies. I didn’t care if they were gluten free or vegan but the package was fancy so it made me curious if what was inside was as good as the packaging implied. If I’m that easily swayed, it makes me glad that I’m poor and wouldn’t give the stuff a second glance at the supermarket.

She gave me some more of those little bags of Air Canada pretzels and a handful of bars. There were three Fibre-1 chewy bars, which aren’t bad but I noticed later a couple of those horrible Lucky Charms bars.

I didn’t take any pasta, rice, sauce or canned beans, though there seemed to be plenty of all that stuff. I took a carton of chicken broth though.

I took three small containers of what I thought was applesauce, but it turned out to be some sort of nearly tasteless applesauce derived concoction.

Across the aisle by the cold section, a big woman wearing a helmet, who’s a regular food bank client, was chatting with Angie and telling her, “You’re gonna have to tighten your boots this month!” I approached Angie and asked, “Would you like to tighten your boots before you help me?” Angie laughed and asked what she could get me.

There was a choice of juice or milk, and the milk was a whole liter this time rather than the half-liter they’ve been handing out for the last couple of months. It was also 3.5% milk. I usually only use milk that rich just for coffee, but I took it anyway.

She gave me a tub of 14% sour cream and then asked if I liked sour cream and gave me another. She assured me that it keeps in the fridge. There was a bin of various frozen meat products. She said there was a choice of ground chicken, hot dogs or bologna. I noticed though that there was a package of beef and cheddar smoked Johnsonville sausage among the items, so I took that for a change. She also gave me a couple of bags of frozen egg patties. Those are actually pretty good for a quick meal along with some super fries when I come home late from Canadian Poetry class.

I perused the bread section, looking for raisin bread. The bread lady asked me if I wanted a bag of buns. When I said, “No thanks” she commented, “You’re the healthy guy!” I responded, “I am?” She said I always go for the whole grain bread. I told her that I had enough bread at home this time.

The vegetable lady had potatoes, carrots, a couple of questionable onions and a head of leaf lettuce. She also had Chinese cabbage, but I guess that was instead of the lettuce because she didn’t offer me any.