ABOUT AS HAPPY

           Li’l Abner was a cartoon strip in the funny papers when I was growing up. He and his hillbilly cohorts lived in the stereotypic little, backwoods town of Dogpatch. One character in particular was a well meaning old guy in a ragged, black outfit named Joe Btfsplk. He was so unlucky his own little rain cloud followed him around. Misfortune was his reward for getting up each day and everyone avoided him after all, he was wet all the time. If he came inside the cloud came with him. So if I were from Dogpatch I think I would have been down the pecking order from Abner but well above Joe B. Still I meet different, for lack of a better word, people in coincidental, random circumstances who epitomize the Dogpatch ethos and I wonder, is it me, do I attract these folks or is it my mother’s wisdom come to haunt me? “There but for the Grace of God. . .” 

           Yesterday I was in New Orleans’ Lakeview neighborhood, shopping for tires. It was early and I was hungry so I stopped at a Panera’s Bakery-Cafe for a nice little breakfast quiche and coffee that rivals Star Bucks at half the price. I sat in a booth. Just off my shoulder across the isle was a man like me, old enough to be retired, at 9:30 on Tuesday morning, no place special to be. He was seated, talking over coffee to a standing man who was trying to escape. The seated man was still talking as his audience slipped out the door. He turned to me and kept on talking, something about cold weather and hot coffee. I nodded and he kept on. Shortly I realized it was incumbent on me to move over to his table or we would be shouting across the room like longshoremen on the docks. We shook hands; I missed his name but not the syrupy, Big Easy accent. It’s nothing like the slow southern drawl you find in Mississippi or Georgia, more like Brooklyn without the hard edge. In New Orleans they drop “r’s” too and run words together.  

           He asked where I was from then told me not to answer. He wanted to figure it out for himself. Obviously, I wasn’t from N.O. He said, “Not Lake Charles,” then a pause, “not even Louisiana.” I nodded. “You sound like California.” I thought I’d have a turn to talk but he motored on. Maybe 6 ft., well over 200 lbs, more like 250; his hands and fingers were huge. With a wide jaw, heavy jowls under a crumpled felt hat, he began a litany of what’s good and what’s not about any and everything. “We got the bess… sea food in the worl’… heaa…” He retired in ’99, two years before I did. He worked for a Ford dealer for a long time but got laid off; spent the next 20 years driving a cab. He asked but didn’t listen when I told him what I did. His wife smoked herself to death a decade ago and his kids are struggling to keep their jobs. 

           He reminded me of Dogpatch and Joe Btfsplk. If he wasn’t Joe before, he is now. He had been leaning into the conversation, or monologue, whichever; and he leaned back, pushed his hat back and took a deep breath. “How about the Pres-dent?” He rolled his eyes, “Everybody hates the Pres-dent. They hate ‘im.” He went on to blame everything bad on Obama. “That black Obama gave it all to the Mexicans and Muslims and now they hate the Pres-dent.” He had his say on bitchy women and political correctness, fake news and Obama Care. I nodded now and then, leaned forward and back. My coffee was gone but I could hear my mom, crystal clear. “When someone needs a friendly ear, lend an ear.” So I listened. When he ran out of material it only took a few breaths to tap off in another direction. A good ten minutes had taken their leave and I knew it was time for me to move on. I stood up, offered my hand and he took it. His Thank-you was sincere; “Nice talkin’ with you.” I echoed the sentiment and an affirmative, “You got it right on the sea food.” Going out the door I heard him talking but didn’t look back. 

          This morning I was in Baton Rouge, still looking at tires. I stopped at Waffle House. My waitress was a 30-ish woman, attractive as one can be in a soiled, brown apron, dealing coffee, waffles and dirty dishes. Her name was Amanda; I read it on the ticket. She was calling out to other customers and to the cook. The smile and tone of voice were convincing, natural, hard to fake. She told me today was supposed to be her day off but they needed help and she could use the money. She got my order right the first time and topped off my coffee before I knew I was ready. My bill was $7 and small change and I was wondering how much Amanda earns at Waffle House. I didn’t know at the time but it’s $3.95 hr. plus tips. I left a $10 on the counter and she thanked me. If I’d known about the $3.95 at the time I would have left more. Abraham Lincoln is credited with saying, “Folks are about as happy as they make their minds up to be.” Joe couldn’t make up his mind but Amanda could. I still need to get new tires.