Free Meeks by Julia Holmes Page A

entitled to whatever you want in life, and each of you seems to think that your suffering is beyond compare. And beyond that, you don't think. I've heard it all, Ben. And the days of special dispensations are over. You are not a boy. You are a grown man. I'm sorry things aren't turning out as you had hoped."
    "You'd make an exception for your son,” Ben said peevishly.
    The tailor gave Ben a long look. “Of course I would, Ben. What father wouldn't? Your mother, a woman of infinite kindness and optimism, had such high hopes for you. She thought you might do well in life. And then you enlisted, of all things. Always hot on the heels of your father,” said the tailor, mocking Ben's tone. “All your mother wanted was for you to find happiness in life, to marry well, to have a family that would fill up the rooms of the old house. I cared for her a great deal, Ben, but I'll tell you this right now. You mention the suit again, and I'll throw you out of this shop for good. Now, I'm tired of watching you sulk. It's a beautiful day—you should be outside. And don't come back until you've cheered up. I hope you're not glowering at young women the way you're glowering at me. Try looking a little happier."
    "I have nothing to be happy about! Besides, it's not a beautiful day. It's hot and everyone's miserable."
    "Well. You're unlikely to meet anyone with that attitude—you'd be amazed what a positive outlook can accomplish. Consider the difference between that shop"—the tailor nodded toward the butcher—"and this one. As the adage goes, ‘A boy may thrive, while his brother fails.’ In the story, Ben, they've shared every advantage, yet one permits failure to enter his life, while the other doesn't."
    "Yes, thank you,” said Ben. “I am aware of the story and what it means."
    Ben walked through the park, frowning at women—when he walked, he thought, and when he thought, he frowned; it couldn't be helped. And what if the tailor was wrong, what if forcing a good attitude dulled the blades of thought, softened and corroded the mind so it could prepare itself for less and less?
    He passed the police station and paused to study the tattered posters pasted along the south wall: happily married couples walking by the river; children laughing through mouthfuls of cake (disgusting); young men in pale suits, shotguns tipped jauntily over their shoulders; gray workers turning vague and massive cranks in the shadows. The Consequences of Failure! Duly noted: the official exhortation to pursue one's own happiness or be put to the task of generating happiness for others, or worse—to be not in the picture . Had he accomplished anything? Ben thought of all the pointless visits to the tailor, the hours spent fending off the Brothers’ efforts to administer mercy in the park, the merciless sarcasms of other bachelors, his own ham-handed attempts at conversation with young women. He had to reach so far back to lay his hands upon a truly happy memory. What if he was becoming, or had become, an unlovable man? What if the toxin of failure was already coursing through his veins, what if he was already stinking of defeat? Women sense things, know you before you know yourself . . . The tailor was right—he had to think differently, or else his brain would cloud over permanently, and his poor heart would have to chug the cold, dirty blood until it stopped.
    Perhaps these unhappy scenes were the raw material of lasting happiness, as was often the case in stories. In the old stories, future happiness was almost always directly proportionate to the amount of suffering that preceded it. In which case, Ben could expect a beautiful life, an excellent and happy outcome. Happiness being the final product of the machinery that was, for the moment, generating such unhappiness. Unhappy life scenes: where else could they land him except in the arms of another?
    Ben yanked a cluster of pink flowers from a park tree; he tucked the blossoms into the buttonholes