Free 100 Days of Happiness by Fausto Brizzi Page A

thirty-eight euros a month (before taxes). He’s a fine observer of psychological subtleties. I look at the faux-Maori tattoos on his biceps, his long gray hair (I would suggest a law prohibiting long hair if you’re over forty and you have a devastating bald spot), and the tight-fitting Iron Maiden T-shirt that was already out of fashion twenty years ago. I’ve always detested him. Now I see him clearly. Two hundred and thirty pounds of classic Roman thug. He sells soft drugs in the neighborhood; he’s the two-bit boss of a square of urban territory that runs from Porta Portese to the banks of the Tiber. Until today I’ve pretended to see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. But today I can’t hold it in.
    â€œSo do you like working in this cellar office?”
    He doesn’t understand.
    â€œWhat I mean is, when you were a little boy, did you write class compositions that read, in part: ‘When I grow up I want to be the tawdry manager of a dingy gym in Monteverde?’”
    He starts to suspect I might be trying to insult him. I redouble my efforts.
    â€œDon’t you see you’re a stock character straight out of a small-time Roman version of the commedia dell’arte?”
    At this point, I’ve lost him; I’ve overdone it with the learned references. So I lower my sights.
    â€œYou always wear the same T-shirts a size too small; you wear a ponytail, which is forbidden by EU regulations as an assault on the common sense of aesthetics; you speak an Italian that we might charitably call creative, riddled as it is with grammatical errors that defy imagination; you stuff yourself with pharmaceuticals that are bound to make you impotent in the course of a few years; and when someoneasks you a question, you take so long to reply that people usually have to ask you twice!”
    â€œWhat are you saying, that I’m impotent?” my employer blurts out. “What the hell are you thinking?”
    The only word he understood was “impotent.” I overestimated his capacity to appreciate insults.
    â€œNo,” I say, “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to wait for the end of the month. So long, best to everyone, and thanks very much.”
    I head for my locker with the stride of someone who’s knocked out his opponent in the last round, just when he was about to lose on points.
    He shouts after me: “You loser! Get your things, get out of here, and go fuck yourself!”
    An elegantly refined way of telling me that I’m fired. It’s a question of how you look at it: as far as I’m concerned, I’m the one who quit. I just can’t take this odor of sweat, chlorine, and Lysol anymore.
    Sometimes real troubles give you a strength you never had before. When I walk out with my gym bag thrown over my shoulder, the receptionist looks at me with something like respect for the very first time. Today I’m her personal hero. I get to leave, and she has to stay behind bars. Sooner or later, I hope she’ll find a way to break out.
    I go back to get my car. She’s surprised to see me back so soon. I smile at her and take her to the car wash. She, too, should get some enjoyment out of the day. As I wait for the rotating brushes to do their work, I reread the phrase I wrote in my notebook.
    Get Paola to forgive me.

−98
    I don’t believe in God.
    Any God, of any religion.
    I hate religions. They’re useless; in fact, they’re counterproductive. No evolved society can allow itself to be held in slavery to ancient superstitions.
    I’ve been baptized, I’ve received both communion and confirmation, but out of convention, certainly not conviction. A few years ago, I even looked into having myself unbaptized. I found out it was simple enough: all you need to do is have a notation of your decision put on the register of the parish church where your first Catholic