I Hate Everyone, Except You(62)

“Secret Number Four of Becoming Rich and Famous: Do What You Love.

“It’s as simple as that. If you are going off to college this fall to study accounting because you love numbers and spreadsheets and tax law, that is awesome. If you are going off to college this fall to study accounting because your parents convinced you it will lead to a steady job with good benefits and a 401(k) plan, you . . . are . . . screwed.

“You’ll probably have to work forty-five years, at least, until you retire. That’s a long time to do something you hate. Find something that makes you happy, whether it’s writing or cars or flowers or sports or fashion or science or travel and do something related to that. Trust me, life is so much more fun when you’re doing something you love.

“Now, I have a confession to make. I’ve been lying to you. Those are not the secrets to becoming rich and famous. They are the secrets to becoming ridiculously happy, which is so much more important. And let’s be honest, you wouldn’t have listened to me if I had started this speech by saying, ‘These are the four secrets to happiness.’ Lame.

“And I guess that’s all. Have a nice life, dipshits!”

The afternoon was sunny and warm, so graduation was held outside on the football field. As I walked across the lawn to the folding chair with my name on it, I couldn’t help but quietly laugh at the absurdity of it all. Me on a football field in a two-thousand-dollar suit. Boys in blue caps and gowns, girls in gold. The marching band playing “Pomp and Circumstance.” Parents, grandparents, siblings sitting on bleachers. My parents and Courtney were out there, too, somewhere, but I couldn’t pick them out of the crowd. It was all so solemn, this rite of passage, as if these four hundred kids were being sent off to fight some epic battle, which of course they were. A battle to be the kind of human you want to be, to fight the fights worth fighting. Maybe a few of them were aware of that, but I doubted it. What did I know at their age? Not much more than that I wanted out, never to return.

Yet here I was. Back and bigger than ever. And why did I hate it so much in the first place again? It was getting harder and harder to remember. Because kids are jerks? Maybe. But, I’ve learned, as we all must, that adults are jerks too. At least some of them. And that’s why I feel so strongly that if you have the opportunity to surround yourself with people who aren’t jerks, you should not just take it, but grab it, seize it, squeeze the living hell out of it.

*

I met my parents and Courtney at a local restaurant. They had made an early reservation because Courtney’s husband was watching their kids. When the waitress delivered our drinks, Mike raised his and said, “Excellent speech, son. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said.

“You should take that speech on the road. There’s big money in graduation speeches. Did they pay you for that?”

“No, Dad. I did it for free.”

He shrugged. “Next time.”

“That’s a beautiful suit,” Terri said. “They’re making pant legs narrow again. I like that. It looked very expensive even from far away.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said. I really was glad to hear it. “What about you, Courtney? What did you think of my speech?”

She smiled a sly smile. “If you gave that speech at my graduation,” she said, “I would have thought you were pretty cool.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah, really.”

“Did you hear that, Mom and Dad? The captain of the cheerleaders thinks I’m coooooool.”

Everyone laughed. “You’re such a spaz,” Courtney said. “Let’s order dinner. I want to be home in time to kiss the boys good night.” So we all opened our menus. There seemed to be a few dozen more options than necessary. Courtney closed hers within fifteen seconds.

“That was quick,” I said. “Do you know what you want already?”

“Yep. I’m having the salmon.”

“That’s such a grown-up choice,” I said.

She looked at me and scrunched up her nose. “You do realize I’m thirty-three, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Thirty-three. Eighteen. Six. What’s the difference, really.





AFTERWORD


Dear Grandma,

I’m sorry for all the foul language. I hope you don’t think less of me after reading this.

Love,

Clinton

PS: I didn’t tell any of our stories because I can’t bear to share them with anyone. You’re all mine.