Happiness

The third story i wrote last week, and probably the craziest one, portraying the transformation that we can go through... The task was to use 5 phrases that we came up in class with and construct a story around them.
the 5 phrases were:
a green bottle
the stomp of an oak tree
1980 VW rabbit 
blue eyed child
yoga matt
9mm pistol
one dirty hippie 


thanks jess for helping me typing it ;)




 Happiness

    Sitting on the stump of an old oak tree next to his house, the old man enjoyed the silence and cool breeze of this late summer morning.  He enjoyed sitting here alone, with the silence and the peace.  Sharing this morning only with the gossip of the starlings in the trees and the smiles of the flowers around him.  The simplicity of this life gave him many pleasures, joy, and fulfillment.  He imagined his wife inside doing her daily routine on the old blue yoga mat.  The Asanas kept them both young and fit, though he allowed himself to skip out on them from time to time.  Like today.  This morning was just too beautiful to be spent inside, so he came out and decided to just sit here and listen to nature.  Life was joy.  
    But it had not always been like that.  It’s been a long journey.  Suddenly all those memories came up again, and even though he had made peace with his past, a slightly unpleasant tension came up in his chest every time he thought about it.  

It must have been 50 years ago.  Maybe even 60.  He was in his 20’s.  The “prime of his life.”  At least, that’s what he thought back then.  He had just gotten his first well-paid job, the director of graphic design in a highly successful, young, advertising agency.  His work was to brief the designer’s on projects and be the interface between the account manager guys and the graphic nerds.  He loved his job.  The challenges.  The money.  And even though he worked 80+ hours, he enjoyed the freedom and status that came with this money.  He and his new friends enjoyed their new life.  Their slogan was “Work hard - Party hard.”  And so it was.  Alcohol, girls, never-ending parties, and always some cocaine to get a clear head in the morning.  

It must have been a Sunday morning.  Probably around 5, because the street cleaners were out when he drove his shining, red, 1980 convertible VW Rabbit back home.  It had been another one of those long party nights and he just wanted to get home to take a quick shower, get some fresh clothes, a quick line to clear his head, and drive back to the office to work on some of the projects.  

A sudden thump kicked him out of his thoughts.  He must have hit something.  He stopped his car, adrenaline pumping throughout his body, clearing his head.  It must have been a cat, maybe a dog.  Maybe one of those cougars.  Anyways, he wanted to see if it was still alive.  Pulling back his car he saw something moving in the shadow of the sidewalk.  “That’s it,” he thought.  He stopped, got out of the car, and ran to the sidewalk.  “Oh my god,” he thought.  There was a bundle of clothes, blond hair, and a lot of blood.  Shocked, he turned the bloody head around and looked into the dead blue eyes of a child.  A child, maybe 7, maybe 8 years old.  Obviously homeless.  Thoughts flashing through his head, “nobody will miss it - nobody will even know it’s gone - nobody had taken care of it anyways - maybe it was even for the best - saved it from a life of poverty and despair.”  

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  The alarm clock.  His head hurts.  The sunlight stings his eyes.  What time is it?  7.  What day?  Thursday.  Why was his alarm ringing?  He had not gone to work in 2 weeks.  Since that morning. Even though everything went well, the cops still had not called.  Nothing in the newspapers or on the TV indicated that a child was even missing.  But the dead blue eyes.  Every time he closed his eyes, there they were. Looking back at him. These little, blue, dead eyes. Just looking at him. He looked around his apartment.  It was filthy, dirty, fucked up.  Clothes everywhere on the black designer chairs.  Empty green bottles of cheap whiskey on the table and the floor.  Empty pizza boxes and the remains of cocaine on the glass table.  The TV playing a random sitcom.  

Suddenly it becomes clear to him.  They would find him.  It could never be like before.  His life was over.  He made a decision.

He got up, threw on some jeans and a sweater, a short line of cocaine to get the head-ace away, and walked out.  He knew exactly where to go.  His heart started to beat faster as he got closer.  Sweating, excited, he opened the door and looked around.  It took a few seconds for his eyes to get adjusted to the darkness.  A dirty old hippie stood behind the counter.  He kept on looking.  The shop looked almost as filthy as his apartment.  Neon lights brightened the displays.  He looked around searching for the right one.  “This one,” he said.  Without words, the hippie took the silver 9mm pistol out of the display and brought it to the counter.  He started to feel nervous and sweat again.  Was this really the only way out?  Was there no other choice?  His cheeks tightened.  No.  He had fucked up.  Time to pay the consequences.  The hippie stood behind the counter.  Suddenly he didn’t look dirty anymore.  He looked older.  Very old, and somehow wise.  He looked into the young man’s eyes.  Just looked with warm understanding eyes.  

“If you seek forgiveness, you will find it inside you.  If you seek happiness outside, all you will find is suffering and pain.  Seek it inside you, and you will find peace and salvation.  Take the pistol now and find suffering, or come with me and I will teach you how to find happiness inside.”

The young man stared at the old hippie.  Tears streaming down his face.  It was the first time he had cried in years.  It was the first step he took to salvation.

Sitting on the stump of the oak tree, the old man smiled.  He had never figured out why that hippie was in the gun store and how he knew exactly what to say.  But he does know that if the hippie had not said those exact words, he would killed himself that day.