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Happy Thoughts

Bob Johnston

    The day didn’t start out too badly. In fact, I was pretty happy with the world when I awoke. The brown smog that had hung over our valley for two weeks was gone, washed away by last night’s rain. Half a rainbow lit up the western sky. I opened my bedroom window and inhaled the sweet air.
    With nothing special that had to be done, I cooked some bacon and eggs, made a pot of coffee, and sat down to read the paper. The headline story told of a particularly gruesome murder. Paul Jameson, a real estate broker, was eating breakfast with his wife, when he suddenly reached across the table and slashed her throat with a bread knife. Not satisfied with the result, he continued the attack until parts of Mrs. Jameson were strewn across the kitchen floor. In his statement to the police, he claimed that some sort of dark shadow had attached itself to his back and burrowed into his brain, convincing him that Mrs. Jameson was the Antichrist.
    The story bothered me enough that I couldn’t concentrate on the crossword puzzle. I gave up, read the comics, and washed the dishes. Today was to be my big day. The Greater Bookertown Booster Club would present me with a plaque in recognition of my work with disabled and disadvantaged children. Wanting to make my best impression, I showered and shaved with particular care, applied liberal amounts of underarm deodorant, brushed my teeth thoroughly, and gargled with Listerine. The dark blue suit would do nicely, along with freshly shined black oxfords, a white shirt, and my favorite tie, a conservative red-and-gray foulard.
    The luncheon at the Pine Cone restaurant went smoothly. As usual, the food was delicious. I had their spinach quiche with a green salad on the side. Then we all introduced ourselves. I sang along with the Booster Club songs, even though I didn’t know them very well. One of them began
    I’m here to tell you all
    I am a Booster True,
    And I will sing
    Praise to our Booster Flag . . .
    or something like that. I never could keep the words straight. Anyway, the words didn’t quite fit the tune, and almost everyone was off key. I tried to sing loud enough to drown them out, but it didn’t work and I got a lot of dirty looks.
    Next, we went around the table in the “Happy Thoughts” mode. This was a Booster thing where you had to share a Happy Thought or else put a dollar into the kitty. When my turn came, I tried to think a Happy Thought, but nothing came through. In the awkward silence, I felt something pressing down on my back, and I gasped for air. Finally, I was able to toss a dollar bill into the kitty and say, “Sorry, I’ll have to pass.”
    Anita Thomas, sitting at my right, put her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
    “Yes, everything’s all right. A little allergic reaction, I think.” I took a sip of water and buttered a roll. Whatever had been on my back went away.
    It was time for the awards. The Booster president, Ralph Makerstetter, held up one of the plaques and told us more about them than anyone could possibly want to know. Five members, including myself, would be receiving plaques, and I was last on the list. Ralph recounted the achievements of these members in excruciating detail. Lee Travis, an insurance salesman, had set a new record for Booster Candy sales. Janet Plowman, a college professor, persuaded twenty-eight stores to install Booster collection boxes at their cash registers, with twenty-three of them displaying Booster Flags. Frank Larsen, a garbage truck driver, auctioned off the many valuable items he had recovered on his route, netting one hundred thirty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents for the Booster charity fund. Jim Szymanski, a retired policeman, designed a new logo for our Bookertown Booster Club jackets. Each of these four found it necessary to chatter interminably about how greatly they were honored and what a pleasure it was to be of service as True Boosters.
    Finally my turn came. Ralph held up the plaque and announced, “Last but by no means least, we have this plaque honoring Jack Fellowes for his outstanding work with disadvantaged and disabled children. I could talk for hours about his unselfish, continuous devotion to this cause, and his wonderful results in improving the lives of these unfortunate children. But mere words cannot do justice to his work, and his achievements speak for themselves. Jack, come on up here and accept this honor.”
    While he was talking, a cold breeze came through the room, and the lights flickered. I stood up with difficulty, because something was weighting me down. I managed to walk up to the podium.
    “Here you are, Jack, and congratulations!” He handed me the plaque—a monstrous thing, fully two feet square, with a bronze plate and the Booster Club emblem. It was so heavy I nearly dropped it. Ralph held out his hand, but I couldn’t spare one of mine to shake it.
    I stood there holding the plaque with both hands, while everyone waited for my speech. Suddenly I found my voice. “You can keep your goddam plaque. I hate all the creepy little cripples, and you’re a bunch of frigging hypocrites. Here’s a Happy Thought for you. Take this plaque and shove it!”
    It seemed necessary to emphasize my words, so I banged Ralph on the head with the plaque. As he fell to the floor, I overturned the table. Then I walked back to my own table and tried to choke Anita. Two members and a waiter pulled me off and held me down until the police arrived.

    Now I’m locked up at the State Hospital, and I have these stupid psychiatrists poking at me every day. I try to explain, but they’re too dumb to see the black thing on my back.
    I’ve written several letters to the Governor, demanding my constitutional right to the services of an exorcist.

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