I Don't Have a Happy Place Read Online Free PDF Page A

enlisted my grandfather to wait outside our house, with strict instructions that the bus would deposit me at 3:15 p.m. and to not be late, which would never be a problem because Grandpa Solly showed up two hours early for everything. His crispy flaked hands positioned at ten and two even though the car was in Park summoned both comfort and dread in my empty after-school belly.
    â€œHow do you do?” he asked, hoisting himself out of the car.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “You?”
    â€œFine and dandy,” he said. “Fine and dandy.”
    How do you do and fine and dandy were pretty much the only sentences my grandfather uttered in those days. He stood silent, hands in his pockets jangling keys, dimes, and a handful of those no-name mints with the liquid chocolate centers he always had. It bothered me the way he bit into those mints. You were supposed to suck on them until the chocolate seeped out, collecting under your tongue and around your teeth.
    I struggled to get the key into the front door lock without strangling myself as Grandpa Solly stood behind me, unruffled. We were sausaged in the tiny vestibule and I stepped over the mail littering the floor, making a mental note to go back and collect both the TV Guide and Publishers Clearing House packet. Was I supposed to play with Grandpa Solly? Recite something? Give him a snack? It was a bonanza when he made his way onto the sofa in the living room no one used, settling in with an A&P circular by his side. I knew he’d be at that post, staring at our orange walls, until 5:30, when my parents released him.
    3:25 p.m.
    Quick pit stop in the kitchen to corral an unopened bag of Doritos, original Nacho Cheese flavor, not the gross Taco kind that Ace preferred. He was four years older and our tastes were as dissimilar as our characters, but without him pelting balled-up napkins at my head I didn’t know what to do with myself.
    3:27 p.m.
    Five television sets anchored our small house. We had juice with Good Morning America and fell asleep to the sounds of Johnny’s monologue. I learned my dance moves from Solid Gold , how to remedy misunderstandings from Three’s Company , and how to solve crime from The Hardy Boys . Later on, I’d grasp how to drum up intrigue from the ladies of Falcon Crest and get a sex education from the tomfoolery on Hotel .
    Television was the Grand Poobah, our religion. We never had much to say to each other but the house was always filled with canned laughter. And so I just assumed that for the first day sort of on my own, I’d settle in with my stories.
    But I couldn’t find the clicker, so I went upstairs to my room.
    3:31 p.m.
    I opened my desk drawer a smidge, peeking inside to make sure it was still there. The Silverberg’s toy catalog came out annually but I was only interested in an old copy, one featuring the bright orange Barbie Country Camper (with vinyl pop-out tent) that I very well would have sold one of my eyes for. I’d study the beautiful camper whenever I was alone in my room. Sometimes I’d place the catalog in my math book and take it to school, like a stowaway in my backpack.
    I knew the camper would never be mine, nor would Barbie herself, because tenet 5 stated that Barbie was not welcome in our home. This mandate was actually put into place before Phil Donahue barged in, some time after my mother traded in her strand of pearls for the heavy turquoise beads.
    This duel was unfinished, spanning four endless years. The battles all sounded the same: “Pleeeeease,” I’d say. “Why not?”
    â€œBecause Barbie is a negative role model for girls,” she’d say, as if reciting from some brochure picked up at Dr. Resnick’s. “She’s not realistic. I don’t want you trying to measure up later in life.”
    â€œI won’t,” I said. “I won’t try to measure up. I promise!”
    â€œOh, stop it.” Throaty sounds of