When I’m in a contemplative mood, even those who know me well sometimes mistake my somewhat neutral mood for misery, and ask, “What’s wrong?” It took my own family years to stop asking. I offer this as a potential explanation, or partial explanation, for the fact that a total stranger walked up to me and said, “Have a fantastic day, or don’t! The choice is yours!”

I was startled by the intrusion of that bumper sticker into my audio world. It had shown itself visually many times, and had been categorized in my mind with other sayings that are “partly true”. I acknowledge that a whole lot of one’s experience in life comes from how one chooses to react – but, when, say, an unexpected bullet rips through one’s chest, it’s a real stretch to find a positive take on it. So I took that saying for what it was worth. It’s worth at least a little, since most days aren’t quite as bad as the hypothetical getting-shot day.

I think it was because I’d categorized it as “partly true” that I was startled. It didn’t seem worth stating out loud, especially to a total stranger with no context whatsoever. If someone had accused me of taking that comment out of context, I would have replied that there had been no context to take it out of.

I looked up, already starting to reason that the comment must have been directed toward someone else; but no, there stood the comment’s source, looking right at me. He was a man, somewhere between his mid-thirties and mid-forties, with sideburns from the 1970’s, anachronistic as might be for a man his age.

He had a huge grin on his face, the kind that irritable people often feel like punching. Fortunately, I was not feeling particularly irritable that day. I looked up from the park bench I was sitting on, and he looked down at me. I didn’t move to stand, he didn’t move to sit, and that seemed to suit us both just fine.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just sometimes look sad when I’m thinking.”

“Fine is no better than a speeding ticket,” he replied, and this time, instead of being startled, I was confused. That was so dumb that nobody would even bother making a bumper sticker out of it; yet I had just watched his sincere-but-smiling mouth form the words. At that point, I did stand up, because I had just noticed that his smile and his eyes did not match. Just looking into his eyes, I could see that he was dead inside. As healthy as he appeared to be physically, his soul was covered with spiritual flies and was being eaten through by spectral worms. Though he was clean and well-groomed (the sideburns notwithstanding) outside, the noise and stench inside were sickening.

I looked again to be sure. Knowing how my own neutral, contemplative moods had so often been misinterpreted, I wanted to avoid making the same mistake. He didn’t look contemplative – his grin was not a contemplative grin; and his eyes expressed no depth, either, though I very much wished they did – at least six feet of depth, so those flies would leave him alone.

I wondered what the problem might be, but I knew I couldn’t ask him directly. It was clear that he would deny that there was any problem, and that he would then quote another bumper sticker, or worse. “So how are you?” I finally asked, unable to think of anything better.

“FanTAStic!” he replied. His voice contained a clear echo of a time when he was trying to mean it, and perhaps a more distant echo of a time when he actually did mean it. He was not lying, I realized. It was the automatic response of a mind no longer in possession of a self. I wondered if there was any hope for him – normally, you cannot wake the dead, but it’s hard not to hold out hope for the dead who still have healthy bodies.

It made me think of Thanatopsis, the poem by William Cullen Bryant. That poem never gave me much comfort. In more than 80 lines of elaborate verse, the poet never seemed to establish more than that you re-enter the ecosystem; that all the great people who died before you are part of the same ecosystem; and, further, that everyone who lives after you will end up there, too. The best thing he can say about pushing up daisies is that daisies are, indeed, being pushed up.

But maybe this gives some hope to the man who was standing before me. Maybe this poor individual, who had struggled through every less-than-fantastic day certain that all the day’s faults were of his own choosing – who had toiled under the stress and pressure of that guilt – could yet be saved. I dared to look into his eyes once more. “It’s not your fault,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

He smiled even bigger, and said, “Okay, then!” I never got any indication whether or not my seed had taken root. But maybe, in that healthy body, a new spirit can grow. Maybe there is, within his still-functioning brain, a mind that can be awakened with new life, and maybe the person he was can be remade into a happier, more balanced individual who does not feel the need to make every day into a fantastic one.  In short, maybe he has enough “ecosystem” within him to grow another soul.

I hope so. He seems like he could be a nice guy, and the world could use a few more nice guys.
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Note: This piece is dedicated to Moon, who wanted more!