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When I used to subscribe to Vanity Fair, I excitedly opened each issue in reverse to see which celebrity had taken the monthly “Proust Questionnaire” featured on the farewell page. It’s a thirty-five-question exercise Proust believed can reveal one’s “true nature.” Due to a surprising sequence of events, yesterday morning sparked memories of one particular query from the Frenchman: “When and where were you happiest?”
A few days in my thirty-eight-plus years come to mind:
July 4th-5th, 1992: It was my ninth birthday. My mother rented a cottage in Lake George, and we arrived to acceptable summer weather, humid but not hot. We walked a path to view the never-ending lake prior to relaxing at the nearer-by pool. (In our defense, fewer boats capsize in chlorinated waters.) Come dinnertime, we headed across the street to a steakhouse where I ordered chicken parmesan, my de jure meal as a kid, which I’d always pair with angelhair pasta and sample at any restaurant serving it if I’d never set foot in the place. That night, we sat on the lakeshore to ooh and ahh the exploding fireworks while a drunken man insisted that “mosquito bats” were eating the irritating bugs attempting to ruin the town’s patriotic sky orgasms. After breakfast the following morning, I anxiously watched Andre Agassi win Wimbledon before Harry and I explored the downtown village. It reigns as the ideal twenty-four hours of my childhood.
September 5th, 2002: Moore and I attended one of the first concerts held at Gillette Stadium in Foxborough—The Pretenders opening for The Rolling Stones. At one point just before the Stones took the stage, Moore turned to me and, in between disappearing a Big Mac in three bites, said, “Do you realize we’re at the biggest event in the world tonight?” An obsessed man repeatedly screamed “I LOVE YOU, CHRISSSSSIE!” to Ms. Hynde throughout the opening set, the flames above the stage during “Sympathy for the Devil” nearly singed our eyebrows while sitting in the opposite endzone, and for the lone time in my life, I fell asleep for half a second while driving Moore back to his UConn dorm. He’s since reminded me how I didn’t get mad when the box office had issues scanning our tickets, prompting fifteen minutes of inconvenience, nor when the secondary stage audio issues disturbed hearing the majestic “Beast of Burden.” (Appears that I refused to recall anything un-Edenic.) By no objective estimation was it the greatest concert we’ve ever seen yet we both regard it as our favorite concert.
September 15th-18th, 2016: The inaugural trip Sue and I took to Maine. Every trip’s the best while it happens but the act of falling in love with Maine with Sue remains a peak memory. Sue gifted me a beautiful scrapbook on my thirty-fifth birthday—unwrapping it in the same cottage where we stayed the first time—that documented our initial trip. I take a tingly gander through the entire purple keepsake the night before each journey north.
“Well, that was a bit much,” I hear Proust’s Ghost quipping. Just kidding, ghosts aren’t real. The prelude to a new example arrived yesterday circa 10:20 while I actively avoided shitting in my leather chair. My old boss, Brian, had contacted me a month ago about potentially working for him again. (What’s the ticket industry equivalent of “Let’s get the band back together”?) I waited two weeks before reiterating my interest; he intimated that his initial plan hadn’t taken shape. Nahbihdahl, I told myself, incapable of enunciating for reasons unknown. As the first day of March Madness concluded shortly after midnight on Friday morning, my phone unexpectedly dinged.
“Yoooo. Let me know if interested in helping w Masters.”
By the time our defecation-free chat ended, I learned that we’d be celebrating his fortieth birthday a mile from Augusta National Golf Club after I’d gotten to walk the course while eating a pimento cheese sandwich followed by a peach ice cream sandwich. You may remember that the lazerbeam sandwich was birthed in Augusta; there’s something about Georgia and bread.
As Sue and I walked around a wildlife refuge an hour later, the pouring rain predicted all week conveniently held at bay by fog, I explained how spring has long been my preferred season in part due to March Madness, the return of Yankees baseball, and The Masters.
“I can’t wait for seventy-five-degree weather, a light breeze, and no humidity,” I told Sue, whose birthday I’ll be missing for the fifth time in sixteen years. Her own happiness at receiving a new pair of coveted Crocs should (hopefully) help offset our belated dinner in her honor together.
While indulging a post-stroll ginger ice cream waffle cone my phone rang.
“It’s Brian,” I told her.
“Answer it and chew in his ear.”
He’d eaten breakfast during our call, a particularly loathsome pet peeve of mine, so I commenced returning the favor but felt bad after one chomp. Once the rental car was secured, he told me he’d be in touch soon, requesting I enjoy the day.
Getting back to Proust: Masters anticipation is an essential part of the joyful crescendo arriving in a couple weeks. How can I not love the predictability? I began reading a Masters book during my exercise bike ride this morning—I read at least one a few weeks prior to the tournament each year—a book I’d bought before Brian even mentioned the possibility of our reunion and paired with an email containing my Delta flight details, it kicked off the pleasure-packed yearly routine gifted to me by a sport I’ve never played.
The elation Sue displayed for me upon hearing the news was matched by my mother’s giddiness along with the jubilant reactions of Rick and Brock, two guys whose company I enjoyed during my first pair of Masters weeklong stays. Would such happiness exist if we didn’t have any people we love to share it with?
Brian and I endured some exceptionally tense days during my four years working for him, but Augusta is where we thrived as a duo because thrills arrived seemingly nonstop. I can’t wait to greet him at the airport in Atlanta and offer a hug, a sentiment that won’t be ruined when he acts weird and blocks it with an awkward handshake accompanied by a pat on the back. Maybe I’ll bring bags of pretzels and carrots for him to recklessly devour while riding shotgun. Being capable of embracing misery amid one’s euphoria is a true testament to the magic of transcendent joy.
Plan on baking a lot of bread, Georgia. The time to get happy has arrived.