More Happy Than Not

“Why do you believe being gay is the root of your problems?” she spitfires. I almost feel like she’s judging me.

“I had a girlfriend who loved me and good friends. Now I don’t. And that all changed when I met an idiot with zero direction in his life.” I’m trying not to sound defensive. If this procedure means I can forget my feelings for Thomas and the pain that would come from a goodbye, I need it. “I’m not happy with who I am. That’s enough, right?”

Evangeline searches my face. “Listen, kiddo. Even if what you’re asking of me is possible, and if you had every last penny needed to cover the costs, this isn’t a facility you can simply walk into and schedule work to be done this weekend. Your mother needs to sign off on everything, for starters, and they would force you to speak with therapists over a stretch of time first to determine if your feelings can be resolved over time.”

I don’t answer.

She massages my shoulder, and I flinch because it’s the same thing I did to Thomas on Friday before kissing him; this is one of many memories I need to live without if I’m ever going to be able to live at all. “I know the pain you’re going through, Aaron,” she says.

“Yeah, because you’re older, and I’m just a fucking kid, right?”

“Language,” Evangeline mouths.

We sit in silence while I wait for my number to be called. Then she straightens. Someone is waving to her from the other side of the room.

“Do you know that woman?” I ask.

“Stay here,” she whispers. “Don’t leave.”

Yeah, like I’d leave the place that has my ticket to Elysium, a place of perfect happiness. I watch as she checks on this woman before returning my attention to the FAQ slides. Evangeline is back at my side a few minutes later and I ask her again if she knows that person.

“Sort of. She interviewed me for an assistant job at Hunter College’s Department of Philosophy. Didn’t realize she was pursuing a procedure. Apparently she’s on her sixth and possibly final appointment to have memories altered about her husband’s affair before he died so she could remember the good and only that. Funny, huh?”

“More like messed up,” I say. Guess philosophers are pro-Leteo. My number is finally called and I speed-walk to the HELP window, almost knocking into a crying man.

A brunette in a gray lab coat—Hannah, according to her name tag—clears the screen on her sleek tablet and smiles at Evangeline and me. “Hello. Welcome to Leteo. How can I help you?”

There must be cameras on her because no one working a customer service counter is ever this nice.

“I don’t have an appointment or anything, but I want a procedure.”

“Absolutely. May I see your ID?”

I pass her my ID. The photo of me is in desperate need of a haircut.

Hannah punches in some keys at a crazy speed and after some chimes, she looks up at me again. “All right, Mr. Soto, what distresses bring you to Leteo today?”

“I’m not feeling very happy,” I say, and then I do something that is really downright despicable of me: I place my arm on the counter and I make sure she can see the smiling scar on my wrist in the hopes she’ll take me seriously.

“For how long have you been feeling this way?”

“A while.”

“Could you be a little more specific, Mr. Soto?”

“A few days, really, but it’s been building for months.”

“Did any event precipitate these feelings?”

“Yes.”

“Could you be a little more specific, Mr. Soto?”

“Are you going to be the one who handles my altering?”

“No, Mr. Soto, I’m simply collecting information for our technicians.”

“I’d rather keep my secrets as secretive as possible, if possible,” I say.