Are You Happy?

I recently volunteered for the second time as the coordinator of the Chaska River City Days Annual Photo Contest. The tasks were labor intensive, involving all the contest submissions, required communications, finding judges, working with sponsors, and keeping the contest on track. I received nearly 300 photo submissions this year. People loved the opportunity to share their special photos with others. While time consuming, the volunteer work was satisfying and, to some degree, genuinely fun as I interacted with an array of folks. I was totally outside my comfort zone.

Due to my need to be at the River City Days weekend event, it was necessary for me to lease a car. Linda was attending a conference that same weekend and needed our car to get there. I used Enterprise as my rental company because of the pickup and drop-off service they offer.

On Monday after the long weekend, I returned the rental car to their office in Shakopee. One of their employees, a young man named Dean, was to drive me home.

He appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties, clean-shaven, with short hair and an otherwise unremarkable appearance. I assumed he worked in the rental garage, cleaning and preparing returned cars, and also drove customers to and from their homes when needed.

The office clerk introduced us. I immediately noticed Dean's eyes. They seemed barren, void of that spark young people so often carry in abundance, yet there was something else present too, something restless and searching, as though he were quietly turning over questions the rest of the world had long since stopped asking. I was looking at a serious young man, intense yet fully functional. He seemed like the kind of person you would never hear tell a joke or spend time on surface chatter. He had not yet arrived at easy answers, and something told me he was not willing to settle for them either.

While my imagination may have been getting ahead of me, I noticed those things about him immediately. And in a strange way, it was exactly what I needed.

I was glad the ride home would be a quiet one, free from the pressure of conversation and chitchat. After all, I had engaged with people all weekend, taking hundreds of photos over three days, and presenting photo contest prizes and awards to the winners. I was drained, my word limit thoroughly overextended, and in real need of quiet time.

Dean and I got into the car. I told him my home address and the best route from Shakopee to Chaska. He thanked me for the directions, then mentioned he does not normally drive customers to and from the rental office. I would soon understand why.

For a few minutes, there was appreciated, peaceful silence as we crossed the river in heavy traffic on the main bridge. As we reached the other side, Dean glanced over, then slowly turned his head and looked directly at me.

He asked, "Are you happy?"

I was surprised. I knew at once that my quiet time was not to be. I was also a little unsettled by the sense that Dean was genuinely expecting an answer, not just filling silence. I rarely encounter anyone who asks a real question and then honestly listens for the reply.

I could have said anything.

His intensity told me he might absorb my answer in ways I could not predict, attaching significance and weight to whatever words I chose to blurt out. Here was a young man still in the thick of figuring out what mattered, still willing to ask strangers on a Tuesday morning whether their lives had turned out to mean something. That kind of earnestness is fragile and fleeting. Life has a way of eventually sanding it down.

I had to be careful.

It would have been simpler if he were simply a religious person wanting to share his faith. But it was clear he was not that. He was not a typical young person either, though I admit I do not spend much time with people born in the 21st century.

Was he in crisis at his young age? Was there loss in his life? Did he hate his job? Was he simply standing at one of those early crossroads, unsure which direction held the things worth carrying? I had no idea.

Finally, I offered a kind of answer. Mustering some fake enthusiasm in my voice, I said, "What a great question!"

A moment or two of quiet followed, during which Dean swerved the car slightly off the pavement and back onto the roadway. It was hardly noticeable, but I was now fully aware that I wanted his eyes on the road.

They were not. He looked at me again and asked, "Are you happy with the way your life has turned out?"

Sometimes I forget that I am old, probably ancient from his point of view. But in that moment, as a senior citizen, I found myself genuinely energized by his second question. He was asking from that particular place in life where the future still feels wide open and slightly terrifying, where you are old enough to sense that choices matter but young enough to fear you might be making the wrong ones.

I answered with an unqualified yes.

I went on to say that, like a lot of people, there are moments in the past I would handle differently, with more empathy and kindness. But yes, I am happy with the way things turned out.

Slightly crossing into the oncoming lane, Dean steered the car back without comment. Again, barely noticeable. As he did so, he said that it is important to him to get up each morning on the right side of the bed, and that he works at being happy and being a good person every single day. There was a determination in the way he said it, the kind that is still fresh and self-conscious, not yet worn smooth by habit or compromise. He was working at life the way a young person does when they still believe that working at it makes all the difference.

I mentioned that happiness is not always easy because life is a mix, and that sometimes it is perfectly okay not to be happy.

Dean said his wife is everything to him. If he gets up on the wrong side of the bed, she quickly helps him find his way back. She is the one constant that makes him happy.

"Beautiful," I said.

I told him I feel the same way about my wife, and that walking our dog also brings me happiness. Our dog is wildly enthusiastic about her walks, and her joy is contagious.

At that, Dean relaxed and began to open up. He talked about his dog, Arrow, a German Shepherd who had been with him since his teenage years and is still with him and his wife today. Arrow was always there during what Dean called the "bad times," a steady and loyal presence through whatever came his way. They threw the ball together, went on walks, shared days good and bad. Arrow adored Dean, and Dean loved and depended on Arrow. They were friends who faced each day together.

Apparently, Dean carries a mixed bag of memories and experiences inside of him, much like most of us, doing the best he can with what he has. He is still young enough to wrestle with what it all means, still close enough to the beginning to believe the big questions deserve real answers. He now appears to be in a good place, with a loving wife and his senior dog Arrow still by his side, two anchors in what sounds like a life still being figured out one honest question at a time.

I do not know what our conversation meant to him, or entirely what it meant to me. What I do know is that, like so many unexpected exchanges with people I meet, it felt needed at that particular moment in the flow of time.

The last few minutes of the ride home were quiet.

Dean parked the car in front of my house and I thanked him for both the ride and the conversation. As I stepped out, I looked fondly at our home, knowing Linda was inside. A deep, all-consuming love and sincere appreciation for her settled over me.

Are you happy?

Yes. Without question, yes.