Calypso

by David Sedaris

Honestly, though, does choice even come into it? Is it my fault that the good times fade to nothing while the bad ones burn forever bright? Memory aside, the negative just makes for a better story: the plane was delayed, an infection set in, outlaws arrived and reduced the schoolhouse to ashes. Happiness is harder to put into words. It’s also harder to source, much more mysterious than anger or sorrow, which come to me promptly, whenever I summon them, and remain long after I’ve begged them to leave.

As a business traveler, you’ll likely be met at your destination by someone who asks, “So, how was your flight?” This, as if there are interesting variations and you might answer, “The live orchestra was a nice touch,” or “The first half was great, but then they let a baby take over the controls and it got all bumpy.” In fact, there are only two kinds of flights: ones in which you die and ones in which you do not.

Whenever I doubt the wisdom of buying a beach house, all I have to do is play a round of Sorry! and it all seems worth it.

Time spent underwater would have been less time our mother had to observe people and discuss their shortcomings in a group setting.

Then I realized that it didn’t mean anything. Opinions constantly shifted and evolved, were fluid the same way thoughts were.

Her specialty was the real-life story, perfected and condensed. These take work, and she’d go through a half dozen verbal drafts before getting one where she wanted it. Over the course of the day the line she wished she’d delivered in response to some question or comment—the zinger—would become the line she had delivered. “So I said to him, ‘Buddy, that’s why they invented the airplane.’” We’d be on the sidelines, aghast: “That’s not how it happened at all!” But what did it matter with such great results?