Will

by Will Smith

The Google search alone had me feeling exposed and vulnerable, so when she walked in carrying a silver-spangled Moroccan camel saddlebag, with indeterminate fur, and her first question was “What would make you happy?” I was instantly off balance. What does she mean by that? What makes her think I’m not happy? (Apart from the whole, “Can you come and help me because I’m not happy” thing.) To me, it was blasphemous to even imagine something other than the life I’d created. My imagination is usually a white-water-rapids ride of possibilities and potential. But for some reason, this question led me into an area of my inner world that had danger signs all over it, yellow police tape everywhere I looked. The answer would have to be extracted from the place where only the “bad kids” go, the murky, swampy, shadow regions of my psyche. I don’t even let myself think from inside that neighborhood, so I’m damn sure not going to speak from there. I mean, what if I rip down all the boards and barriers and barricades, and whatever demon is in there takes over? What if I can’t put it back? What if I like it being out? But I approached the dark place. I wanted to see what was in there. I ducked under the first layer of yellow tape. What is she really asking me? What life would I create if I didn’t give a fuck? And then the shadow spoke: “I would have a harem.”