Sweet Home... Minnesota?

“I have never met anyone in my life who is such a pessimist, I’m not going to lie,” Frank says after about fifteen minutes.

“Well I’ve never met such an enthusiastic optimist,” I reply.

“No, it wasn’t meant to be an insult, I just don’t understand why you’d be so negative about everything. Don’t you ever tire of being depressed?”

I haven’t ever thought about that, “It’s not like a switch that you can just turn on and off when you want.”

“Yeah, but you’re never going to find enjoyment in anything if you don’t at least allow yourself to have fun,” Frank says cheerily.

“What do you mean?”

“Well you came to this little party here expecting to be bored and hate it, so that’s all your allowing yourself to see. The bad stuff isn’t more populous then the good, it’s just louder to you. Negativity and suffering always seems so much more grandeur when you’re looking back on it, and that disillusion waters down all the good.”

“You sound like a therapist,” I say, and I’m speaking from experience.

“No, I’m just not clouded by heaps of contemptuous shit like you are,” Frank retorts, “If you were to grow ten roses in your backyard and eight of them bloomed, then you’d just dwell on the two roses that didn’t because you’re only looking for bad. The two roses that didn’t boom are no more prevalent then the living plants you disregarded, but they go unnoticed because you don’t see anything that isn’t in the same state of misery as you.”

“You’re calling me a cynic?”

“I’m calling you a cynic,” He nods.

He doesn’t even sugarcoat it. No one is that blunt. Seriously everybody in this town would try to be nice and indirect about saying something like that, but not Frank. That’s the most refreshing thing I’ve heard in months.

I kind of like this Frank guy.

“What?” he asks after I stare at him for a little longer then I should have.

“Nothing! It’s just...” I shake it off. Maybe he was actually trying to be rude and I mistook it. Still, he has a pretty good way with words that are abnormally accurate.

“’Just’ what?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, well,” might as well just tell him, “no one’s ever been so brutally honest with me, and it’s kind of cool.”

“Telling you off for being a prick is cool?”

“I’m not a prick necessarily, I’m just not the most sociable,” I defend.

“Well every time you have a conversation with someone you use rudeness as a defense mechanism to keep yourself alone, and that sounds pretty much like a prick to me.”

“I do not!” I say. I don’t use rudeness as a defense mechanism! Where would he get that idea from?

“Oh really? So what do you call mouthing off to everyone else here until I’m the only person left willing to talk to you?”

“That’s not-,“ do I actually do that? Did I actually do that to everyone else here? I thought I was being as polite as I could be, but is Frank right?

Frank looks up at me with his eyebrow still raised expectantly and I feel like a two year old who was just caught doing something they weren’t supposed to do.

“I didn’t even realize I was doing that,” I finally say.

“Well I’d say cynicism is in your blood then, but Mikey is the nicest guy I know so obviously it’s just you,” Frank says with a shrug.

“Well thanks, for the sincerity.”

“Just a moment ago you said my honesty was cool.”

I sigh, “there’s a difference between being unusually honest and being a dickhead, and the line between the two is very faint, but you sir, have managed to cross that line in record time.”

“You’re calling me a dickhead?” He says beaming at me with a devilish look.

“I’m calling you a dickhead.”

He laughs and says, “The cynic and the dickhead. We’d make a great comedy duo. Or maybe a really messed up sitcom.”

What is this guy even? He doesn’t seem human. It’s like he’s the only person other than me who’s actually looking at things critically. The strange thing is that he looks at everything critically, but only notes the positive things. I don’t understand how that’s even possible. I’m a critical person, but that means I’m also incredibly dejected about everything, but this guy seems to only notice the good things. Other than me that is. He likes all the positive things, but he likes pointing out all the bad things in me. What’s so different about me?

The best way I can describe it is like we’re both in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by drowning victims. Everyone we see is drowning because they don’t know how to swim, but Frank and I are treading water pretty well. All I can think about in this situation is that I’m surrounded by dying people, and underneath me could be any number of dangerous things. Yet there Frank is, pointing out that it’s a nice day, and not storming, or that we’re wearing clothes that aren’t dragging us down. All I see is the negative things about our predicament and Frank only points out the things with hope in them.

I didn’t even know that such positivity was possible, but Frank is standing right in front of me, and he’s living proof. How did he ever learn to be so optimistic? It doesn’t seem natural to me. Now that I think of it he’s making my whole belief seem unnatural as well. It’s not right to be that happy, but it’s not right to be this sad either.

What the hell is up with this guy?

“So tell me, why did you move here?”

Frank smiles like he’d been waiting for that question, “I moved here for the people. I grew up in a place where you didn’t know your neighbors. The neighbors you did know only ever talked to you when they wanted to debate the property line or yell at you for being too rowdy. I never fit in, because I never liked regarding the people I lived around as undesirable, so I got the hell out of there, to a place where people care about each other.”

“Caring is so tiresome though,” I complain.

“It doesn’t have to be, not when you like the people you live near, and I do. I think the people in this town are pretty great.”

“Apart from me apparently,” I mumble.

“Hey, I never said that! I don’t think you’re necessarily a bad person you’re just a little negative.”

“Yeah but if there’s anything that an optimist hates it’s their pessimist counterpart,” I point out.

“You’ve been talking to the wrong people,” Frank shakes his head, “I choose not to surround myself with hate because it makes the world so much less fun. How can I be expected to enjoy things if I let my hate cloud everything?”

“I’m pretty good at it.”

Frank rolls his eyes, “the point is that I wasn’t meant for big city life. I like the freedom that comes with knowing kind people, with different degrees of complexity.”

“No one here is complex. Everyone is content in scraping by without ever really trying to live. People always let you down like that. They make you believe they’re something and then they screw you over when you realize it was all just pretend. Just fake. Like everyone in this town. Everything is fake.”

It’s true though. These trees are cardboard cutouts and these people are nothing more than puppets on ragged string.

“Who hurt you to make you like this? Who hurt you?” Frank asks, and as soon as he says that he looks regretful of his words.

“Sometimes it’s our own sins that drive us into dereliction.”

Frank nods but says, “And sometimes people are too content being lost that they don’t realize how hurt they really are. Sometimes you need to be pushed into action before you can ever help yourself up.”