The child in the green coat who was third in line to play is screaming, blood is pouring from his nose towards lips stretched over his teeth.
Is he going to take my go on the slide or can I have my go now?
I look at him curiously as he crumples to the floor and continues to yell. Adults are running towards us now. My Dad takes my hand and it's warm and he quickly walks me away as parents run to the side of the child in the green coat. His walk is faster, he is squeezing my hand as we walk away from the park towards our house.
“Why did you do that Jonathan?” he asks.
“Because he was third and I was second and he tried to be first so I stopped him.”
My Dad stops walking and pulls me round. He crouches on the concrete does a big breath, and he's going to talk loudly at me. There are a few seconds while I wait for the loud talk.
“You can't hit people. It's not allowed.”
I don't answer. 'Not allowed' means 'not easy'. I like not easy. Being passed a cookie is easy. Taking a cookie from a shelf that is two shelves above the fridge that is really high is not allowed. I think about when I sat on the high shelf and ate 3 big cookies and saw the whole kitchen from high high up like a bird. Not allowed means the best things.
Dad makes a breath in.
“Do you know what Daddy does for a living Jonathan?”
“You're a chef.”
“Do you know what chefs do?”
“Chefs make food.”
“Jon, when I became a chef, I didn't just want to cook people food. I wanted to make people happy. The hardest and best thing in the world is to make people happy. In fact doctors and shop people and everyone, all we are really doing is trying to make ourselves happy.”
“Why?”
More silence. My Dad touches both sides of his nose. Closes his eyes. Another breath.
“The boy on the slide, you made him sad. It was easy. Right?”
“Yes.”
“You did the easy thing but you took away his happiness. Maybe you can think of a way next time that would make him happy? That would be more difficult, but I think you're very clever. I think you could find a way.”
“Why?”
“Because that's the thing about happiness. You can only have it yourself if you give it to others first.”
My Dads lips pull tighter on his face, like when he looks at my Mum. I am thinking for the first time about the idea that will be my life's work. The hardest and best thing in the world.
The walls of my studio apartment are covered with diagrams.
Happiness, I have discovered, is on average created 45% created by close loved others, 35% by money, 15% daily routine, 5% other factors, assuming a healthy human. I'm good at making money, which is just sums and programming. I regularly wish that money was a larger percentage of human happiness.
The computer rig I created glows a soft blue. Randomly selected credit card accounts that are equal to or over $2,000 overdrawn are paid off in full. These people will be much happier for finding their credit account paid off. Another computer tower hums as thousands are harvested from debit accounts with funds equal to or more than $100,000. The sum removed is always $39.99. $39.99 is a special number because it is the median average sum that people do not report and is not flagged for fraud, and therefore does the least potential damage to happiness.
I leave my studio at 11:36 because the raining has started, and take my big bag of yellow and blue and red umbrellas. By handing out the umbrellas, I can make people happier by keeping them dry. I hand a green umbrella to a fat girl with dripping brown hair. She looks at me suspiciously and takes the item from my hand.
“Thanks?”
I pull my lips upwards.
“I hope you have a lovely day and there are no lions in your immediate future.”
She looks at me and laughs. Laughter is part of happiness. I always mention the lions. It has good odds of creating laughter.
“Hey, thank you!”
The umbrellas are given away quickly today. People smile at me and I'm given lots of thank you very much. I return home at 13:15. I need to order 40 more umbrellas and increase the yellow ones because people liked that colour. By my door there's some paper that has come through the letterbox with written words.
Dear Umbrella Man, The police are in the process of putting through a warrant to search your flat. You probably have three days before it's granted. I know a few things about you now, and I'm a big fan of your work. I'm doing what I can to stall them, but you need to do your bit and move your things! I'll be in touch. A friend.
Dad was right. I held the white paper and blue words and felt happy.