I didn’t really think much about happiness until I had the opportunity, in a Scrabble game, of adding ‘piness’ to the existent ‘hap’. Indeed, the act of putting ‘piness’ on the board would have brought happiness to almost anyone, and it certainly made my opponent’s day, my opponent being my fifteen-year-old nephew. “Piness! Ha ha ha!”

The very fact of my playing Scrabble at all is an indicator of the indescribable ennui in which I normally wallow; though most people play—at least claim to play—Scrabble for enjoyment, for happiness, I do not. I play it in order to prevent senile dementia, period. Not that I am in any way demented, or even old enough to qualify as senile, but I’m the kind of person who looks ahead in order to avoid surprises. Prudent, I suppose you’ll call me, though circumspect will get you more points, especially if you can get it on a double or triple word.

Wealth is supposed to bring happiness. Ha ha ha, in the words of my nephew. Let me, in my own ennui, describe my wealth. First, please don’t compare me to Silas Marner, who couldn’t think of anything to do with his except count it, run it through his bony fingers, and count it again. This is not wealth; this is bogus. You see, I don’t even need to count mine. I don’t need to open my bank statements: I have People for that. I have People for everything. I have People to do my shopping, and when my tailor needs my measurements, I send my hapless twin, whose waistline has kept right up with mine but whose bank account hasn’t. I have People to watch movies so I don’t have to subject myself to things I don’t like, of which movies head the list. I have People to eat my lobster, as I’m allergic to shellfish.

If you could see my closet, you’d think you were in Bonwit’s or Saks. All I have to do is send one of my People in to select an outfit appropriate to whatever activity my People have scheduled for me, and when my dressers have finished their work, I have People to look in the mirror for me and tell me how I look, because really, looking in the mirror has become a disagreeable task that only lowers me in my own estimation, so why put myself through it? And if I were Silas Marner, I’d have People to sit on the floor and count for me. Mr. Marner hadn’t thought of this, possibly because he lacked imagination.

Admittedly I, also, lack imagination. I’ve tried to express that I honestly do have everything, though I could expand the screen to include my houses, my horses, my vehicles, my acres, my frequent flier miles (earned by my People who fly for me), my 64-channel recording console, my 164 IQ points, and my considerable share of my country’s coastline. I’m trying to say that what I have—everything, as I’ve said—isn’t a result of imagination. I didn’t have to think of things to want and obtain, having, of course, People to perform that kind of tedious list-making for me. Even as a child, when it was time to write our desires in order that Santa would know which were the emporia he should patronize or avoid, the aforementioned twin would compose the list and present it for my signature. (I needn’t belabor the obvious, that I could, if I wished, have People to sign documents for me, but if they could do that, they’d be busy signing blank checks for a million dollars. They’ll do that.)

I know, the point here is supposed to be the irony of me having everything but happiness. And that brings me around again to the Scrabble game. Why, you must be asking, would I play Scrabble when I have People to play it for me? That’s a reasonable question, the reasonable answer being that I do. Of course I do. There are so many steps in preparation for a game, and I generally don’t want to take any of them. Who wants to go all the way into the game room, open a cupboard, draw out the box—which is often under another box, containing some other game—then place the box on the game table and open it, handing the cover to one’s Person, and remove all the pertinent contents, which must be separated from impertinent contents such as the instruction booklet and the outdated score sheets? Then one must open the board (sigh) and distribute the racks, one for each Person, and since my (Italian-imported) racks have an atomic density above 5 g cm – 3, being therefore uncomfortably heavy, I do delegate at least this particular task. Then there is the placing of the letter sack, the rummaging therein, the distribution of letters (seven to each Person) and the annoying task of arranging them in some kind of comprehensible order resembling potential words. By this time, I would be in a state of complete exhaustion, as you may readily imagine. So no, I do not play Scrabble. No.

But on this memorable occasion I did.

I have mentioned my nephew. Twice. I could have had a Person do that for me, but I felt like mentioning him. There was a movement of sorts within my torpidity when I thought of him, and there was similar movement when he laughed aloud over my attaching ‘piness’ to his ‘hap.’ I was momentarily transported to an older time, who knows how many years ago, when I was not at all torpid. A time, to be specific, when I used to watch a show called ‘Beavis and Butthead’ and derive happiness therefrom. A lot of happiness, like my nephew, ha ha ha. I had in those days no Person to get that show watched for me and so was obliged to watch it on my own, having opened all by myself a bag of Doritos and a can of Dr. Pepper. I had independence back then. I could be proud of my abilities. I believe I was a better person (uncapitalized) for that. I could arrange my own sofa cushions and kick off my own shoes.

When my nephew came to visit, opening the front door before my People could rush to it, and embracing me fondly—well, let’s stop right there: yes, I do have People to return embraces. I find hugging a colossal effort, requiring me not only to raise my arms but also press them together around a body that is generally too tall, too short, or too fat for comfort. Yet this day, I returned my nephew’s embrace with gallantry. It had something to do with the spontaneity of it—a sense that Life, with all its shimmering effervescence, was supporting me so reliably that there was really no such thing as effort. Before I knew what was happening, youth itself had ahold of me. And when he suggested, out of what appeared to be genuine affection, that we play a game together, I threw my old self to the winds and cried, “Let it be Scrabble, then!” We don’t need to dwell on the possibility that I chose that game because I suspected he wouldn’t be very good at it; he wasn’t. ‘Hap’ was one of his better words.

‘Hap!’ I had been saving my S’s much as Silas Marner saved his gold, and arranging them with the rest more or less hopelessly: SEPBINS. ESPIES. PISSBEN. SNIPES. SPINES! BESPINS. When I saw that my nephew had so generously given me HAP followed by six empty squares, I couldn’t believe my luck. I placed my tiles with such satisfaction that I couldn’t imagine having a Person do it for me. It was my great pleasure. It was power. Autonomy. Direction. A warrior’s blood ran through me. It was me alive, aware, alert, acute, and active.

The happiness, though, this thing I hadn’t had any of since I could remember, came with the laugh. The exchange of a look that Beavis and Butthead got to exchange every minute of their lives. The certain knowledge that here was another being with whom I could share a momentary joke unknown to anyone else—“You wrote ‘piness,’ ha ha ha!”

If the question was, what one thing brought happiness? The sudden absence of loneliness (a word that is practically worthless anyway, in terms of points). That magic isle where there’s no difference between me and an adolescent goofball. The gift of full engagement. Must I go on? Certainly you have grasped my meaning by now—unless, of course, you have People for that. But if the question was, what one thing stood in the way of my having perfect happiness? Then the answer would be, having everything.