Smiley
Bear with me, I may actually have a point this time.
Shortly after the turn of the century, I spent a few semesters at the University of Florida. A not-insignificant portion of my time in Gainesville was devoted to keeping my head above water, financially-speaking, as I attempted to pay my own way through college. Though a portion of my tuition was paid by a state-funded scholarship, I was responsible for covering not only the remaining balance, but also my books, apartment, car, insurance, cell phone, food and entertainment. While this was indeed a beating -- and often a hindrance to experiencing the relatively carefree lifestyle that many college students enjoy -- it remains a source of personal pride to have carried the weight on my own.
Before moving to Gainesville, though -- and for the weeks between semesters -- I'd earned money slicing-and-imbibing behind a sushi bar near my hometown in the state's panhandle. Though it'd be a lie to say I was anything more than mediocre as a chef, I believe I managed to pick up a decent repertoire of knife skills, as well as an enhanced proclivity for talking to strangers. And, fortunately for me, many of my coworkers were indeed remarkably talented chefs, benefiting our team's pooled compensation by way of gratuity. But upon relocating to attend the university, I landed a crummy job at a laughably underwhelming pseudo-Asian fast-food joint called Maui Teriyaki. The pay at Maui was as pathetic as the menu, which was generally comprised of a bowl of rice, veggies, with your choice of grilled chicken, steak, or pork, punctuated by either regular or spicy teriyaki sauce. Maui's primary usefulness was found in this simplicity, though, as the protein-carb-veggie combinations were relatively cheap, and therefore a staple for many of the cash-strapped students living nearby.
The restaurant's owners, Steve and Loida, were an odd and unlikable pair. Steve bore an uncanny resemblance to Al Franken's Stuart Smalley character (of Saturday Night Live fame), albeit in appearance only; because unlike Smalley, Steve was a self-deluding jerk. It was at times jarring to see Smalley's face, and hear Smalley's voice, and yet find yourself subjected to unwarranted condescension from such a clownish dork-tyrant. We all agreed with no uncertainty that Steve had been picked on, swirlied, and regularly (and deservedly) beaten up as a kid. We unanimously despised him, but in a town crawling with some 50,000 college students, we were aware of how quickly we could be replaced. Besides, Steve was hardly around for more than a couple of minutes at a time -- it was easy enough to keep middle fingers in pockets until he left. One note in Steve's defense, however, is that he did employ -- and therefore deal with -- snarky college students on a regular basis. Maybe that's enough to turn one into a donut hole... if you spell "donut" with one A and a pair of S's.
Loida, his Filipino wife, was only slightly better. She could at least occasionally seem like a reasonable person, almost tolerable. I did not particularly adore the woman, but she was at least decent with the employees, and occasionally displayed a sense of humor. Don't get me wrong, she was still condescending and self-certain -- we just preferred her over Steve. But Loida was often overseas for extended periods of time, visiting family back home, leaving Steve behind to deal with us, and us to deal with Steve. My primary memory of her was perhaps my first or second day, when she 'taught' me how to use a knife, trimming fat off of a pork loin. Raising a bemused eyebrow, I waited for a punchline, for her to acknowledge my prior experience with a sushi knife. I now realize that her ignorance of my employment history is its own punchline, and for that I suppose I'm grateful.
---------
While writing this, I grew curious about Steve and Loida, and after a few searches on Facebook and Google, I discovered that they'd apparently moved north at some point, opening a small pizza place in Indiana. Though it is now closed, I was not surprised that the restaurant's reviews suggest that the owners "are jerks," "are an embarrassment to the area," and "treat employees and customers with disrespect." Some things never change, I guess.
---------
My coworkers were a ragtag gang of intentional misfits, among which I did not very well fit. An odd mix of students and non-student locals (known as "townies"), I often felt like one of the very few employees -- and at times the only employee -- not regularly abusing multiple drugs at a time, often above and beyond the typical alcohol and/or marijuana use you might expect with college students. To be honest, I had little to no evidence of this, and was a great deal more conservative and sheltered and naive at the time. But some things are apparent to even the most naive among us.
The Bayless brothers were your average foul-mouthed, over-grown, girl-chasing townies of debatable repute. Drew was also a dedicated gym rat (I hear he's a trainer these days), and an intelligent guy with an understated yet caustic wit. Seth resembled Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, both in appearance and imagined personality. The most likely to be high at work, he was generally nice to me, with our off-beat senses of humor occasionally aligning, but otherwise we had exactly zero in common. Karen was a brash, proudly promiscuous New Yorker who angrily ranted against men holding doors for her. Unafraid to discuss her near-daily sexual episodes, when she complained of her back hurting one morning, Anthony, a quick-witted, Puerto Rican-born student who cleverly avoided lifting a finger in the kitchen, dryly suggested Karen try sleeping with her legs down. Luis was a short, stocky snark-sprinkler of Cuban descent. Despite our collective requests to the contrary, he enjoyed detailing hissexual fetish pursuits, mostly shared with his alleged girlfriend, whose existence we could neither confirm nor deny. Akin ("Ah-keen"), a French journalism major and progressive, Europe-touring hip hop artist from Nigeria, and Brian, a grad student from Purdue who would later attend Harvard, absolutely stood out among our coworkers. These last two are mentioned solely to provide depth, and because I liked them both too much to leave them out.
Chris, an upper-classman at the university, was a sure-fired alcoholic with a penchant for punching inanimate objects after a night of drinking. On multiple occasions, he came to work with a heavily bandaged right hand and some story about a car window's demise. Maybe the most notorious of the group, he bragged about using his manager keys to bring co-eds into the restaurant for afterhours extracurriculars. I once watched him light a very tiny joint on the grill during an evening shift. Small enough to require being pinched between two pairing knives, Chris struggled to puff on the miniscule number without accidentally inhaling it whole. While much of this may sound like, at worst, alcohol- and marijuana-fueled collegiate hijinks -- and although we got along fine -- I always saw him as the baddest apple in our tree. Mom will be proud to hear that I kept my distance. She will, however, be less proud of the beers that he and I shotgunned together in the walk-in cooler.
There were of course a handful of others, but the coworker cross-section so far should give you a decent idea of the surroundings. I'd be remiss (and a jerk) to not point out that the 'others' included April, who would be rightfully upset were she left unmentioned, and who may debate/update/supplement this story when she reads it. After meeting at the restaurant, we paired off briefly, before returning to our adjacent hometowns, where she became a close, lifelong friend. More carefree than I, April was better at seeing the good in our coworkers, and subsequently fit in much better with the group. Being the lone attractive blonde -- and possessing a particularly open-minded sense of humor -- among such a relative mob of miscreants didn't exactly hurt, either.
No great amount of effort was required for operating the restaurant, save for a moderately increased pace during predictable rushes, many of which followed sporting events. A majority of our time was spent tackling menial prep work -- chopping broccoli (hat tip to Dana Carvey) and cauliflower into large tubs, marinating chicken thighs in industrial-sized soy sauce buckets, refilling bottles of teriyaki sauce, and so on. But during the aforementioned rushes, we'd organize into a small production line -- one person putting rice into bowls, one adding vegetables, and one using a cleaver to slice chicken, pork, or steak to finish an order. One person would tend to the massive grill, while one or two others managed the registers up front. Unleashing a bevy of swear words, tasteless jokes, and merciless insults, we'd self-entertain until the rush had subsided. Often, these insults were turned outward, taking shots at unknowing customers, just out of ear shot on the other side of the "order up" window between the kitchen and the register. Students, townies, children, adults, the VSO, athletes -- everyone was a target. Everyone except for Smiley.
I never knew Smiley's real name; I'm not sure that any of us did. An Asian gentleman that I suppose was in his mid- to late-thirties, Smiley generally ordered the same meal on every visit, which was at least once per week. Never being asked (and never having asked) to operate the register, I'd never actually met Smiley, never talked to him. I got the impression from a couple of the other guys that there wasn't much talking to be done, as Smiley's English wasn't exactly thorough. But Smiley, as you may have guessed by now, was always smiling. Always. Smiley walked through the door smiling, Smiley approached the register smiling, Smiley placed and received his order smiling, and as Smiley bowed in gratitude and turned to leave, he remained smiling. At first, there may have been some harmless joking among the kitchen staff regarding Smiley -- the usual "I want whatever drug that guy's on" commentary. But in no time at all, Smiley became our most revered and adored customer.
Smiley might've walked out of the door after each visit, reversed his cheeks into a more familiar scowl, and called us all suckers under his breath. He may have hated the food and resented having only enough money to visit our pathetic establishment. Maybe he threw rocks at the occasional homeless man wandering past the restaurant, or punted stray animals crossing his path. Smiley may have been an ardent supporter of brutal African dictators, or even a misplaced Miami Hurricane. He could have done and/or been any and/or all of these things, but we would never have known, as Smiley had won us all over with just one thing -- that unending smile. Ear-to-ear as it was, his infectious smile was not limited to his raised cheeks and bared teeth. Smiley's entire body smiled, it seemed. He moved with a shy yet shameless joy and pleasantness. He offered his namesake expression and an approving nod to anyone returning eye contact, and even some who did not. You could see friendliness in his eyes, and genuine, soft-hearted kindness radiating from his face. We loved Smiley not just because he was so smiley all the damn time, but because he was such an archetypal representation of pure, child-like happiness. Even among our mostly-motley crew, we knew who Smiley was, and what his smile meant, even if we didn't really know Smiley at all.
On multiple occasions, I'd watched Chris barge through the swinging kitchen door, eager to take over the register and tend personally to Smiley. He'd abruptly leave the register and return to the cutting board mumbling "I'M making Smiley's order. I'M hooking Smiley UP." Seth did the same thing, though I'm not sure he ever manned the register at any other time. If we were in the middle of a frantic rush, Karen or April would lean through the kitchen door and implore us, "This one is Smiley's order, hook him up," and we'd immediately cram as much chicken and as many vegetables as we could possibly fit into his to-go rice bowl. Regardless of what Smiley ordered, he received twice as much food as any other customer on any given day -- and probably only paid half the price. He was a folk hero, he was a David among the unscrupulous, bad-boy Goliaths of our kitchen -- unassuming, non-threatening, lightly armed with but a smile and a grateful series of nods, effortlessly slaying us right where we stood. Smiley might as well have worn a bright spandex onesie with his underwear on the outside, because this guy was a bonafide superhero. I mean, some twelve or thirteen years later, I’m relaying this apparently pointless but somewhat uplifting story to anyone taking the time to read it.
But it’s not really all that pointless of a story, now is it? There is a reason I’ve felt compelled to tell it. Well, two reasons, the first being the same reason I’ve told just about any story, ever: I thought of it and felt like sharing. But the second reason, likely the main reason, and easily the most important reason, is that there’s a lesson to be learned here. And it’s not as simple as just reminding everyone to smile their faces off. That ignores looking at the potential depth here. What I mean is that Smiley accomplished so much by doing so little. Assuming he could communicate in no other way, how outstanding was it that Smiley affected us so wonderfully? I have a feeling that the rest of us should find it laughably easy to do the same, and then some.
I've seen the way you act at restaurants, at banks, at clothing stores. Many of you leave no kind impressions in your wake. The people you deal with on a daily basis, particularly those whose jobs regularly land them face-to-face with the general public, are likely having a non-stop mixed bag of interpersonal interactions. Considering how little most people seem to care about strangers, I can only assume said interactions come with their fair share of negativity. If a police officer spends his day dealing with people who break the law, for example, I have to imagine he's not hearing "thank you" so often. And how many times does a waiter greet a table and ask how everyone is doing, only to hear a cold, dismissive response of "unsweet tea?" The poor girl working the register at Banana Republic is getting chewed out by a customer who must believe she personally determines prices; the next customer just stares at his cell phone, ignoring her entirely.
You're the next customer in line. You're the next car getting pulled over for doing 58 in a 45 mph zone. You've just been sat in a corner booth at the restaurant. And you now have the opportunity to offer one of the only smiles the opposing party might see all day. A smile, a hello, and any hint of genuine care and kindness can go a long way. Superfluous use of "please" and "thank you" never hurt anyone. If anything, it may just pay off for you in the long run, as it did for Smiley -- better treatment, better results, being remembered the next time you come around. It doesn't always pan out that way (I've had two officers thank me "for being so cool about this," but still hand me a ticket), but it's not as if being less positive would've resulted in a better outcome anyway.
I'm no motivational speaker, I'm not always a particularly positive person, and I'm not suggesting anyone model their lives after mine. But I saw Smiley, and I saw what he did to a group of ill-mannered jackwagons otherwise too hardened to be affected by run-of-the-mill kindness. Smiley wore us all down, made us all his friend, without using a single word. He was a study in the power of happiness, kindness, and a shared smile. He unwittingly taught me the most widely applicable lesson I ever learned in college, and I'll never know who he really was or what he was doing there in Gainesville. I like to think he was teaching at the university:
Professor Smiley, Intro to Kindness.
Shortly after the turn of the century, I spent a few semesters at the University of Florida. A not-insignificant portion of my time in Gainesville was devoted to keeping my head above water, financially-speaking, as I attempted to pay my own way through college. Though a portion of my tuition was paid by a state-funded scholarship, I was responsible for covering not only the remaining balance, but also my books, apartment, car, insurance, cell phone, food and entertainment. While this was indeed a beating -- and often a hindrance to experiencing the relatively carefree lifestyle that many college students enjoy -- it remains a source of personal pride to have carried the weight on my own.
Before moving to Gainesville, though -- and for the weeks between semesters -- I'd earned money slicing-and-imbibing behind a sushi bar near my hometown in the state's panhandle. Though it'd be a lie to say I was anything more than mediocre as a chef, I believe I managed to pick up a decent repertoire of knife skills, as well as an enhanced proclivity for talking to strangers. And, fortunately for me, many of my coworkers were indeed remarkably talented chefs, benefiting our team's pooled compensation by way of gratuity. But upon relocating to attend the university, I landed a crummy job at a laughably underwhelming pseudo-Asian fast-food joint called Maui Teriyaki. The pay at Maui was as pathetic as the menu, which was generally comprised of a bowl of rice, veggies, with your choice of grilled chicken, steak, or pork, punctuated by either regular or spicy teriyaki sauce. Maui's primary usefulness was found in this simplicity, though, as the protein-carb-veggie combinations were relatively cheap, and therefore a staple for many of the cash-strapped students living nearby.
The restaurant's owners, Steve and Loida, were an odd and unlikable pair. Steve bore an uncanny resemblance to Al Franken's Stuart Smalley character (of Saturday Night Live fame), albeit in appearance only; because unlike Smalley, Steve was a self-deluding jerk. It was at times jarring to see Smalley's face, and hear Smalley's voice, and yet find yourself subjected to unwarranted condescension from such a clownish dork-tyrant. We all agreed with no uncertainty that Steve had been picked on, swirlied, and regularly (and deservedly) beaten up as a kid. We unanimously despised him, but in a town crawling with some 50,000 college students, we were aware of how quickly we could be replaced. Besides, Steve was hardly around for more than a couple of minutes at a time -- it was easy enough to keep middle fingers in pockets until he left. One note in Steve's defense, however, is that he did employ -- and therefore deal with -- snarky college students on a regular basis. Maybe that's enough to turn one into a donut hole... if you spell "donut" with one A and a pair of S's.
Loida, his Filipino wife, was only slightly better. She could at least occasionally seem like a reasonable person, almost tolerable. I did not particularly adore the woman, but she was at least decent with the employees, and occasionally displayed a sense of humor. Don't get me wrong, she was still condescending and self-certain -- we just preferred her over Steve. But Loida was often overseas for extended periods of time, visiting family back home, leaving Steve behind to deal with us, and us to deal with Steve. My primary memory of her was perhaps my first or second day, when she 'taught' me how to use a knife, trimming fat off of a pork loin. Raising a bemused eyebrow, I waited for a punchline, for her to acknowledge my prior experience with a sushi knife. I now realize that her ignorance of my employment history is its own punchline, and for that I suppose I'm grateful.
---------
While writing this, I grew curious about Steve and Loida, and after a few searches on Facebook and Google, I discovered that they'd apparently moved north at some point, opening a small pizza place in Indiana. Though it is now closed, I was not surprised that the restaurant's reviews suggest that the owners "are jerks," "are an embarrassment to the area," and "treat employees and customers with disrespect." Some things never change, I guess.
---------
My coworkers were a ragtag gang of intentional misfits, among which I did not very well fit. An odd mix of students and non-student locals (known as "townies"), I often felt like one of the very few employees -- and at times the only employee -- not regularly abusing multiple drugs at a time, often above and beyond the typical alcohol and/or marijuana use you might expect with college students. To be honest, I had little to no evidence of this, and was a great deal more conservative and sheltered and naive at the time. But some things are apparent to even the most naive among us.
The Bayless brothers were your average foul-mouthed, over-grown, girl-chasing townies of debatable repute. Drew was also a dedicated gym rat (I hear he's a trainer these days), and an intelligent guy with an understated yet caustic wit. Seth resembled Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, both in appearance and imagined personality. The most likely to be high at work, he was generally nice to me, with our off-beat senses of humor occasionally aligning, but otherwise we had exactly zero in common. Karen was a brash, proudly promiscuous New Yorker who angrily ranted against men holding doors for her. Unafraid to discuss her near-daily sexual episodes, when she complained of her back hurting one morning, Anthony, a quick-witted, Puerto Rican-born student who cleverly avoided lifting a finger in the kitchen, dryly suggested Karen try sleeping with her legs down. Luis was a short, stocky snark-sprinkler of Cuban descent. Despite our collective requests to the contrary, he enjoyed detailing hissexual fetish pursuits, mostly shared with his alleged girlfriend, whose existence we could neither confirm nor deny. Akin ("Ah-keen"), a French journalism major and progressive, Europe-touring hip hop artist from Nigeria, and Brian, a grad student from Purdue who would later attend Harvard, absolutely stood out among our coworkers. These last two are mentioned solely to provide depth, and because I liked them both too much to leave them out.
Chris, an upper-classman at the university, was a sure-fired alcoholic with a penchant for punching inanimate objects after a night of drinking. On multiple occasions, he came to work with a heavily bandaged right hand and some story about a car window's demise. Maybe the most notorious of the group, he bragged about using his manager keys to bring co-eds into the restaurant for afterhours extracurriculars. I once watched him light a very tiny joint on the grill during an evening shift. Small enough to require being pinched between two pairing knives, Chris struggled to puff on the miniscule number without accidentally inhaling it whole. While much of this may sound like, at worst, alcohol- and marijuana-fueled collegiate hijinks -- and although we got along fine -- I always saw him as the baddest apple in our tree. Mom will be proud to hear that I kept my distance. She will, however, be less proud of the beers that he and I shotgunned together in the walk-in cooler.
There were of course a handful of others, but the coworker cross-section so far should give you a decent idea of the surroundings. I'd be remiss (and a jerk) to not point out that the 'others' included April, who would be rightfully upset were she left unmentioned, and who may debate/update/supplement this story when she reads it. After meeting at the restaurant, we paired off briefly, before returning to our adjacent hometowns, where she became a close, lifelong friend. More carefree than I, April was better at seeing the good in our coworkers, and subsequently fit in much better with the group. Being the lone attractive blonde -- and possessing a particularly open-minded sense of humor -- among such a relative mob of miscreants didn't exactly hurt, either.
No great amount of effort was required for operating the restaurant, save for a moderately increased pace during predictable rushes, many of which followed sporting events. A majority of our time was spent tackling menial prep work -- chopping broccoli (hat tip to Dana Carvey) and cauliflower into large tubs, marinating chicken thighs in industrial-sized soy sauce buckets, refilling bottles of teriyaki sauce, and so on. But during the aforementioned rushes, we'd organize into a small production line -- one person putting rice into bowls, one adding vegetables, and one using a cleaver to slice chicken, pork, or steak to finish an order. One person would tend to the massive grill, while one or two others managed the registers up front. Unleashing a bevy of swear words, tasteless jokes, and merciless insults, we'd self-entertain until the rush had subsided. Often, these insults were turned outward, taking shots at unknowing customers, just out of ear shot on the other side of the "order up" window between the kitchen and the register. Students, townies, children, adults, the VSO, athletes -- everyone was a target. Everyone except for Smiley.
I never knew Smiley's real name; I'm not sure that any of us did. An Asian gentleman that I suppose was in his mid- to late-thirties, Smiley generally ordered the same meal on every visit, which was at least once per week. Never being asked (and never having asked) to operate the register, I'd never actually met Smiley, never talked to him. I got the impression from a couple of the other guys that there wasn't much talking to be done, as Smiley's English wasn't exactly thorough. But Smiley, as you may have guessed by now, was always smiling. Always. Smiley walked through the door smiling, Smiley approached the register smiling, Smiley placed and received his order smiling, and as Smiley bowed in gratitude and turned to leave, he remained smiling. At first, there may have been some harmless joking among the kitchen staff regarding Smiley -- the usual "I want whatever drug that guy's on" commentary. But in no time at all, Smiley became our most revered and adored customer.
Smiley might've walked out of the door after each visit, reversed his cheeks into a more familiar scowl, and called us all suckers under his breath. He may have hated the food and resented having only enough money to visit our pathetic establishment. Maybe he threw rocks at the occasional homeless man wandering past the restaurant, or punted stray animals crossing his path. Smiley may have been an ardent supporter of brutal African dictators, or even a misplaced Miami Hurricane. He could have done and/or been any and/or all of these things, but we would never have known, as Smiley had won us all over with just one thing -- that unending smile. Ear-to-ear as it was, his infectious smile was not limited to his raised cheeks and bared teeth. Smiley's entire body smiled, it seemed. He moved with a shy yet shameless joy and pleasantness. He offered his namesake expression and an approving nod to anyone returning eye contact, and even some who did not. You could see friendliness in his eyes, and genuine, soft-hearted kindness radiating from his face. We loved Smiley not just because he was so smiley all the damn time, but because he was such an archetypal representation of pure, child-like happiness. Even among our mostly-motley crew, we knew who Smiley was, and what his smile meant, even if we didn't really know Smiley at all.
On multiple occasions, I'd watched Chris barge through the swinging kitchen door, eager to take over the register and tend personally to Smiley. He'd abruptly leave the register and return to the cutting board mumbling "I'M making Smiley's order. I'M hooking Smiley UP." Seth did the same thing, though I'm not sure he ever manned the register at any other time. If we were in the middle of a frantic rush, Karen or April would lean through the kitchen door and implore us, "This one is Smiley's order, hook him up," and we'd immediately cram as much chicken and as many vegetables as we could possibly fit into his to-go rice bowl. Regardless of what Smiley ordered, he received twice as much food as any other customer on any given day -- and probably only paid half the price. He was a folk hero, he was a David among the unscrupulous, bad-boy Goliaths of our kitchen -- unassuming, non-threatening, lightly armed with but a smile and a grateful series of nods, effortlessly slaying us right where we stood. Smiley might as well have worn a bright spandex onesie with his underwear on the outside, because this guy was a bonafide superhero. I mean, some twelve or thirteen years later, I’m relaying this apparently pointless but somewhat uplifting story to anyone taking the time to read it.
But it’s not really all that pointless of a story, now is it? There is a reason I’ve felt compelled to tell it. Well, two reasons, the first being the same reason I’ve told just about any story, ever: I thought of it and felt like sharing. But the second reason, likely the main reason, and easily the most important reason, is that there’s a lesson to be learned here. And it’s not as simple as just reminding everyone to smile their faces off. That ignores looking at the potential depth here. What I mean is that Smiley accomplished so much by doing so little. Assuming he could communicate in no other way, how outstanding was it that Smiley affected us so wonderfully? I have a feeling that the rest of us should find it laughably easy to do the same, and then some.
I've seen the way you act at restaurants, at banks, at clothing stores. Many of you leave no kind impressions in your wake. The people you deal with on a daily basis, particularly those whose jobs regularly land them face-to-face with the general public, are likely having a non-stop mixed bag of interpersonal interactions. Considering how little most people seem to care about strangers, I can only assume said interactions come with their fair share of negativity. If a police officer spends his day dealing with people who break the law, for example, I have to imagine he's not hearing "thank you" so often. And how many times does a waiter greet a table and ask how everyone is doing, only to hear a cold, dismissive response of "unsweet tea?" The poor girl working the register at Banana Republic is getting chewed out by a customer who must believe she personally determines prices; the next customer just stares at his cell phone, ignoring her entirely.
You're the next customer in line. You're the next car getting pulled over for doing 58 in a 45 mph zone. You've just been sat in a corner booth at the restaurant. And you now have the opportunity to offer one of the only smiles the opposing party might see all day. A smile, a hello, and any hint of genuine care and kindness can go a long way. Superfluous use of "please" and "thank you" never hurt anyone. If anything, it may just pay off for you in the long run, as it did for Smiley -- better treatment, better results, being remembered the next time you come around. It doesn't always pan out that way (I've had two officers thank me "for being so cool about this," but still hand me a ticket), but it's not as if being less positive would've resulted in a better outcome anyway.
I'm no motivational speaker, I'm not always a particularly positive person, and I'm not suggesting anyone model their lives after mine. But I saw Smiley, and I saw what he did to a group of ill-mannered jackwagons otherwise too hardened to be affected by run-of-the-mill kindness. Smiley wore us all down, made us all his friend, without using a single word. He was a study in the power of happiness, kindness, and a shared smile. He unwittingly taught me the most widely applicable lesson I ever learned in college, and I'll never know who he really was or what he was doing there in Gainesville. I like to think he was teaching at the university:
Professor Smiley, Intro to Kindness.
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