From Cyan Magenta Yellow Black

The three characters here–Duane, Emily, and Porter–have just been to a therapy group where the group leader, who they call Sargeant Serenity, has used the phrase "abyss of happiness.”

Dunn Brothers was here before the Starbucks and the Caribous and the dozens of one-offs that popped up last year. It has a clientele which liked expensive coffee in European spaces before that was a thing—except, of course, in Europe, where it was presumably always a thing. It has a chalked menu, arrayed battalions of scones and Danishes and muffins, bohemian-attractive and surprisingly friendly counter help, a zillion posters, a thin ordering space made thinner by our puffy winter gear, free weeklies, the New York Times (not free), perpetually not-quite-empty thermoses of cream and milk, corrugated cup holders and complex plastic lids, a churning roaster in the corner flanked by lounging burlap sacks of beans, a second counter where you can buy beans from under glass which are then scooped into little brown bags by the staff who then handwrite the product and date on, and, finally, a room filled with small tables that are poorly balanced and frequently jostled, which gives the effect of being on a ship at sea. There’s a small stage where a lot of singer-songwriter dreams begin and, too often, end.

The place is crowded. Besides those of us who are vaguely recovering, there are a fair number of people here who are specifically recovering. This section of St Paul is an immigrant community for those who’ve come to Minnesota to cleanse themselves of their addictions to alcohol and drugs. Dunn Brothers does a brisk business in its minor stimulants and legal consolations—not the least of which is human companionship.

When I sit down, Emily says, “So abyss of happiness?”

“Yeah, that was something,”

Emily says, “So can you just attach ‘abyss’ to, like, anything?”

Porter says, “I think it has to be an abstract noun.”

“So, no abyss of Twizzlers?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“You sure?”

“But an abyss of glee.”

“An abyss of whimsy.”

“An abyss of moderation.”

“An abyss of insouciance.”

“An abyss of I’m-basically-doing-all-right-and-the-world’s-treating-me- okay.”

“And we’re concerned about that little rant, are we not?”

“Yes, very.” Two words but she speaks them with a quality halfway between briskness and effervescence, that was the best parts of both, that reminded me of what I liked about Emily.

Porter takes longer to respond. But he knows this territory more deeply. “Yes, he’s been journeying in his own head. He’s been journeying without a god and without a friend. Nothing good will come of that.” For all the melodrama of Porter’s diction, this actually feels spot on.

Porter’s insight into Serenity’s pain feels like too much to consider right now, so we spend some time discussing the relative merits of Seinfeld and Mad About You. We decide that we relate to Seinfeld, which Emily calls “an ode to the wisecrack lifestyle.” Seinfeld, God bless it, made friendship and irony seem like a plausible foundation for something like happiness. But we aspire to Mad About You, because the characters had found love and that was kind of the point.

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