Lightning in a Bottle

Several summers ago I took a bus to Portland from my hometown.

Of course, the word ‘bus’ evokes a picture of the many different types of people riding it: the old lady with her oversized handbag, the young teenagers laughing too loudly, etc. This particular bus trip took place overnight. At dawn, we approached Portland.

As the sun made strides through the open window, the man across from me - not directly across but one seat up and over - started speaking to me. He turned his whole body around in order to do this. He wanted to know where I got my hat. He seemed nervous, in the category of bus-goer who usually keeps their head down, out of sight. The kind of person you will never really know.

After many volleys back and forth of conversation later, I ask about a tattoo peeking out from under his sweatshirt sleeve.

What is that of?

He lifts the sleeve to reveal a chemical structure. This, he said, is dopamine.

The hairs on my arm stood up. I felt that this man had experienced a great amount of pain, as cavalier as he may seem. I too had left permanent scars on myself from pain. But this? This wasn’t a scar: it was like lightning in a bottle. It was magnificent.

He traced the structure delicately and explained each piece: how it all fit together. How it worked. How and why we feel happiness.

Structurally, we all have this neurotransmitter.

In my short life, I had never seen this. It seemed brazen. A testament to the pursuit of happiness, a statement. Not: I will be happy. No.

I WILL know happiness.

I don’t remember anything else about him, or that bus ride. I also don’t need to go further, and describe the nights I spent up after that, researching how to also have that tattooed onto my own arm. The rawness of that chemistry - that’s real happiness. It doesn’t get more real than chemical bonds, nerve cells and the communication of pleasure.

Who knows what that man went through to have that permanently be a part of his arm. Whenever he looks down, for the rest of this life - boom. Happiness. Outstretched arm to greet someone? May they also know happiness.

I certainly felt it.

It seemed deep. And to this day, when I think of happiness, I think of sunshine and ink, both illuminated and scientific.