Cupcakes and Dinosaurs

We realized we needed groceries at midnight last night. Safeway happens to be open until 2am, and the walk there is possibly the most worrisome of anywhere. I put pepper spray in my pocket and made sure the top was prominently visible -- intimidation factor. Ruffle my hair a little bit and furrow my brow; I've got it.

Our grocery trip consists of (more) tortillas and additions of pickles and cheap bran cereal. Set for the week. We stumbled through the store -- not as empty as expected. Apparently Safeway is tremendously popular at one in the morning. Who would have thought that Elizabeth and I aren't the only ones who don't sleep.

Everything about grocery shopping intimidates me. The logistics of food placement and the frustratingly true fact that what you want is always clear across the store. Aisle 14.

After deciding that ramen was too expensive, we proceeded to the checkout counter.

Behind the register was an apathetic Asian teenager, delightfully plump and fundamentally bored out of his mind, however not for long -- a curly-haired, lanky man of about 25 made the kid crack a smile. Cashier looks to me, next in line, and asks with a hint of amusement, "Would you like to meet my friend here? He draws dinosaurs."

The man, no more than 30 and wearing a grey sweater matched immaculately with black-rimmed glasses doesn't hesitate.

"Do you like cupcakes?" he asks me, not quite meeting my eyes but not fully diverging his, either. I couldn't help noticing that all three of his bagged groceries consisted solely of a rainbow of cupcakes stacked in plastic boxes.
"I do, actually," I reply, intrigued. The cashier isn't sure what to do and Elizabeth is turning beet red as she tries not to laugh in the whimsical man's face.

"So he tells me you draw dinosaurs."
"I do! You see, I have millions of dinosaurs... in my heart."
He lovingly, genuinely, places a hand to the left side of his chest and smiles.
"They live in my heart."
"Oh."

Dino Man promptly pulls out a sketchbook and flips it open to a penned illustration of what appears to be a stegosaurus.
"There's the ankylosaurus... he had to have orthodontic treatment." And true enough, unarguably, the "ankylosaurus" grins from the page with braces on his teeth.

He turns the pages emphatically.
"This one broke his leg and needed a cast... This one feeds on garden flowers..."

I laughed, but he was entirely serious, determined in showing me his collection of dinosaurs.
"I could give you one -- right now -- if you promise me it'll have a good home," he offers, a look of intent on his face.
"I promise."
"Which one would you like?"
"The one with the orthodontic treatment."

He tears out the page with the ankylosaurus, braces, differently-sized eyes, and triangle scales. "Here you go!"
"Why thank you."

Customers in line behind me are not sure of a proper reaction.

"You see, these dinosaurs are meant to make people happy in their hearts. When they run out of cupcakes."
And with this proclamation of profoundness, he gathers up his cupcakes and shuffles out of Safeway, satisfied with his deed and newly-bought arsenal of baked goods.


"He's got it all figured out," I tell Elizabeth later that night. "All you really need in life are cupcakes and dinosaurs."

And it's true. Here were philosophers decoding the elusive meaning of happiness; theorems, algorithms, formulas, brain scans, endorphin levels. Nonsense. What is science when you've found happiness in an ankylosaurus and a cupcake? It's the simple things. All I needed was a curly-haired man with boxes of cupcakes and a sketchbook of dinosaurs to show me this.