There’s this guy at work who always smiles.

I mean always, as in 24/7, even when he’s just by himself. His name is Mario. Short, curly hair. Ear-to-ear grin. Speaks not a single word of English.

It’s contagious. Whenever I see him and his smile, I can’t help but smile too. And then, without exchanging a single word, we both gradually grin and then burst out laughing with splinters in our sides.

The other night, I, with my broken Spanish, asked him why he always smiles. And he replied with a huge grin and careless shrug, “Me gusta la vida.”

I love life. As simple as that. And then he went back to frying chicken while dancing to the Spanish salsa rock music that boomed in the background.

You’d think that people who work at fast food joints would be indifferent to life, bored of its monotony, numb to its hardships. Well, that’s what I thought too, before I met some amazing people.

There’s Ruben, who takes me square-dancing whenever a country music song comes on the radio and who has taught me more ‘useful’ Spanish words than all the ones I’ve learned in school.

There’s Luis, who runs around chasing the girls and bursts out laughing to hide the pain when he slips and falls flat on the ground.

There’s Jony, who goes to boot camp for acting up in school but is a gentleman at heart, opening doors and cabinets and doing all the dirty work so I don’t have to.

There’s Jovany, who ‘accidentally’ drinks from my cup and is the adorable newbie that asks to work Saturdays because that’s when I’m there.

There’s Shaterica, the crazy girl who keeps colored pens in her hair and makes me extra food to eat even when I’m not hungry.

There’s Arnesha, the varsity basketball player who is my original trainer and my friend.

There’s Pili, who likes black nail polish and discusses with me, in Spanish, the presence of God, Heaven, and Hell.

There’s Eddie, the stressed-out Filipino manager who lets me give out free food before midnight to my friends and whose witty, succinct remarks never fail to make me laugh.

There’s Ines, short for Alejandro, the rocker who argues with me about UFO sightings in Galveston.

There’s Sergio, who never tells me his real age, works two jobs, and has jokingly asked me to marry him.

These are the people I’ve befriended the past half -year. Saturday evenings would always turn into a party with Dennis bringing in Chinese food and Shaterica and I exchanging trade deals with Smoothie King down the street. There would be music, eating, and dancing, and all of us running around preparing food or just chasing each other.

Most of them are seniors like me. Some plan to work there permanently; some already do.

It’s funny, and ironic; work is the only place I find such genuine people with such genuine love for life. In school, half the people are killing themselves (myself included), trying to get into college, trying to get a career, trying to make money while compromising passions, trying to find the elusive happiness that’s always in the future. But few know what or where real happiness is; most are just propelled along life by an invisible force outside of their control.

Where is happiness? There is no set answer to that question. It varies for each individual and the paths taken to find it. If it’s in a successful career, go for it. If it’s in finding love and starting a family, go for it. If it’s in getting into the college of your dreams, go for it. If it’s in frying chicken and listening to Spanish salsa rock, go for it.

Who are we to judge?

The secret to happiness?