déjà vu
Hello, friends. It's been a while. Rather than spend an undue amount of time explaining my absence, I'll just enjoy the moment of presence and do what I came to do – write.
First, a brief commercial break. I will have you know that I passed the first lemonade stand of the post-Memorial-Day season this weekend and practiced exactly what I preach. Two boys, who I'm guessing were five and seven, were standing street side, holding a torn, brown, cardboard sign with thin, white writing on it – which of course no one could read from their cars. The younger of the pair was calling out passionately to the drivers as they whizzed by (I know this not because I heard him, but only due to the fact that I saw his little mouth working exaggeratedly to form words). He and his sign twisted at the waist with every passing car, as if forced to do so by their sheer velocity. No one was stopping. It was a pitiful sight. Well, in addition to stopping and buying two cups of lemonade, I offered some sound marketing advice, as well: using white poster board instead of the brown cardboard, writing with thick black marker instead of white crayon, and exchanging the screaming for smiling REAL BIG and with teeth (which, as it turned out, were not so many at the moment). They were very grateful, and before running indoors to hunt for the suggested supplies, the older boy offered me a quarter of my money back "for the good advice" (which, of course, I let him keep after complimenting his outstanding manners). For Pete's sake, don't be a whiz-by-er. Make a kid's day. Stop and buy the lemonade!
We now return to our regularly-scheduled programming.
Let me tell you about my new friend Dave. I met Dave about six months ago. We have a lot in common. Graphics and computer skills. Musical abilities. Core beliefs. Youth mentoring.
Dave looks like a younger version of Hugh Jackman. I just thought I'd throw that in there. We do not have this in common. I do not look very much like Hugh Jackman.
But Dave also has quite a bit in common with some other people I have known. People who haven't been very nice to me, I'm afraid. People who, if truth be told, have been downright mean to me.
Dave has the same hair color as someone who recently betrayed me. The rise and fall of his voice is uncannily similar to the same former friend.
Dave has the same career as someone who recently gossiped and spread lies about me.
Dave uses certain obscure phrases that I've only ever heard used by a couple of people in my life – people who have hurt me. Dave goes places those people go, and reads books those people have touted as good reads.
On the flip side, one of the first times Dave and I talked, he told me that I rather reminded him of someone, as well. Dave had heard me singing. He figured out pretty quickly that I was outgoing and talked easily with people. And these things reminded him of someone else who was outgoing and could sing well, someone he'd invested a lot of time into in recent years. In the end, this person had broken Dave's trust in irreparable ways and hurt people that Dave cared about. In short, this person had made Dave's life quite hard for quite a long time.
We both acknowledged, from the very first time we talked, that it was a temptation to avoid getting to know one another altogether. "This guy is too much like the last one who caused me so much pain." Engaging again with someone so similar in so many ways would just be asking for trouble -- opening the door for the painful past to repeat itself. Wouldn't it?
The truth is that Dave is a great guy and a welcome new friend. I enjoy talking with him. I feel excited about possibilities after we hang out. He values my input and I value his. We've started into writing a little music together, and he wasn't afraid to sing in "girl voice" in front of me. I like his sense of humor, and he gets mine. We laugh a lot. I like Dave. I trust Dave.
Brace yourself for this next bit. Trust is a choice.
It's hard to trust new people who are a lot (or even a little) like people who have betrayed our trust in the past. So, yes, it's a potentially difficult choice – but a choice nonetheless.
What's more, basing all new relationships on bad past relationships is irrational, if we really stop and think about it.
Every chair does not give us splinters – even if that one did when we were nine. Will we never sit again?
And that lobster red burn two summers later – the one that had us unable to sleep for days and cleaning skin peelings from our sheets for weeks – is hardly grounds to lock ourselves away in the cellar every time the sun comes up.
There's a line in Anne of Green Gables, where Anne's trusted mentor and friend, Ms. Stacy, has this to say: "Tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it." And that is true of new relationships, as well. Each one is fresh, with no mistakes in it.
So, if you are afraid, then go ahead and say so. Decide together to do things differently. Be different, if there are things in you that could use changing this time around. But by all means, do choose to trust again. For to choose otherwise – to live within a self-made fortress of skepticism and fear – is to rob ourselves of the potential for future joy, as well.
julie and julia (and me)
Where to begin...
My writing chops feel a bit like our first glimpse of the Tin Man in Oz.
Last night, I finally got around to watching the wonderful film, Julie and Julia. When I'd first heard tell of the film, I couldn't envision what all the fuss was about: "Girl Cooks Her Way Through Julia Child's French Cookbook." It just didn't do it for me.
Then I watched it. I can only assure you that it is so much more than at first it seemed.
I laughed. I cried. And all for the best of reasons.
Now, I realize that this isn't intended to be a movie review blog. Fear not. What I hope to convey here are but a few of the many ways in which the film provided glimpses and reminders of real life and the things that matter. Rather than be long-winded or pedantic, I'll simply give you the short list, which I trust will whet your curiosity – and appetite – just enough to spur you to enjoy the film for yourself if you haven't already.
1. Meryl Streep is amazing (all right, this doesn't technically fit into the category of "glimpses and reminders of real life and the things that matter," but I just couldn't go any further without mentioning it).
2. While Julia Child (for those fortunate enough to remember her) was largely known to us for her eccentricity, her characteristic warble, and the small space we saw her occupy in her television kitchen and dining room, she was a complex, wonderful and fascinating person. Tenacious. Willful. Romantic. Positive. It was a good reminder, once again, not to ever ever see people as two-dimensional or defined by the role for which we might happen to know them in moments. Teachers. Parents. Children. Police officers. Store clerks and bankers and flight attendants. And the "loser" at the end of the bar. We are all real people with multifaceted lives – people worth knowing more about.
3. Julia Child was not a life-time chef nor born to chefs. She just decided she wanted to cook – and be good at it – because of her personal experiences with the food of Paris. She began this pursuit at nearly 40 years of age, at a time when the culinary arts were dominated by men. Against the odds, she set her heart on something and, through hard work and love, became a world-renowned figure. It is truly never too late to find something you love to do – and do it. Julia is quoted as having said, "Eat well. Live Big. Bloom late." This seems to me a wonderfully inspiring motto by which to live.
4. In a day when eating is often for all the wrong reasons – driving with our knees, trying to keep the Big Mac sauce from plopping onto our laps while we cram it down in the car between stops – this movie was a great reminder to continually be intentional about enjoying the simple things in life. While in Paris, Julia once described a meal of oysters and fine wine as "an opening up of the soul and spirit for me." Remember – this was before she had ever poached an egg. Rather, this enjoyment of the simple pleasures is what inspired her to want to cook and to do it well. Does it seem a great stretch for you to be the type to enjoy food this way? Start with deciding only to eat when you have time to taste it. From there, anything is possible. (Note: I've also found that spending as much time as possible with others who've learned to enjoy the simple things is invaluable.)
5. Both Julia and Julie had people who absolutely adored them. And some that hated them, seemingly making it their sole goal to oppose them. Why? Because Julia and Julie were passionate about something and succeeding at it. And best I can figure, this just ticks unhappy people off, for some reason. The film bolstered my resolve to keep my course set, to do what I do because I believe in it and love doing it, and to give as little thought as possible to the naysayers and troublemakers along the way.
6. Julia's world-changing book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking – was a whole lot of work. In the days before computers and spell-check, using manual type and carbon copies, it was all the more so. She faced the difficulty of co-authors shirking duties. She experienced the highs and huge disappointments of publisher interest – and then rejections – before the final elation of seeing the book go to print only many years later. Likewise, the film's other heroine, Julie, struggles through keeping a daily blog for one year, as well as the intensive cooking commitment involved (524 recipes in 365 days!). All of this reminded me of the joys and struggles I myself have faced in the writing process. But more so, it reminded me to remind us all – that anything worth having is worth fighting for.
Now, in the spirit of so many of my previous blog posts about taking chances and experiencing new things – for Pete's sake, see the film, will ya? (Yes – guys, too. No one will tell.) Love it. Hate it. Makes no difference. The point is to keep trying something different. To challenge yourself. To stay open-minded. To think new thoughts. To broaden your world view.
Or maybe even to try cooking a new dish.
young love
Yesterday, I was handed a love letter. However, the letter was not meant for me. Rather, it was written by a young teen boy, and I was asked to read it and then give my opinion of it.
Oh, the pressure. And the honor.
First of all, the letter was printed by hand on wide-ruled paper. In pencil. Before I even began to read the words of it, my thoughts were many. Chiefly, they were that this boy is one of the sweetest and most genuine people I know.
The object of his affections was a girl he had met during summer camp, which he had attended for six weeks. In the very first paragraph of his three-page letter, he simply and unabashedly confessed his love for her, exclaiming that this was the first time he had ever felt this way, and so he thought he'd better do something about it.
The rest of the letter pondered in detail the many reasons for which he loved her, reading like a modern-day Robert Burns. Was it her walk that mesmerized him so? Her voice when she sang that enraptured him? Or her laugh, which he confessed made him feel "more at home than anything else in the whole world"?
At the end of the letter, after his starry-eyed musings had run their course, he graciously permitted that it was all right if she didn't love him back. He ended with, "It's just that I'm afraid I may only ever feel this way once, and so I'd rather take the chance and say something, than to have the lifelong regret of never having tried."
Alas, you'll recall that I was asked for my opinion on whether or not he should send the letter to this girl (by postal mail no less, only adding to the endearing scenario). Was it all just too much? Was he setting himself up for a fall? No one wanted this earnest fellow to get his heart broken, least of all the boy himself.
Every good writer knows the importance of tension. And so – I'm not telling you what I shared with him by way of advice concerning the letter. I will, however, reflect on a few thoughts I had in the process.
Is it truly "better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all"?
Which is the worse state of affairs: to risk being rejected for who you truly are? or to risk being accepted for who you are not?
Is a pure and heartfelt expression of love ever wrong?
Does someone so young really even know what love is, to go on gushing about it so? And is it all right if he doesn't truly know what love is, but goes on gushing about it anyway, simply because that is what he is feeling today and all that he knows love to be?
Who among us has really cornered the market on "what love really is" anyway? And if we have, is it then that we finally find ourselves expressing it with abandon, regardless of the consequences?
For all of my questions, I am most interested in knowing the answer to only one: What if she, as young and naive in the ways of love as he, were to find him rather charming in his boyish sincerity?
What if, by some chance, her answer to his big question – is yes?
past midnight
When I was a teen, we were never ever allowed out past midnight. The reason was stated as fact: "Nothing good happens after midnight."
I'm not sure if parents somehow get this idea into their heads from their own childhood memories of Cinderella, but it never made sense to me. I didn't balk at it, nor did I have any particular reasons to be out late. But I always used to picture hooded figures lurking just inside doorways across the world, and drunk drivers pulled over at rest stops – all watching the seconds tick down. Then, at precisely midnight, they would shake their fist at the night and flood into the highways and byways to wreak their mayhem on unwary citizens who had scoffed at the admonitions of their parents.
Last night, at 11:15 or so, I wasn't quite ready for bed. I thought I'd hit the corner convenience store and pick up my usual drinks for the next day's gym visit, instead of waiting until morning.
As I entered the store, jangling the little bell, the kid at the counter hailed me, grinning broadly as if we were old friends. He wore a lanyard with a very large, laminated name card, which contained his name in dark lettering: "Aaron."
"Haven't seen you in here in a while," Aaron called to me, as I perused the shelves.
"Well, I've been here, so you must have been out," I returned in a friendly tone.
"Yeah. I got suspended for two weeks," he admitted, unabashed despite the presence of a couple of other patrons in the store. This seemed an unusual amount of honesty from a stranger working his shift, and yet he struck me as completely sincere. There was something about him that I liked.
While I bought my things, I asked him why he'd gotten suspended. The next thing I knew, we were deep in conversation, both of us standing on our respective sides of a counter, with me still holding my bag of goods. I glanced at my watch. Just past midnight.
The witching hour has begun, I thought to myself.
Between irregular customers stopping in for lottery tickets or cigarettes, Aaron and I continued to talk. As the flow of customers died down even further, he asked if I'd join him outside on the curb so he could get in a cigarette. We sat on the cool concrete, where Aaron shared his story openly with me. At only 22 years old, he'd been through a lifetime already.
His father had been in prison since Aaron was only six for a violent crime perpetrated upon Aaron himself, as a means of manipulating his mother.
This talkative and winsome kid had already been in a gang, been stabbed three times, and been addicted to heroin. He recounted what addiction felt like to him, the toll it took on his body.
He'd dropped out of high school and was now trying to complete his G.E.D. for the second time because he'd reached the three-day limit for absences the first time around. He didn't think he'd ever do college, because he couldn't read well. He told me with no little emotion about a teacher who had caused him to feel stupid, embarrassed, in grade school because he could not read.
His best friend had been shot and killed with a rifle at point blank range, in a drug deal gone bad. That's when Aaron decided he needed to kick the habit and get his life together. That was less than a year ago.
It was now getting on 1:00 AM, and my morning would have me up at 4:30. But I didn't want to break off conversation with this kid. It was like he hadn't talked to anyone on a real level in years. Maybe longer.
I asked him what his dreams were. He told me that he had two: to be a famous rapper; and to go around speaking to at-risk teens and tell them his story, in hopes of convincing them to change before they ended up with ruined lives. Or dead like his friend. When he mentioned his friend again, his eyes glassed over with emotion. He felt it happen. He told me he hadn't really cried about it, but probably needed to at some point. I agreed.
I asked if I could hear some of his music, and he played some for me from his iPhone. He was good. "I don't want to swear so much it it, though," he told me as F-bombs dropped in the song, chagrined as if I were a priest. "I want to sound smarter."
Another woman rolled up to the store, and Aaron hopped up and opened the door for her, following her inside. I waited outside, leaning against my car and watching through the window at the silent movie playing out on the other side of the glass. The woman seemed to be having a hard time deciding exactly which lottery tickets would be the right ones, and how many of each were a safe number to assure her winning the millions. Aaron unraveled rolls of tickets, then spun them back into their plastic sheaths sometimes taking none, sometimes one, sometimes ten.
At one point, as I watched him graciously assisting the woman, Aaron came up close to the window and made a funny face out at me, like we were old pals sharing a private joke. I felt like I'd known him much longer than two hours.
Meanwhile, figures appeared out of the shadows at the edge of the lot two young guys in late high school or early college. One approached me quickly and confidently, with the other following, never taking his eyes from the pavement under his feet. They had the familiar look of kids who wanted to try to bum a cigarette. I was preparing to tell them that I don't smoke, when the front runner said with as much charm as he could manage, "Excuse me, sir, would you mind giving us a ride to Whitman?"
Whitman is not far but it isn't close. It was now 1:30, and it would be at least a half-hour round trip.
I smiled and cocked my head to the side, raising an eyebrow. "You have exactly thirty seconds to tell me why I should give you a ride, and to convince me that you aren't planning to rob or murder me."
The quiet one of the pair looked like he legitimately wanted to turn and walk away without further ado. The talker didn't lose a beat, however. "You can frisk me if you want, sir, we just really need a ride." As he spoke, he began emptying the pockets of his pants and hoodie onto the ground at his feet, as if I were a police officer: an iPhone, a set of earphones, some gum. I'm not going to lie, I was a little amused at the kid's antics and his tenacity at getting a ride. He reminded me of Eddie Haskell from Leave It To Beaver.
"I'm Erik," I said. "What are you guys' names? How old are you?"
"I'm Jack. This is Joe," the talker said, nodding toward his friend. "I'm going to be a junior in high school. Joe is too. Right, Joe?"
Joe nodded, still visibly uncomfortable at the exchange.
"OK, Jack and Joe. So how is it that you're needing a ride at 1:30 in the morning?"
Jack spoke right up, "We were down at the sports dome. Joe's mother said she would get us, but he called her ten minutes after she said to, so she said she wouldn't pick us up. We've just been walking around for hours, trying to get a ride."
Aaron was just emerging from the store now. I told him I was going to give these kids a ride and that I'd connect with him on Facebook when I got home. "Definitely do. Thanks for talking," he said. "It made my shift go by really fast so far."
I hadn't officially told the actual boys that I'd give them the ride, but my announcement to Aaron was enough for them, and they were already making themselves quite comfortable in the back seat of my car. I just shook my head and laughed. This was turning out to be quite the night.
I headed up Route 18 toward Whitman, talking with the boys. Jack answered everything with much energy and many words. Joe said nothing, except when I asked him a direct question which only he could answer. Jack asked me what I do for a living. "I drive kids in trouble home at two o'clock in the morning," I said. This was not far from the truth.
Once over the Whitman line, I asked for further clarification on directions to their destination. "OK, what now? Is it far off the main strip here?"
"Well …" Jack began, cautiously. "Actually, my friend in Whitman said we can't stay there." Jack hadn't used his phone while he'd been in my car. I had not even noticed a light representing an exchange of texts. I said as much to him and inquired as to how it is that he knew this only after asking me for the ride and getting in my car.
He answered vaguely. "I don't know. He just said we couldn't. So … could you drive us to Weymouth?"
If Whitman is not close, Weymouth is downright far.
"Well, Jack," I said wryly. "I have three choices. I could drive back home to Bridgewater and let you off where I found you. I could drop you off here on Route 18, which gets you further to Weymouth than you'd be by now walking. Or I could be an extra-specially-nice guy and drive you all the way to Weymouth at past two in the morning."
I let that sit. A few moments later, Jack piped up. "So, you'll drive us?"
I drove them.
Once to Weymouth – Jack revealed that he actually had no idea where he was going. He said it was his girlfriend's house and that she lived on Charles Street. That was allegedly near a Lord & Taylor. I knew of neither.
We pulled over at a 24-hour CVS, where Jack hopped out to see if a clerk could help with directions. I shot back over my shoulder, "Joe … you don't talk much, do you?"
"Nope," he answered, not sullenly but matter-of-factly.
"And does your friend always keep talking like that?" I said, smirking.
"Yup," he said. I saw in the rear-view mirror that a smile had cracked his face, as well.
Jack was back. "They don't know," he said, and then just sat silently, as if I'd miraculously solve this, being the adult.
I do love teens.
An older gentleman came across the lot, using crutches. Ever the charming one, Jack put his window down and asked for help. The man said he thought there was a Charles Street after the next left and then left and then past a bar. Not much, but something nonetheless.
We headed that way. Jack began exclaiming that it looked familiar. His voice didn't sound like he'd ever seen any of this a day in his life.
We drove up and down the road twice before I pulled over. "Call your girlfriend," I suggested. It was now nearly 2:30. Joe got out his phone. Bloop. Bleep.
"Hey, baby," he said in a completely put-on voice, apparently reserved for the ladies. "We're around your area. Can you tell me how to get to you from the Walmart? … Uh huh … Oh … I see … OK." Then he hung up. "She said she's sleeping and she doesn't want to talk right now," he informed me.
Joe followed up with the most words in a row he'd said all night. "I feel so sorry for this guy," he said, indicating me.
I felt a little sorry for me, as well.
I said a quick prayer and then headed up the street one more time. I peered into the darkness on both sides of the road. Up one side street, at the next block, I could make out a street sign that might have had a "C" in the name. I turned up that way. Sure enough, it was Charles Street.
"There's her apartment building!" Jack shouted, pointing. I was already mentally trying to see if I remembered my way back home.
Jack thanked me profusely. Joe delivered his runner-up line of the night: "Thanks, man. I really appreciate it." Like a cheesy after-school infomercial, I smiled and told them to stay out of trouble and stay in school. And then I was off.
I got back to my area sometime after 3:00. I stopped in at the convenience store once more, to tell Aaron about the crazy goose chase I'd just been on with strangers. It was funny, because Aaron was as much as stranger as they had been. It didn't feel like it. He made an ostentatious and humorous display of shock and dismay at my eventful ride. Then we said goodbye and I headed home.
I wasn't in bed until after 3:30. I did not get up for the gym at 4:30.
My late night adventures were certainly not convenient, I'll admit. True caring rarely is. But I managed to deliver two deserted kids to safe shelter, and to have some meaningful conversation with a new, young friend who seemed to be in need of someone to listen.
As for nothing good happening after midnight, I'm still not willing to concur. However, based on this experience, I might be willing to concede that nothing easy happens past midnight.
the guy at the top
Earlier this month, in a post entitled "tabloid," I tried to give a perspective on the rich and famous (using Britney Spears as an example), and the fact that, regardless of their income or occupation, they are real people just like you and me – and thus worthy of the kindness and courtesy we would want for ourselves. But Hollywood is not the only bastion of untouchables. My observation has been that, from police to the the President, anyone holding a position higher than our own is often treated as less than "real" – guilty by association with a tailored suit or a uniform.
Today has been over 100°, so what better time to tell a story about – snow.
Late into the night some years back, I was driving home along a winding back road during a full-on blizzard. Plows had not been out. The snow barraging the windshield gave the effect of traveling at warp speed in outer space. In actuality, had I been going any slower, I wouldn't have had enough traction to keep moving. One more tight turn – and that ethereal, scintillating feeling flooded up through my stomach and chest as the car slid out of my control. Despite valiant efforts at cranking the wheel back and forth, I made impact and was three tires into a snow bank. Could be worse, I told myself. Could have been a telephone pole.
I did everything I could think of. Rocking back and forth. Gunning forward, then back. Putting cloth under the tires for traction. It was no good. The snow was just too deep and wet.
It was past midnight and this road was deserted.
After about a half hour, I saw headlights approaching. Would they stop? I stood outside on the far side of my car, waving my arms overhead, donning my friendliest and most disarming smile. The car passed by me going no more than 10 MPH without stopping or so much as gracing me with a turn of heads.
I got back into my car, soaked through.
Again, headlights approached. And, again, I waved. This time, they stopped! It was a pick-up truck – good sign. The man was empathetic and accommodating. And he had a tow cable. I was saved.
As he busied himself with attaching the cable to his vehicle, I thanked him profusely and asked, "So, do you wind up towing people out a lot in this kind of weather?"
"I've done it my fair share of times," he assured me, grinning amiably. Then he took the other end to my car and had me pop the trunk. I sat in the driver's seat, out of the relentless snow for a moment, ready to put the car into neutral. Soon, the trunk lowered and the man gave me the thumbs up.
I put the car into neutral and turned the wheels hard to the right. Once in his truck, the man backed up, drawing the slack of the cable and then –
An awful, grinding noise overlapped the crunch of snow as I was pulled loose. It all seemed to happen through marshmallow. But I saw and felt my trunk letting go in a way that set my teeth on edge.
The car was free. I came out to find the trunk pulled sideways off its hinges at an impossibly contorted angle. The heavy, wet snow was rapidly filling the inside of my trunk, piling up on its contents. In shock, my eyes traced the cable to where it now hung down. The man had not secured the cable to the frame of the car itself, but to the flimsy latch of the trunk lid!
He was now out of his truck and walking toward me, looking obviously disturbed. I didn't know quite what to do. I know he had tried to help, but -- he'd ruined my car in the process. As graciously as I could manage, I thanked him. And then asked if we could swap information. Immediately, he started backing away. Almost running. "Oh, dude," he sputtered, "I was trying to help. I don't want to get involved in an insurance claim. Good luck." And with that, he got in his truck, backed up and turned off in the opposite direction. His plate was frosted in with snow. I had no information.
Once home, I did my best to drape blankets over the gaping maw of the trunk and its contents while the blizzard continued pounding. The next day, I called my insurance company. I'll spare you the details of the next week, but it was the constant runaround. I'd read every word of the policy coverage material, and was sure this should be covered – either by comprehensive or as vandalism. The counterarguments I got from representatives – when they returned my calls at all – were ludicrous. Nonsensical. They just didn't want to pay. Finally, I told the last supervisor that I felt I had no choice but to write to the man at the top – the president of this national company. She assured me smugly that he would just tell me the same thing she and all the others had, and welcomed me to go ahead and write him.
And I did.
I explained the details and the events thus far in dealing with the representatives. I explained to the man that I had carried his company's insurance for more than 15 years without incident, and yet the amount being denied to me now was not even $300.00. I was not unkind or rude. He'd had nothing to do with the goings-on to that point. Rather, I spoke to him as one real person to another, and asked if he might personally look into the claim for me.
One week later, I received a reply. It was personally written from the president. He was very apologetic, expressing his concern about the way the claim had been handled thus far and that I'd not been treated as a valued, long-term customer. He agreed with my assessment of the incident, as well as my understanding of the policy coverage clauses. Folded into the letter was a check for more than I'd asked. He ended his letter inviting me to call him directly if I ever had another issue with a claim.
Wow. I sent him a thank you card immediately.
Imagine where I'd have been if I'd just believed that the "guy at the top" is always disinterested. Aloof. Only in it for the money he's making.
Just yesterday, I read some media about a large, well-known corporation that is going under due to the economy and changes in the market. For some reason, I felt real compassion for the president/CEO. He seemed truly saddened by the closure, by all accounts I'd read. It did not strike me as though a slick marketing department were writing for him. His words felt real to me.
I did some quick research. The man is 51. He's been through years of struggle trying to right the company, and what seems a downright intense last couple of months, only to see all his efforts come to naught. I imagined the weight he must bear, with thousands of nationwide employees losing jobs. Of the media blaming him for not doing this or that as they felt it should have been done. And, no matter how much money he was making, how does the CEO of a major corporation – one that goes under in the public spotlight while on his watch – go about finding the next job?
The idea popped into my head to write him a personal note, expressing my regret, encouraging him a bit, and wishing him well. Finding a valid email for him, however, was not easy. I tried one. It was returned. I searched a different route and finally came up with another, which seemed to be a personal email.
Does all of this sound strange? People don't just "drop a line" to head honchos like that, you're thinking. And even if they did, the guy's not going to read it among all the other important communiques flooding his inbox. Besides, I'm sure he's figured out a way to pad his pockets with a nice, big sum before the card house comes down. He doesn't need some stranger's pep talk.
Maybe you're right. But I sent it anyway. It was brief but heartfelt. I just expressed that, while I'm sure people are pointing fingers, he is very much a real guy and must be personally saddened. I affirmed that no one else is in his shoes, and therefore in no position to judge. I encouraged him to use this transition to consider what his dreams are, and to pursue those now.
This morning at 6:30, I had a reply. The man was very personal, extending his appreciation of my perspective on things, and thanking me sincerely for taking the time to share my thoughts.
Nice man, I thought. Just another person like me, who can use a kind word once in a while.
After reading this, I could not get one more thought out of my head. But sending another email – might seem like stalking or something. I set it aside.
Still, the thought wouldn't go away. And I've learned to go with those persistent thoughts in life. So I replied, again briefly. In short, I suggested that he take some time off to rest. Regroup. Spend uninterrupted time with his family. Travel for sheer pleasure. Maybe watch some old comfort movies and sunsets. And I encouraged him to do this without guilt, exclaiming that it wasn't selfish – it was necessary. Because he's just a real guy who needs a break for a while. I ended by joking that I was sure his mother had already told him as much, but that it never hurt to have someone else reiterate it.
Again, within minutes, he'd sent a reply, thanking me for the insight and agreeing that this is what he should – and will – do.
I felt happy, not that I'd managed to get a reply from a bigwig, but because I'd taken a chance on encouraging someone that seemed beyond reach – someone that perhaps most people saw as beyond reach, and who therefore might not receive much encouragement otherwise.
Rich or poor, famous or obscure, we are all just people doing whatever it is we do. The police officer parked on the side of the road plays with his kids on the trampoline when he has days off. The judge can't wait til Sunday to make his famous chili for the family barbeque. The President laughs at cartoons and sometimes has a stomachache and secretly likes jimmies on his ice cream.
So try your hardest to remember that the guy at the top – is still just a guy.
guess
TAKE ONE:
I went through the drive-thru at a coffee shop today. It was nearing 4:00PM and I hadn't eaten yet, so I had to settle for an iced coffee and as healthy a sandwich as such a place might offer. As I rolled my window down to order, I was assaulted by a high-frequency squeal emitting from the order station. I instinctively winced and recoiled from the sound. I couldn't believe a national place like this can't manage to stay on top of fixing their equipment. Honestly – do they want my business? News flash: I don't have to buy their food.
It was tempting to just drive off, but from somewhere within the grating feedback, a small voice addressed me. I couldn't make out what he was asking, or even if it was a "he."
I sighed, shouting back, "I can't hear what you're saying! You're machine is a mess out here!"
I was able to barely get "… sorry … your order …" I assumed it was the usual, "Can I take your order?" The line behind me was getting longer and I just wanted to get out of there. I yelled my order: "A medium decaf French vanilla iced coffee..."
I was interrupted. "… sorry … up please … can't hear …" I literally growled, hoping they could hear that.
I leaned well out the window, now yelling with an edge of attitude. "I said I'll have a MEDIUM DECAF FRENCH VANILLA ICED COFFEE, LIGHT WITH MILK, AND TWO SWEET AND LOW and ..."
I was cut off again. "… that complete y … order?"
"No!" I shouted, exasperated. I knew I must have looked like a lunatic to the people behind me, the cars now backing up well around the corner of the building. "I'd like a BACON EGG AND CHEESE ON AN ENGLISH MUFFIN!"
"Drive … please."
As I rounded the corner toward the window, the customer ahead of me seemed to be having an issue. The window worker was leaning out. Bags and money were going the wrong way. "I'm sorry …" I heard the worker start to say, but the car had already sped off, tires spinning. Geesh. This place was really doing some excellent customer service. :: rolled eyes ::
When I got up to the window, the kid said, "A small iced tea?"
What the …?
"No, not even close," I told him dryly. I repeated my order. Yet again.
"Yeah, sorry, the intercom isn't working," he said. As if I didn't already know this. I let him know how irritating my visit thus far had been. "Can't they fix that thing? It's really annoying to the customer. I almost just drove off. At least put a sign on it that says it's out of order and just tell people to drive up and order." He knew I was ticked. He handed me back my card and receipt, offering a nonchalant "sorry, yeah, it's busted," and then disappeared.
Minutes passed. All I could do was sigh repeatedly and keep looking in my rear view mirror at the disgruntled faces behind me. Just as I thought about rapping on the window and telling him I wanted my money back, the kid reappeared with my drink and sandwich.
I know this situation all too well. If they're screwing up most things, they're screwing up everything. I sat right where I was, removed the straw wrapper, popped it through the coffee top and took a sip. As I thought. They'd only put one Sweet and Low. I handed it back through the window unceremoniously, with half-closed eyelids. "TWO Sweet and Low, please." He took it from me, uttering more apologies, as I unwrapped my sandwich, to be sure it was right. No bacon. I ground my teeth together. After all this, and they still couldn't get it right. No excuse. I'd be calling the number on the bag to report this place.
The kid came back with the coffee and I handed him the sandwich. "With bacon, please," I said in the same flat manner. One of the cars behind me zipped out of line and took off. Why did these people even have jobs here? Don't they have a manager? I thought.
At last, I got the sandwich back, checked it, and grinned mirthlessly at the final apology. Then I drove off. What a nightmare, for such a simple order!
TAKE TWO:
I went through the drive-thru at a coffee shop today. It was nearing 4:00PM and I hadn't eaten yet, so I decided to treat myself to an iced coffee and the "guilty pleasure" of a breakfast sandwich. Why not? I thought. I'd earned the extra calories having skipped breakfast. As I rolled my window down to order, a high-frequency squeal emitted from the order station. Yowzer! I instinctively winced and recoiled from the sound.
I wasn't sure what to do, so I waited a few more moments. Somewhere within the scrambling noise, I heard a voice. I figured they must be asking me what I wanted, so I placed my order: "Hi, could I have a medium decaf French vanilla iced coffee …"
I was interrupted. "… sorry … up please … can't hear …"
I spoke up a bit louder and repeated my order. The line behind me continued to grow. I felt bad for the workers, having to deal with a broken intercom that they clearly couldn't fix. That must be awful, to come to work for minimum wage and find that the equipment was on the fritz. They must have been hearing the feedback in their earpieces. And I'm sure most customers were less than kind about it. I felt genuinely sorry for them. Well, I'd do what I could to cheer them up.
I drove up to the window. Surprisingly, the kid who opened the window was still smiling. "A small iced tea?" he asked.
"Nope," I said smiling. "I had the sandwich and an iced coffee."
"Oh, OK. Yeah, I see it. Sorry, this machine's really horrible today."
"You know what, Craig?" I said, "You're handling it really well. Just keep smiling and everyone will get over it."
He laughed, eyes flashing. "Well, I hope that's true!" he said, clearly frazzled but happy for the light interaction.
I looked in my rear view mirror. The woman behind me looked really peeved.
Craig came back with coffee. I took a quick sip. Only one Sweet and Low. Oh well. For Pete's sake, I thought, we live in a country where we can order unnecessary luxury items like coffee while sitting in our cars. Not only coffee, but iced coffee, and specialized right down to the type of sweetener we want! It was definitely not that big a deal – certainly not worth making this kid's day any worse over. Plus, it got me out of my routine, if only in a small way.
Craig came back, handing out my sandwich. I said, "Hey, Craig, would you ring in the woman behind me, as well? She looks miffed. It might cheer her up a little."
He smiled. "Sure, no problem. She had the iced tea. That OK?"
"Yup," I said. Soon, I was on my way. I smiled thinking about the woman getting a little treat and hoped she'd be less irritable with Craig.
As I opened my sandwich and took a bite, I noticed that there was no bacon – just egg and cheese. I thought of Dibby and the special egg and cheese sandwiches she makes for me (though this one could not compare). Never bacon on hers, just egg and cheese. The thought somehow made it taste just fine.
*************
The basic details of these two scenes are the same. What's more, those details are true and happened to me today.
"Take Two," I'm happy to report, is how it really went down.
The only difference between these two "takes" is that one was me-focused and one was others-focused. Can you tell which was which?
Guess.
tabloid
I'll give you the disclaimer up front: this post is likely only for the more stalwart and thick-skinned reader who is honestly open to real change.
A MESS • TRAMP • LOSER • PSYCHO • BAD MOTHER • AUTO-TUNED • TERRIBLE ACTRESS • MAN STEALER • SPOILED • PLASTIC • DOUBLE DIVORCÉE • DRUGGIE • DITZ • HEAD SHAVER • REHAB REGULAR • ALCOHOLIC • ENTITLED B*TCH • LOST HER KIDS • WHO CARES?
We buy the rag mags, or just flip through them in line at the supermarket. We click the headline links online. We tune in for the news (I'm still amazed at what counts as "news") or gossip shows on television. We listen to friends' accounts as if they are the gospel truth. And every pop radio talk show has some version of "Celebrity Sleaze." So in answer to the question "Who cares?" the answer is – apparently most of us.
I picked Britney somewhat arbitrarily. It's not because I'm her No. 1 Fan. Promise. I could just as easily have picked Angelia Jolie, Kim Kardashian, Charlie Sheen, Kirstie Alley, Michael Jackson or Barack Obama. The lives of the rich and famous are endless sources for entertainment, amusement and criticism.
"Look how fat she's getting!"
"He's such a pig."
"Did you see that awful dress she wore?"
"What a lunatic that one is!"
"Did you hear his wife left him?"
"Aw, c'mon now, Erik," you're saying. "You can't be serious. I mean, people like that are asking for it."
People like that? Who exactly are "people like that"?
People who have more money than I do?
Would you welcome such comments if you had more money?
People who have a different kind of job than I do?
Would you feel that carte blanche personal criticisms were warranted if you became more well known?
People who choose to be in the public eye?
So, when you are jogging outside on a public street, does it then become fair game for passers-by to comment on your body flaws and how you look in that Spandex, how you are aging, and what they suppose about your family life?
I talk a lot about seeing and treating people as people, and not as props or background noise (for a crash refresher, see the post entitled "triple threat"). I suggested that if I see those around me as objects instead of people with real lives like my own, this necessarily carries over to how I treat those closest to me. I can't treat some people as people, while treating some people as less. Every time I treat someone as an object -- by looking past them, or seeing them as a means to an end, or using them for my amusement or humor -- I feed the monster that tells me that I am better. Smarter. More important. And I hate to be the one to tell you, but that beast is never satisfied.
Maybe this even makes sense to you – when we're talking about real people that you interact with on a daily basis. But Britney Spears? I mean … she's …
She's what? Not human? Not a real person like you? Not worthy of consideration?
Do you know that, shortly after Britney's apparent breakdown when she shaved her hair off, several media companies went quickly to work making "special edition" documentaries of her traumatic life – ending with her death? Yes, that's right. They were waiting for her to kill herself, so that they could add the final footage and make a quick bundle off of it. They had to count it as a loss when she didn't wind up doing the deed as expected.
Do you think this is odd? Creepy? Sick? Yet how is it any different from what we choose to do? These companies wanted money. We want entertainment, someone to point and laugh at or to sharpen our wit upon. The pay-off is different, but the motives seem frighteningly similar. At best, we certainly aren't wishing her well.
Oh, and by the way, word of these impending documentaries was made public at the time. That means that Britney, then in her mid-twenties and with two babies, knew that the media was hoping for her suicide. Think about that.
Britney Spears was thrust into the role of a sex object at the age of fifteen – with parental consent. She is the young mother of two little boys under the age of six. I imagine that family relationships are strained at best, given that her father has full legal control of her money and affairs due to her psychiatric history.
Every pound she gains or loses is broadcast to the world, with media trying to find the most unflattering pictures of her constantly. There are no quiet moments at a cafe or private vacations to truly relax without care for what she is wearing and how her skin is.
She must wonder who her real friends are – those who would stay true even if she lost everything. I'd guess that she is lonely quite often. That she thinks of her two little boys when it's quiet at night, and cries at her failures with them. But she has to get up and smile the next morning, put on the outfit, and give a good show.
She will turn thirty this year. I imagine she thinks, "I'm not a kid anymore. My looks and body won't last forever. What then? What will I have besides money in ten years? Who will I grow old with?"
That is Britney Spears – the person. I'm not claiming she is a victim. Like the rest of us, she makes some bad decisions. But she is a person just like me nonetheless.
"But I will never meet Britney Spears," you may protest. "She'll never know what I say about her. So my little jibes aren't really hurting her in any way."
That may be true. But it's not the point. It's about your choices, your attitudes, your world view. If we are really serious about change, we can't pick and choose who gets to be treated with dignity and who does not. It spills over. And it feeds the ME monster, every time.
Treating the homeless woman as a real person feels right and noble to us, and so it is often easier going. Treating the rich and famous as real people? Well, that may take some hard work. It may take choosing to disengage from derogatory conversations at work. It may take turning the channel. It may take speaking aloud about celebrities in terms of their humanity and "real person-ness" whenever they are mentioned, even if your friends look at you like you've gone religious or something.
Before too long, you'll find that you feel real compassion for the up-and-outers, instead of finding amusement at their struggles. And that will translate to everyone else with whom you come into contact, including those who matter most to you.
What's more, in the process, you may find that kindness actually fits you better than being critical ever did.
hair
Picture it. Sicily. 1912.
A six-year-old boy sits to have his picture taken, the three different plaids of his shirt, pants and clip-on tie competing with his houndstooth jacket, daring the camera to focus. His pudgy little hands are plopped in his lap. He smirks and scrunches his neck down like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. He dons brown and orange swirled horn-rimmed glasses, framed by the uneven, platinum bangs of a home-style bowl cut.
All right, so maybe it wasn't Sicily in 1912. Maybe it was some podunk town in Massachusetts in the seventies. But I'm not lying about the glasses and the clothes. Or the bowl cut.
Somewhere around second grade, the bowl cut was replaced by the cow-licked comb-over, petrified into place with liberal amounts of Aqua Net – and occasionally by my mother's spit.
Later grade school years saw me back in one version or another of the bowl cut. But, then – ah, then came high school.
My cousin Eric introduced me to the hair dryer. He also introduced me to products. It's been downhill ever since, I tell you.
That first magical potion was known as mousse. I used Suave, which came in a metallic, purple canister with a push tip, delivering its contents much like whipped cream. Fascinating. Armed with my first product and a hairdryer, the zany journey for personal style had begun.
Now, my school had rules about hair. A boy's hair was not allowed to touch his collar, his ears or his eyebrows. All of this was presumably based on some religious code backed by God somehow. I admit that I still do not quite understand why a universe-steering God would fret over my hair. But they assured me it was legitimate and worthy of much ado. I was actually disqualified from a music competition in seventh grade, during which I played Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C Sharp Minor on the piano nearly flawlessly. Judges notes simply said, "Hair touching eyebrows," and I was given a score of zero. And so, as you can see (while perhaps not being able to comprehend), this posed a challenge for me regarding my hair.
But it was only a challenge, not a barrier.
If my hair couldn't come downward, I'd send it upward. Closer to God. Armed with my hairdryer and my mousse, I felt drunken with the sheer sense of control. As if that weren't enough, I soon discovered that mousse came in lots of fun strengths. Who needs firm hold when you can have ULTRA MEGA hold? The next year, for the same competition, my hair was not unlike Don King's. Though frowned upon heavily, I could not technically be disqualified. Despite disparaging comments from judges, I won first place.
As I moved on to college, I'm not gonna lie – things got out of hand. There is one picture of me wearing a striped shirt from Chess King, a skinny tie, and a very Cosby-esque turquoise sweater. But no one really noticed the outfit, because my hair – was – enormous. The power of hair products and blow-drying had clearly gone to my head.
Literally.
It was time for a change. And that change came by way of having my hair cropped tight on the sides, but spiked high on top and kind of longish in the back. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that it must have looked like a mullet. Well, it wasn't. It was more of a … well, the kind of thing that someone like, maybe …
All right. Fine. I had a raging mullet.
You'll be happy to know that it was soon replaced with a really gnarly surfer do. It fell just short of shoulder length all around, with the kind of bangs you had to continually swipe back with your fingers and tuck behind your ear, only to have it fall forward again the next time you budged. Or you could just use a sort of cool swish of your head to get it out of your eyes, as long as you kept your head tilted to one side, so that gravity worked with you. Best of all, while a hair dryer did facilitate things in the morning, I was saving tons of money, since product was no longer necessary. Unless you count shine spray, which just kind of gave you a nice gloss without hold. Or sea salt spray, which gave you that carefree, fresh-from-the-beach look.
Come to think of it, I guess I didn't save that much money after all.
Well, the surfer do just wasn't cutting it. I wanted more. More, do you hear me? And so I didn't cut it. I let it grow. And grow. And grow – until it was down to my elbows. This could be worn straight down in back, or looped under itself with a hair elastic. I was frequently complimented by fawning females, all jealous of my silky, straight blondness. In addition, I received many comparisons to Wesley from The Princess Bride (with which I could not disagree). And to Fabio (with which I highly disagreed). After the thousandth time hearing, "Hey! 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter – SPRAY!' " I knew it was time to donate to a worthy cause.
Fabio bowed to Caesar – a very short Caesar cut, which was kind of like – well, kind of like back to a bowl cut. Only for cool kids. It made quite a splash after having been known for the luscious locks. And I liked it. But it seemed a lot of upkeep. And I was (and am) secretly enraged that I cannot – and never have been able to – grow sideburns. It is one of the banes of my existence, if you must know. And if I couldn't look like Russell Crow in Gladiator, then really, what was the point?
Somewhere during the Caesar stage, the notion hit me that I wasn't getting any younger. I looked at both of my brothers' receding hairlines, and soon I found myself checking my own almost daily. A friend who cut my hair assured me that my hairline hadn't changed in a decade, but I wasn't so sure.
All of this fussing and fidgeting began to strike me as – too much somehow. Was my identity really that bound to my hair?
I wasn't having it. And so, steel-jawed with determination, I marched into the barber shop and told them to shave it all off. And by off, I mean off. To the scalp. Bald.
I was pleased to know that my head was not nearly as lumpy and misshapen as I'd feared. What's more, this drastic decision assured me that I really could deal with it, should I lose it all later in life. I was a free man. And this time – I really did save money on product. Not to mention time with the dryer.
The only problem was that people were now frequently expressing version of "You look scary, dude." The best of these was "You look like a prisoner – only nicer." And while I did enjoy the controversy over it for a while, I felt I'd proved my point. Hair would no longer rule me. It was time to grow on with my life.
Next came the short, spiky do. But shortly thereafter, when my then six-year-old niece honestly only called me by the name "Uncle Pointy Hair," I decided to give Ryan Seacrest back his hair.
And dabble in color instead.
Call it what you will – bleaching, streaking, tipping. I guess I was just missing the platinum joys of youth. This sometimes involved wearing a strange, rubbery cap in public, and having my hair picked and pulled through tiny holes using an implement and technique not unlike making a latch-hook rug. On one particular visit, the bleach was left in too long. Suddenly, I was the worst of Rod Stewart. Mortified, I attempted to have color added back in. The technician called it "kind of auburn." It was orange.
Round 2: Erik vs. the Buzzer.
Upon growing this out, I decided that a casual bed-head look was the way to go. Let it be known that getting good-looking "casual bead head" is a darned lot of work. I became reacquainted with my old friend, the dryer. And products! Oh, the products. Paste. Pomade. Fiber. It's really more like making papier-mâché. I even had one product that came in a bottle like Elmer's Glue. It was inventively named … Glue.
Recently, the messy look took an upsweep, into a sort of faux-hawk. But I've got a cut scheduled for 2:00 tomorrow. You never know what will happen.
What's my point, in this trip down Rapunzel Lane?
Well, you really wouldn't believe the difference in the way people have treated me based on my hair. I alluded to some in the commentary above. But there were those who would tug my longer hair and ask in a mildly condescending voice when I was going to get it cut. Some people even told me it was a sin, and that I didn't seem like the type of person who would want to sin.
Some people got scared of me when I shaved my head, looking at me sideways or pulling their children closer and walking a bit more quickly. In the other direction.
And bleaching was for women. Or movie stars. Not regular guys.
But did my changes in hair really change who I am?
Why do we deem people more or less worthy of our attention or respect or love because of their hair? Or their clothes? Because of ink or piercings that mark their skin? Because of the type of car they drive or the model cell phone they own? Because of the words they choose in order to express themselves or their choice of how to best follow their dream in life?
I guess what I'm getting at is, why can't we see past the superficial to the soul?
Seeing souls takes intention. It takes admitting that we are part of a system that, by default, does not see the soul. It takes then making deliberate choices to break free of that system. To rage against the tide of it. To all but ignore the wrappings, in favor of doing the harder work of finding out what is inside.
And once we are able to really see people – and not merely hair – all of those outer accoutrements begin to look different. They begin to look less like barriers and more like art.
sketchy
Last night, on my way out the door to grab a late snack with my young friend Ben, I noticed that trash had accumulated in the kitchen. Two full bags sat beside the garbage can, along with a couple of empty cardboard boxes. Time for a dumpster run. So, using every one of my fingers, I held and hung and balanced the trash along with my phone, keys and backpack, maneuvering sideways through doorways down the three flights of stairs and out to the lot.
It stunk outside. It often does here. Unfortunately, what they don't tell you when you move in is that there is a sewage treatment plant just behind our community, which does night work. On warm and humid summer nights, it can be powerful. But I've learned to live with it.
The lot was very dark, especially in the far back corner of it, where the woods press in around the dumpster. As I made the trek there to dispose of the trash, I noticed a character in the shadows. He was not dumping anything. He was just sitting there beside the wooden picket fence that surrounds the rubbish bin, elbows on knees, looking down. He wore a hat, pulled low. I couldn't see his face as he looked down at what appeared to be some sort of large, shallow container. It looked like something from a chemistry set. I saw a small ember of light begin to glow in his hand. Was he … doing crack? Setting up a makeshift meth lab right here in my parking lot? As I got closer, he cast a Godfather glance up at me without raising his head.
In yesterday's post, entitled "what's in a name," I ended with this:
Using people’s names is just one more way to stay outward focused, instead of being all about me. Whether it is your neighbors, co-workers, gas attendants or people on the train, each has a real life. An important life. Struggles. Goals. Dreams. Families. At core, I believe we each want to connect. To matter.
We each have a name. Look for opportunities to really see people. Interact. Be vulnerable. Be genuine. Before long, what may have once seemed daunting will become a natural, full and enjoyable way of life.
And this really is a way of life for me. That doesn't mean that I stop and talk to every person along my path. But, having just written yesterday's blog post, the idea was fresh in my mind that even sketchy guys who sit out by dumpsters in the middle of the night doing God-knows-what … are real people.
I also encourage readers to be vulnerable and to take risks. And while I'm comfortable with people from all walks of life, the unknown factors presented here made this about as big of a social risk as I might face.
So I did.
As I began to hoist the trash in my hands, ready to toss it in through the sliding door of the dumpster, I smiled and used the sewage smell to my advantage. "Hey, what's up! Did you come out to the dumpster to escape the smell of the rest of the place?" I threw the garbage, which landed with clunks and rattles.
The stranger looked up at me, smiling. "Ha-ha, yeah! What is that smell anyway?" He was a young guy. I could see now that the glowing ember of light was coming from a standard cigarette. He sat in a swivel chair, the kind someone might have in an office. I still didn't know what the plastic tubs at his feet were for.
"It's the sewage treatment plant. It's right behind the woods there," I pointed, "and they tend to do their dirty work at night."
"OK. I thought it was a sewage leak. I didn't know if I should call maintenance or the town," he replied.
"Oh, so you must live here," I said. "I live in Building 8 over there. My name's Erik."
He smiled even more broadly. "Hey, I'm also Eric! I just moved into Building 1." He gestured to his right with the cigarette hand.
"Well, your name should be easy to remember then!" I said. "Do you spell it with a 'C' or a 'K'?"
"Just a 'C', nothing fancy" he said, almost apologetically.
"Mine's with a 'K'," I replied, feeling guilty.
"Oh, man. You're lucky. The Nordic version. I always wished I'd gotten that one." This guy wasn't stupid.
"So … I have to ask," I half-laughed with a raised eyebrow. "Why are you sitting in a swivel chair, smoking out by a dumpster in the middle of the night?"
"Sketchy, right?" He laughed. "I came out here to empty the cat boxes" [mystery of the plastic containers solved!] "and saw this swivel chair that someone threw out. I was testing it to see if it was broken, because I need a chair for my desk. Seems to be in pretty good condition. Not dirty. I always loved spinning around in these when I was a kid. So, I just decided to have a cigarette and spin around in it for a while." He laughed again sheepishly. "I stopped when I saw you coming."
OK, so he wasn't sketchy. He wasn't the Godfather. He wasn't a druggie. He was just a real guy like me. A nice guy.
His cigarette was finished. He plopped the cat boxes on top of the chair and began to drag it toward his building. I walked with him a little ways. "Well, I'm sure I'll see you around then. Nice to meet you, Eric." I extended my hand.
He shook it firmly. "Nice to meet you, as well."
As well!
My eyes got a bit wider in surprise. Hands still locked, I replied, "We seem to have a lot in common, Eric! You say 'as well'! It's not often that I find someone else who prefers 'as well' over the more common 'too'!"
He replied modestly, "I read a lot."
"I do, as well!" I returned. We both laughed.
"Then we have a lot in common, indeed," he replied.
"'Indeed'? You say 'indeed,' as well?" I was almost giddy. "OK, OK. We need to stop now or we'll be standing here all night…"
We laughed one more time, said our goodbyes, and headed for our separate destinations.
Now, you may be thinking, "Well, you didn't know how it would turn out. He could have been a drug addict!" That's true. He could have. That's why it's called a "risk." I suppose it's possible that he could have leaped up erratically and assaulted me with his red hot crack spoon. It's unlikely, but possible. But what I know to be true is that he would still have been a valuable person, with a name and a story. I was willing to take a chance on that basis.
As I walked toward my car, hearing the scrape of the swivel chair wheels on the sidewalk behind me, I smiled at the cool interaction I'd had with Eric: former crack addict turned erudite, cat-loving, swivel chair spinner.
Another risk well taken.
I'm curious to know: Would YOU have stopped to talk to this "sketchy guy"? Drop your thoughts in the Comments section below!