Somehow I managed to find a corner in the parking lot that was neither brightly lit by fluorescent street lamps, nor was it filled with car upon car, or abandoned shopping carts bumping into said cars. I just wanted a quiet place to read my book for a couple of hours, and to not think too hard about my disappointment that he was north while I was down here playing taxi for the weekend. For what it’s worth, it’s possible to be disappointed in missing out on one thing, while still maintaining relative peace with the responsibility of another thing. Anyway. I was pleased with my solitary parking spot in this mostly over-lit and populated strip mall lot. I know, it’s probably not the safest idea for a woman to choose the fringe, away from the bright lights, on a Saturday night. But I just wanted some quiet. I thought of the not-so-profound teaching I’ve passed on to Emily no less than one hundred times: Be sure to die at Point A, do not get taken to Point B. Isn’t that a real uplifter? I thought of having a son and probably not passing on the same depressing wisdom to him. I’m sure there are other worldly teachings a parent imparts on their son, but I am unaware. So, I settled in with my book, wishing I had some tea. The blue and pink neon glow of a Greek diner in the distance reminded me that I could venture out for some, but that seemed like a lot of effort for tired herbs steeped in chlorinated water. Instead, I made a mental note to bring my own next time. Though I know the number of “next times” is limited. As inconvenienced as I felt (because who wants to sit in a strip mall parking lot while their kid visits a friend at college when you could be up north, away from all this…), I was equally excited to hear about her night, and grateful that her best friend chose a college only 30 minutes from our home.
With a few chapters behind me, I stopped to look up for a minute. Daydreaming into the glow of those diner lights about nothing in particular, not able to stop or look away either. I thought about getting out of the car, moving a little. Surely people have done yoga in parking lots before, my body felt tight from sitting. I was getting bored and antsy. I noticed a man approaching my corner of the parking lot. He was holding his phone with one hand, opposite arm waving around with wild expression. His tired looking body leaned into the uphill slant of the parking lot as he walked at a surprisingly brisk and determined pace. It’s hard to explain really, but even from a distance, this man was telling a story and I was captivated. As he came closer, I could tell he was in his twenties, shoes untied, mumbled voice loud yet like his body, tired. I wondered about the person on the other end of the line. This man must have been asking for something, there was a need of some kind. I can only imagine what it might have been, but he was desperate and I know this because just as he walked by the front of my car he YELLED into his phone, “I’ve already walked sixteen miles today, this IS an emergency!!”
And here I am, contemplating the worthiness of a cup of tea.
How easy it is to wallow in our self-perceived hardships… oh, woe is me, I have to sit comfortably for two hours in a car, reading for pleasure, while my daughter enjoys seeing her friend perform in her first college dance event, and my husband enjoys some peace and quiet in the woods. Such deprivation. Clearly I needed a message to get over myself because this man, in all of his desperation, was placed directly in front of my lonely car, far away from any other car in the lot, as he cried into his phone a plea of actual hardship. I’ve had my share of experiences in life, even a fair amount of hardship, but for sure, I have never walked sixteen miles in a day. Not once. What series of events has to happen in order for this to transpire? Who needs to walk sixteen miles in a day?
I thought of a man I once knew. Joe was a guest at the shelter I worked at years ago. This was a “no freeze” emergency shelter which meant we had no money and operated only during the overnight hours, in space donated by a local street-front church. The main goal of the shelter was literally to prevent people from freezing to death. We always felt like it was a meager attempt at helping people, as if “not freezing to death” was the best we could offer. Mostly, it was. Our doors opened at 9pm each night and quickly settling everyone in was critical, not only because they needed the rest (they had to out the door by 7am), but a calm environment was helpful to a group of people leading pretty challenging lives. We kept the lights dim. It helped. We dispensed dry socks, peanut butter crackers, hot drinks, and a listening ear. One night I was helping Joe, who was in his late sixties, put on a new pair of socks. In doing so, I noticed the ongoing sores on his feet were looking particularly flared on this brutally cold January night. We talked about his diabetes and getting him an appointment at the clinic so he could find some relief. He agreed that would be helpful, but then he looked at me and said, “The problem with my feet, you see, is not the diabetes, it’s that I’ve gone and worn them right out.” Because as you can imagine, Joe and his life on the streets, combined with industrious bottle collection efforts, had likely seen plenty of sixteen mile days through the years.
Then there's me, sitting in the car reading a book, lamenting about being here and not there, dodging the displeasure of fluorescent street lights while deciding whether or not old herbal tea in chlorinated water is good enough for me. You know, basically just reveling in my own self-absorption. Honestly. The powerful words I heard from the man on the phone happened directly in front of my car. With the entire parking lot at his disposal, and of all the things he could have said… the time and place of his words did not go unnoticed. Immediately sending my thoughts to Joe, who is no longer living. To my own ridiculously easy life. The next thing I did was drive over to that neon lit diner and buy my daughter a piece of who knows what was in it chocolate cake. Then I picked her up, drove her home, and she enjoyed that cake with a tall glass of cold, grass-fed, local, organic, fairy dusted raw milk while catching up on her favorite news channels, because that’s what she does. And I realized we were the luckiest people in the world.