Went for a walk over lunch the other day in the industrial park near our office.
Note to self — take more walks over lunch.
Figured I’d go 15 minutes out and double-back.
I followed the concrete sidewalk as far as the giant fenced cell tower behind one of the Mitsubishi buildings.
In the 20 years I’ve worked here, I’ve never gone farther than the big tower.
Was about to turn around … just as a person happened to be coming the other way, earbuds in.
“Excuse me,” I said.
Asked him where the rest of the trail goes.
“If you keep going straight through the woods, it comes to a park.”
Said he believed there might be a left and a right, too, but he’d never done those.
His response made me curious enough to break my routine and keep going.
Two minutes later I found myself under a fairy-tale-worthy canopy of trees … when I happened upon this.
The plastic bag’s what got me to stop.
And smile autonomically.
I can’t remember if I actually said, “Awww,” or … just felt it.
My heart immediately filled thinking of the tender deliberateness of whoever thought to take the photo.
And get it printed so small … at the perfect size to invite a closer look.
Then framed.
And come back … to give the world passing by … a reason to stop … and autonomically smile.
I wondered at what point the thoughtfulness occurred to put it in a plastic bag … to give it a chance against the elements.
Wondered if they brought the pup when they placed it.
Wondered if they said anything.
I wondered if they knew how much it might mean to a stranger out for a walk over lunch … to be reminded that such gentle souls exist in this world.
I just stood there for a few minutes … and danced with a million questions I will never know the answer to.
If the photographer knew Kyle.
Family maybe?
Kyle’s dog?
They go for walks here?
Or maybe it was a stranger who just noticed the bench and thought Kyle’s memory might want some company.
Considering the possibility that there might be such people in the world was enough for me.
Faith, hope and love … all wrapped up in a tiny plastic bag left loose on a bench.
I wished on the spot for it to remain there forever.
Though I knew it was just as likely that it might be gone by my next walk.
I’ll let you know.
Just in case … I wanted to wrap it all up … to protect it from the elements … and leave it here for you to stumble upon and smile … and wonder while the world passes.
Met my friend Jeff after work Friday at the Allegheny Elks on the North Side.
For their legendary fish fry.
Got there a few minutes before he did, so took my place — reverently — at the end of the long line already hugging the side of the building.
While waiting for Jeff to arrive, I took in the majesty of the people standing in front of me, Friday shining under a perfectly Pittsburgh grey sky, the kind that’s never far from rain.
Curly haired babies, old bald heads and everything in between, seasoned with splashes of black and gold even though all our teams pretty much suck.
It’s the rarest kinds of lines.
The kind you actually don’t mind waiting in.
Perfect for catching up with good friends at the end of a long week.
Imbued with the purest of expectations, for a payoff that’s as close to a sure thing this broken world offers.
The kind of line that, even if it was longer, you’d be OK with it.
At least I would.
Jeff joined me after just a few minutes, our big, multi-second hug officially christening my weekend.
We fell into catching up …
“Happy Anniversary!”
“Mary says hello …”
“Going to see …”
“Food was uh-mazing …”
You know, the important stuff.
Didn’t care how long it took us to gain entrance, but when we did ….
The warmth and aromas greeted us like a gentle kiss on the forehead.
Perfectly preserved as if by pickling, the interior of any Elks Club worth its salt.
The vestibule adorned with framed photos going back to black and white decades of past Exalted Rulers and their fellow leaders. An old stand-up sign with white magnetic letters highlighting the current crop, including the name of the lodge’s organist.
I bet she throws down.
The hand-written menu presenting you with the most important choices you will make this Friday. No possibility of a wrong answer. Neighbor in line said they even have a friend who swears by the stewed tomatoes. I take her word, knowing I’ll never find out as long as mac and cheese, french fries and cole slaw are headlining.
The line inside is also perfectly timed … to allow proper deliberation over your two sides and which of the holy (lower case ’t’) trinity gets voted off stage.
It’s cash only.
Perfectly priced platters that, regardless of the domination you break, leave you with some singles to choose an individually wrapped, $1 each home made chocolate chip cookie (or two … or three) from the basket in front of the ladies settling you up.
Even that’s so much better than automatically factoring a cookie into the price.
There will never not be magic to putting your hand in the cookie jar.
After paying you leave with your number to forage for a seat.
We found a couple at the bar.
Cue angel chorus.
Glorious wide oval, three bartenders persistently bantering and pouring like jazz musicians having a good night, one of ‘em wearing a Chico’s Bail Bonds t-shirt that hi-fived our childhoods.
Just like waiting in line, waiting for our food was pure gift, zero inconvenience.
From our seats at the bar, we had an open site line to the Allegheny Elks’ house band — members of the Pittsburgh Banjo Club. Accompanied by a bass player and a trumpet player, they strummed old-timey songs as joyfully as you can imagine.
For me, I equate seeing the Pittsburgh Banjo Club at the Allegheny Elks during Lent akin to seeing Sinatra at the Sands with Count Basie on New Year’s Eve.
Took me back to when I was six or seven years old, sitting next to my sister Missy on the black piano bench in the living room while she played old songs from a thick songbook. We’d sing the corniest songs — poorly, but with gusto — together as she played.
Waiting for our fish sandwiches, I swear I knew the words to just about every tune the PBC was laying down (“Hello, my baby, hello my honey, ” … “I”m lookin’ over, a four-leaf clover,” … “By the light … of the sil-ver-ee moon ….”).
Um, polkas included …. zing, boom, tararrel.
I only wished Missy was there to sing along with me.
Being the next-to-last Friday before Easter, the place was poppin’ … so it took a long time for the food to come … not that we noticed or even cared.
Gave us time to secure enough provisions to line the bar in front of us with tiny filled cups of Heinz, tartar, malt vinegar, along with packets of hot sauce …
… and clink glasses of cold beer straight from the tap.
By the time the food arrived, I was quoting Kurt Vonnegut quoting Fats Waller.
“Somebody shoot me while I’m happy.”
For the fish sandwich, they put the empty big bun on top of the ridiculously wide fish, leaving it for you to assemble.
That’s a glorious bit of experience design right there, giving the audience the satisfaction of placing the final piece of the puzzle.
You have about twice as much fish as surface area on the bun, which is, of course, somehow, the perfect proportions.
Though you are hungry, though you’ve waited a long time in line and sitting at the bar … you take your sweet time.
You savor.
You chat between bites.
You go back for more malt vinegar.
You smile maybe your week’s widest grin when the bartender asks you if you’re ok if he uses the same glass when you switch over to Yuengling for your second beer.
Your smile gets wider when he says, “I knew you were a good people,” when you answer Yes.
You ask the female bartender if anyone ever orders the grilled fish, and she testifies that, yes, people do, and yes it’s quite good, and really, she’s not BS-ing, and to validate her testimony, mentions that she’s sleeping with the grill guy.
You bless their unborn children.
You let yourself fall back in love with the world for a moment when the lady waiting for her pitcher next to you comments that, at first, she mistook your clear plastic cup of malt vinegar — stacked three high on top of its empties — for Jack Daniels … thinking I was already three shots deep and not even halfway through my sandwich.
You politely correct her while confessing, “But, I like the way you think.”
And by the time you’re calling it, with just a couple bites left on the plate, you’re already re-thinking some of the major decisions you’ve recently made in your life.
“Next time, I think I’m going mac and cheese for both of my sides,” said Jeff, as the universe joined me in silently nodding in agreement.
You peel yourself off your stools, taking a last deep glorious inhale and a good look around before you backwash out the bar, through the dining area and vestibule, and back out outside to the long sidewalk …
… where the grey sky has gone dark, and the temperature has dipped a few more degrees to remind you that you are alive on the North Side on a Friday night …
… and a multi-second hug goodbye later — the satisfying last piece in a perfect puzzle — that you were in good company.
Met a friend for lunch Tuesday while attending a conference in Austin.
He kindly let me check my roller bag to his room at the conference hotel so I wouldn’t have to schlep it.
After lunch I had a couple work calls. Last one finished up right before I had to leave for the airport.
Perfect timing.
Called an Uber.
Traffic to the airport was starting to choke a bit, but I’d left myself plenty of time.
Thirty minutes into my ride, just as we were pulling into the exit for Departing Flights, I got the sickest feeling in my the pit of my stomach …
… accompanied by the biggest Oh Shit moment.
Sheepishly I asked the driver, “Um, excuse me … Did I put a bag in the trunk?”
He eyed me quizzically in the rear view mirror.
Shook his head no.
“No bag,” he said.
I forgot to retrieve my checked bag before leaving for the airport.
Yep, I did that.
As an onset of panic claimed my extremities, I asked the driver if he could return me to the hotel.
Shook his head no again.
He’d already accepted another fare.
I didn’t have time to ride back and get my luggage myself, anyway.
So he dropped my bagless ass off at the curb.
I thought for a second.
Looked up the hotel.
Realized that, not only had I not stayed at the hotel, the bag was in my friend’s name, not mine.
Got bounced around until they connected me to the service manager, Clarissa.
I explained my situation, trying to sound as un-sketchy as possible while completely freaking the eff out.
She thought for a second, before suggesting I try calling another Uber to the hotel to ‘just’ pick up my bag and bring it to me at the airport.
“Can you do that?” I asked.
Through the phone I could almost hear her shrugging her shoulders in “Uh … beats me?” uncertainty.
So I hung up and tried calling an Uber to the hotel to pick up my bag.
The app asked me to double confirm myself as the passenger, since it could tell my phone was, um, already at the airport.
I lied and confirmed that the ride was indeed for me, since there wasn’t an option for “You’re not going to believe how large of an idiot I am.”
Surprisingly.
I immediately called Clarissa back to give her the name of my driver (Daimir), his make and model (black Chevy Traverse) and his arrival time (5 minutes).
“Ooh. Let me run to the front desk to get your bag. Then I’ll take it down to valet and explain the situation to them,” she said, suggesting I also give the driver a heads up on what to expect … before he arrived.
In the app I could see Daimir’s progress to the hotel.
I waited until he got close-ish (out of fear my unusual request might make his skittish) before I messaged him (Daimir prefers messages, according to the app) to let him know he’ll be scooping up just, you know, a bag.
I hit send and prayed.
Watched the dancing dots … indicating he was messaging me back.
Held my breath.
“I got you,” he said.
Exhale.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 5:50 p.m.
It was on-time.
Of course it was.
Made me shake my head since all three of the family’s Sunday flights from Orlando (me to Austin, Karry & Peter to Pittsburgh and Emma back to Philly) got totally hosed. Em’s got canceled and re-booked for the next morning, while the rest of us arrived hours after we were supposed to.
Meanwhile, Tuesday’s flight?
Runnin’ like goddamn clockwork.
When I ordered the Uber, it showed an arrival time of 5:12 p.m. … which felt like just enough time for get through security and find my gate.
Then Daimir’s arrival time started dancing.
Rush hour.
Holding my fate in my hands, I watched helplessly as time began to slip.
5:17.
5:21.
5:27.
5:30.
It, along with the pit in my stomach, bottommed out at 5:32 … when I walked over to the Southwest Help Desk near baggage claim.
Explained my situation … asked when the doors close on a 5:50 p.m. flight.
First person said, “15 minutes before.”
My heart sank.
But then she said, “Let me double-check with the boss,” and turned to the person at the next kiosk.
“Doors close 10 minutes before departure.”
First person did the math for me.
“So, 5:40 …,” she said, and then, smiling, added … “So you’re saying there’s a chance.”
Cracked herself up with that one.
I refreshed the app … Daimir’s arrival hovered at 5:31 p.m. … which would give me 9 minutes to make it through the security and find my gate.
I messaged Daimir with my flight info, said I’d be waiting at the curb. “Too much excitement! (ha),” I texted.
“I got you,” he reaffirmed.
I hiked over to the TSA Pre-Check entrance, asked the agent where Gate 12 was in relation to security.
“Other end of the terminal.”
Of course it was.
I can’t begin to describe how excruciating it was to watch my fragile fate fluctuate while stress-watching Daimir’s real-time progress.
He was still 15 minutes out when I knew I had to occupy my mind somehow.
Cracked open the New York Times on my phone … randomly scrolled to an interview .. discussing the premise that over the past few decades, social media has exacerbated the erosion in society, particularly among youth, of anything approaching a shared moral order.
At one point in the interview … the subject said that, while imperfect, systems like religion provide value in the form of a shared moral order or system.
The absence of such shared systems, the interviewee said, can result in an untethered, individualistic, self-oriented society, which can then become a breeding ground for fear, anxiety and aloneness.
It was an INTOITW moment for me. (“I never thought of it that way.”)
Fearful, anxious and alone, I clicked out of the article before I got to the end of the interview. Candidly, I was afraid to learn of the expert’s predictions for our future … since me and my bag’s prospects of making it home were being held together by the frayed tether of a shared moral order.
I checked Daimir’s progress … saw he’d messaged me.
He asked me to provide a specific landmark so he could bullseye my precise location.
Thoughtful, I thought.
I snapped a pic of the overhead sign I’d be standing under, said to look for the skinny guy in glasses wearing a black, short-sleeved t-shirt hopping up and down trying in vain to hold his shit together.
“Got it,” he replied.
“Doing the best I can,” he added. “Traffic is so bad! [ha]”
The [ha] meant everything.
For the record, my world is duct-taped together by such tiny gestures of humanity.
His arrival time ebbed back a bit to 5:27.
“Go Daimir!” I rooted in my head.
When his arrival dwindled under a minute, I looked up from my phone … and started scouting the glut of arriving cars dropping off.
When I caught sight of a black Chevy Traverse, I initiated pretty much the dictionary definition of “gesticulating.”
When the car got close enough for me to register the windshield, I could see Daimir already waving recognition to me.
At precisely 5:27 … he eased the Traverse to the curb, hopped out the driver’s seat and met me at the back so he could lift my bag out for me.
“Daimir, I would give you the biggest hug right now … but I gotta run.”
“I got you,” he smiled back.
Dashed inside with my roller to the pre-check line. Asked a couple nice ladies if they minded if I went ahead of them, gave them the short version of my circumstance.
After throwing my bags on the belt, I turned and asked their names.
“Tessa.”
“Cara.”
I repeated their names back to them … thanked them for being awesome and promised I would pay their kindness forward.
After passing through the security arch, I looked back to see the TSA agent responsible for scanning just as he began eyeballing my bags.
Dude was thorough.
A genuine credit to his profession, I tell ya.
He screen was angled such that I could see what he was seeing. He paused the belt for both my roller and my backpack.
Kept switching between the views …
Up.
Down.
From the side.
The other side.
Zoomed in.
Back out.
Back in again.
Doing the phuck out of his job … while I’m on the verge of an embolism.
5:31 tumbled to 5:32.
I start jumping up and down … a by-product of volcanic stress and the practical desire to stretch out my legs for my forthcoming roller bag 400 meter sprint.
When I realized I was suddenly Jumpy Guy Going Through Security.
Not a good look.
Fortunately, screening guy was so locked in on his monitor to not even register my hyperventilating calisthenics, eventually bestowing his blessing upon my bags, which I snatched from the belt like Olympic relay batons before breaking into my first airport sprint … in decades.
I was reminded that Austin’s Southwest terminal is really well-designed.
Super traveler-friendly.
Lots of hospitality and retail acreage between gates.
Art installations, too … such as the “Interimaginary Departures Gate,” sandwiched right after Gate 14.
It’s meant to provide a smile and a moment of whimsy to anxious travelers … where you can actually print a ticket to destinations like “Narnia,” among 120 fictional locations … while overhead, a speaker announces imminent departures to Hogwarts and Terabithia and the like.
It’s genuinely wonderful.
I’ve cited it often in my work as an exquisite example of context-aware, extraordinary experience design.
And I grenade launched at least a dozen eff bombs at it while cursing it to the depth of Hades for adding an extra 20 meters or so to my mad dash.
[ha]
I was on fumes and audibly wheezing by the time I caught a glimpse of Gate 12 in front of me.
Saw passengers still in line.
Exhaled for the first time since I received Damir’s confirming message.
Looked down at my phone.
5:39.
Found my place and politely wedged myself in, Sweaty-Middle-Aged-Guy-Heavily-Panting-style.
After beeping my ticket, I cracked open the app.
Gave Daimir 5 Stars.
And a tip befitting a life saver.
Called Clarissa back to let her know I made it and to thank her for being awesome.
“I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I was wondering. I’m so glad you made it!”
I promised to pay her kindness forward, too.
Which I had the great honor of doing this morning.
As I did so … I made a point to mention them all by name.
Clarissa.
Daimir.
Tess and Cara.
My friend Tim for letting me check my bag in his name.
I even mentioned thorough TSA screening guy, too.
For taking his job so seriously.
For doing his best to keep us all safe.
I pray blessings upon them all … and everyone who might read this.
For crowd surfing me home on the soft shoulders of their kindness.
Letters for Maggie 