Sunday morning I’m downstairs at my desk when my wife pulls in the driveway, back from picking up groceries after church.
She likes going to the early service.
I stay behind and write.
Both reverent in our pews, attentive to the divine.
Hearing the garage door, I walk out to help her carry in.
Find her sitting in her car, windows up.
“You on the phone?” I mouth, making a telephone gesture with my left hand.
She rolls down the passenger window.
“I wish you could see your Dad right now,” she says. “His boxers are sticking out above his pajama bottoms.”
She has our daughter on speaker.
“ ‘Thank you for helping carry in the groceries,’ is what she means to say,” I interject, loud enough for the bluetooth to pick up.
“And his t-shirt’s too small. Belly’s sticking out.”
I’m provoked into issuing a statement.
“I will not be shamed for operating in Cozy Mode on a Sunday morning,” I enter into the record.
“It’s almost noon,” my daughter chimes in on speaker.
I almost miss being a target of their pile-ons.
“And, let it be known that Cozy Mode may remain in effect for the next several hours,” I add, which is simultaneously the most defiant threat I can think of, and quite possibly the most pathetic utterance of my life.
“He looks ridiculous,” my wife adds, grossly overstating the obvious.
Or, overstating the gross obvious.
“OK, I’ll go in and change, and you can carry in the groceries,” I fire back.
Was pretty proud of that one. I’m usually not that quick.
“And I’ll take back the salami I picked up for you.”
She is always that quick.
Caught me flat-footed. I didn’t see the salami coming.
Night before, she’s putting finishing touches on the grocery order. Asks if there’s anything I want to add.
I think for a couple seconds. “Ooh … do we have any ….”
“Don’t even say ‘salami,’”
In legal terms I believe her asking me the question is what’s known as ‘entrapment,’ but I digress.
I braced a second too late for what I knew was coming next.
“I’ve thrown out the last three bags you asked me to get.”
This is true. Not sure I even opened ‘em.
“I’m not getting it again to have to throw it away.”
Totally understand. So wasteful.
I feel remorse for requesting salami that I habitually ignore.
I’m not sure why I do this.
I genuinely like salami. I mean, in between two slices of bread with some yellow mustard? Perfection. Makes salads instantly, you know, fancy. Rolled up with a slice of provolone … it’s like Cozy Mode on a plate.
I have it in my head that salami keeps for a long time. Takes weeks to cure, doesn’t it? You always see ‘em hanging from wooden ceilings on TV.
So I feel no sense of urgency with salami. Assume it’s always going to be there.
I’m surprised when she throws it away.
Every time she does, part of me thinks, “It’s still good.”
I realize I may not be in full command of the facts on the topic.
Maybe I should start treating it like an avocado.
Clock’s always tickin’ on an avocado. Doesn’t give you a chance to take it for granted.
Or … maybe I just like the idea of salami more than, you know, consuming it.
Regardless, the way she kiboshed my request before I could even make it the night before left me convinced I’d have a lot of time to ponder the mystery while living out the rest of my salami-free days.
A punishment fitting the crime.
But … she added it to the order.
Awwwww.
“She still loves me,” I thought.
At least enough to give me another chance.
I may or may not have placed my hand over my heart after she said it.
Or, you know, over my t-shirt that’s at least one size too small.
I mean, she got me salami.
I’ve come to appreciate that such tiny graces are the wobbly cobblestones that give a marriage a chance to find its fragile footing.
“It’s still good,” I thought.
The fact that I only became aware of her kind gesture when she threatened to take it back was not lost on me.
Clock’s always tickin’ on an avocado.
“We are such an old married couple,” I said, loud enough for the Bluetooth to hear.
For the record, I was praising us, not shaming us.
Love looks different at 54 then it did at 24.
Says the guy whose boxer shorts are peeking out over his drooping pajamas past noon on a Sunday.
Sometimes you have to put on your cheaters to notice how beautiful it still is.
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.
Re-watched all of my favorite holiday movies this season.
Except one.
A Charlie Brown Christmas, which we never got around to.
Destination TV when the kids were younger, though.
I mean, Linus droppin’ the mic at the end?
Puts a lump in my throat every time.
It was only this year that I was made aware of something I’d never noticed in all my previous watchings.
He drops the blanket, too.
In the climactic “Light’s, please” scene, right before he says, “Fear not …” Linus drops his blanket.
All those years I watched it, I never noticed it.
When a friend mentioned it to me, I got chills.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
Looked it up online.
Yep.
Apparently, the Internet’s known about this for some time.
I asked my family if they were aware.
Nope.
Once I became aware, though, I couldn’t stop geeking out about it, asking friends. Sharing with those, who like me, were uninitiated.
Immediately thought of my high school buddy, Bob, an animator, who grew up a connoisseur of comics and cartoons.
I shot him a note … said I assumed he knew about this, but I couldn’t risk him not knowing.
He, of course, knew about the scene.
Shared the wisest reply.
“I did know about the dropped blanket thing, but I never really attached any significance to it.
“I always looked at it from an animation perspective, where I think Linus does a lot of arm gesturing during that scene and instead of animating a blanket moving around wildly with his arms, they just had him drop it and then pick it up again when he was done talking. I think the reason I thought that was because when Charlie Brown is talking to him right before Linus goes off, Charlie Brown drops his coat right before talking with his hands. Again, I assumed that was for animation purposes.”
Brilliant insight, which Bob’s always been good for.
At first his reply hit me like a splash of cold water.
“A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (Peanuts Worldwide)
So … a practical animation choice.
No sermon intended.
Nothing to see here.
Hmm.
But just because Charles Schulz may have been more interested in easing his animating burden doesn’t mean there’s not a sermon to be found.
Just because something isn’t true, or as intended, doesn’t mean it can’t be meaningful.
Otherwise myths wouldn’t exist.
Or religions, some might say.
We live in a world that would rather know how the trick is done than believe in magic.
Not me.
I’d rather be (open to being) awed.
I’ve learned to keep my antenna up for magic and meaning … even where it’s not supposed to exist.
Who says a perfect sermon can’t be found in a practical choice?
Even Bob in his wisdom agrees.
“But I guess in the big picture, it’s a much better story and makes more sense to say that Linus didn’t need security during that moment.”
We can let the blanket drop … without letting it get wet.
__
Sitting in my usual seat at my favorite coffee shop where I’m typing this, I watched an older woman, bundled head to toe for the cold, walk in to warm herself for a few minutes before catching her Saturday morning bus.
As she was trudging back to the door with 12 warm ounces in her hand, already bracing for the cold on the other side, a familiar downtown face came in, and seeing her, stepped to the side, and with his right arm, backhanded the door open for her.
Not the biggest fellow, he had to bend over a bit to muster the strength to brace the door open with just his one arm.
But from where I sat, his forced hunch read as a bow, imbuing his humble act with an added reverence.
Allowing the older woman catching her bus to pass through the door regal as a queen, nobly enrobed in her winter coat, her toboggan pulled tight like a crown.
She nodded thanks to him as she exited.
As if to a loyal subject.
It was a scene that neither would likely think of ever again.
She, a bus to catch.
He, cold hands to warm at the fireplace.
Me, a lump in my throat for the gift of bearing witness.
It was a scene I’m likely never to forget.
His bow. Her nod.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
A sweet and simple reminder to be kind where we can to those we encounter along the way.
To humble ourselves to allow the strangers we meet to walk in dignity in an otherwise cold world.
If he’d have been holding a blanket in his right hand, he might have made the practical choice to drop it, too.
For starters I drove through the snow into the city. Roads were awful. Slid into a bank trying to make the left onto Maiden Street.
Traffic on the interstate slowed to a sloppy crawl just before Canonsburg. Google told me I should peel off the exit, so I listened.
Called home to let Karry know my circumstances.
Candidly, part of me was hoping she’d tell me to just come back home.
Give me an excuse not to go through with the second brave thing.
“You should stay on the interstate. It’s gonna be better than the side roads.”
She is so much better than Google.
It was the wisest counsel … from the person who’s been pointing in the right direction for 30 years and counting.
So I got myself turned around. Limped back onto I-79.
Kept going.
Sent a text letting ‘em know I was on my way, but was gonna be 15 or so minutes late.
“That’s OK. You’re on last!”
__
On a whim the week before I submitted something for Story Club Pittsburgh’s monthly live gathering.
Something about the theme — Turning Point — caught my eye. Made me think of something I’d written but never shared before.
The following day Kelly their (awesome) producer emailed me back, “The Spotlight slot’s yours if you want it.”
Eesh.
After I said yes Kelly informed me that the stories had to be under seven minutes.
Over the next few days, violent editing ensued.
By the time I’d gotten in my car Tuesday to drive into the city, I still hadn’t quite limbo’d my story under the bar.
Crawling along the interstate afforded me some extra practice time in the car. Must’ve run through it a half dozen times trying to find places where I could chop a few more seconds … without having to rush it.
And praying I’d remember my edits.
Seven minutes seemed like both forever and not nearly enough time.
As I drove I reminded myself I was last, so I’d have some time once I got there if I needed it.
Arrived while the emcee was still on stage and before the first storyteller.
Other than the spotlight slot at the end, the proceedings are open mic. Anyone who wants to tell a story drops their name in a hat — from which they pick seven names to go on stage.
As I grabbed a chair, the voice inside me said I owed the brave humans on stage my full attention … the same gift I would soon be asking from them.
The greatest gift in the world as far as I’m concerned.
They made it an easy gift to give.
The first person shared a brave and beautiful story about a person they stayed in a relationship way too long with, and what their hopeful but misplaced optimism had taught them. An older gentleman spoke about losing a best friend in high school and how he’s tried to live for both of them since. Another person relayed an amazing daisy chain of grace and kindness from law enforcement that allowed him to essentially walk on water all the way from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. There was a story about a rat in an apartment and another about a snake on a trail. And a lawyer told a tale of tracking down a client who met him not with a handshake, but a shotgun pointed at his chest.
Before I knew it, the emcee was calling my name.
By which point a good 90 minutes had passed since I’d taken my seat.
Since I’d last thought about my story.
I’d been picked as a Spotlight Storyteller once before, about a year ago. But I got sick and couldn’t be there in person. Made arrangements to share virtually from home. Had my notes on a second screen just in case, which made it easy.
This time, it was just me.
No notes.
The lights made it hard to see the faces of the people in the audience.
As I started in from memory, my mouth felt dry.
Was about a minute in … when I felt my words sliding to the tip of my tongue.
Got a little over halfway through.
And lost my way.
In the spotlight.
Alone on stage.
In front of a pretty full house.
With the clock ticking.
Stuck.
But then …
… something amazing happened.
A few people in the audience started snapping.
A couple clapped encouragement.
And a wonderful soul in the front row … one of the few faces I could see in the lights … repeated the last couple of lines I had said back to me.
A roomful of humans that was already offering me their greatest gift, did their best to point me in the right direction.
Took me a moment, but I got myself turned around.
Limped back on the interstate.
Kept going.
Crawled the rest of the way.
Until I made it.
__
On my drive back home, I thought of Patti Smith, and the time she forgot the words to “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” while performing in front of the King of Sweden and the royal family at Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm.
And how beautifully and humanly she wrote of her experience. Of the kindness shown her afterwards by some of the Nobel scientists in attendance, who shared their appreciation for her very public struggle. “I wish I would have done better, I said. No, no, they replied, none of us wish that. For us, your performance seemed a metaphor for our own struggles,” she wrote so movingly in The New Yorker.
It occurred to me that, had I spent those 90 minutes before I stepped on to the stage going over my story, I would likely have avoided my embarrassment and delivered a better performance for the audience I was there to serve.
But that would have come at the expense of giving my full attention to all the other wonderful storytellers that came before me.
It would have required withholding my most valuable gift in the world.
So I refuse to regret my choice.
I accept my stumbling as a fair price to pay … for the gift of bearing witness to their stories.
Maybe even a bargain.
Because had I not stumbled, I would not have experienced an audience of strangers reaching out to steady me.
And the traveler writing these words would be much the poorer for that.
Letters for Maggie 