On a cold and rainy afternoon, grateful for curbside pick-up, I checked in by text from spot number four. A stalky, middle-aged man wearing a wet paper mask under coke-bottle glasses wheeled his cart holding grocery orders in my direction. He stopped, adjusted his weight, lifted his foggy glasses, and checked his device to confirm where he would go next. It was my turn.
I hopped out of my car as he urged,
“Oh no, ma’am, you can stay in your car, it’s wet out here.” Instead, I smiled under my fabric mask, reached for my umbrella, and met him at the back of my car. I wished I had a giant golf umbrella so I could shield us both from the rain, somewhat socially distanced, of course.
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m happy to help you load. It’s really coming down!” The man read a short list of substitutions, items I gladly accepted in exchange for convenience and protection.
We swiftly set the rain-soaked bags into my car, the man thanked me and turned to leave, but I asked him to wait.
“I know we’re asked not to tip, but I really appreciate your help.”
Reaching into my purse for a fabric mask I made and put into a baggie, I continued,
“I make these masks and I’d love to give you one as a thank you if you’d like it.” The man stepped back, elated, so he could safely lower is sopping wet mask under his chin to show off his broad smile.
“Wow. Just wow. Thank you. I’d love one. I don’t have a homemade one, thank you.” We said goodbye, I returned to my dry, warm car and drove away as he wheeled his empty cart through potholes and puddles and back into the store.
The following week I was back in spot number four waiting for my bagged up choices and substitutions and the same man in coke-bottle glasses wheeled his cart my way. This time he was wearing my mask.
“It’s you!” he said, his eyes crinkling behind the heavy lenses. “I remember you from last time, you gave me my mask. I like how it feels.” I asked how things were going and he told me about a customer who’d just given him a hard time, complaining about things he couldn’t do much about.
“It really made me feel bad, some people are just like that, not everybody is, though.”
“No,” I shook my head, “not everybody is.” He told me more, I listened, unhurried.
“You have a good day, now,” the man concluded, buoyed by our brief exchange, “and drive safe, see you next time!”
As I see it, every interaction I have with a curbside delivery person, or the vet tech ferrying my dog in and out of the clinic, or the woman who takes my mail at the postal counter, is a new chance to express our shared humanity. I don’t need to call people essential because we’re all essential, really, and we always have been. To offer accolades without follow-through is condescending. We’ve lost a lot of connection with each other these past nine months. I hang on to the possibility our collective experience navigating life and death will push us to see each other more fully, beyond the masks, as human beings, essential, as we always have been.
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Copyright (2020) Suzanne Bayer. All Rights Reserved.
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