When I was a kid, I was a big crier. I cried as a baby. I cried
when Mary Beth Mulligan seemed to prefer playing with my little sister over me,
even though Mary Beth was my age and should have been my friend. I cried when
my sister didn't share her toys. I cried in public: in 4th grade Mr. Tembrull
(Mr. T we'd call him in our 1970's
public-yet-posing-as-a-hip-boho-private-Montessori-like-grade-school-with-raised-carpeted-platforms-and-bean-bag-chairs-and-teachers-we'd-call-Mr.
T-or Miss B-giving-us-the-false-impression-it-was-all-free-to-be-you-and-me
elementary school) had us do multiplication tests on the chalkboard. He'd pit
two of us against each other for time. I was a) not great at math b) very slow
at math and c) a crier. So you can imagine. It was akin to wetting your pants
in the playground. Completely uncool and completely humiliating. My mother
would say "there are people worse off than you" in order to give me
perspective and stop the tears, but still, they'd fall and I'd cry. Let me
assure you, reader, at this point. I was a fairly healthy kid both physically
and mentally in a stable family with the requisite amount of normal
disfunction. Which is to say, nobody was beating me and there were no really
big dramas that would be some underlying cause of the crying jags. I was just a
blubbering kid. I was far from cool. I think the public crying stopped by the
time I hit 7th grade. By that time I'd discovered bras and boys and was equally
concerned with popularity, getting straight As and Nick Caringi.
Tonight I'm going to confess something. I was not nice to a
stranger. I wasn't a bitch. But I was short and snippy, I was tired, and I
could have been nicer. I would take it all back if I could. The late night
hotel clerk. I'd requested a non smoking room. I lugged my heavy luggage and
guitar up to the 3rd floor to find a smoking hall and a disgustingly smoky
room. Lugged everything back down. Told her. She said the hotel was sold out. I
said, 'is there anything you can do? I have asthma (true)' She found another
room, gave me the key. I went to the room. It was freezing and the heater/air
conditioner was stuck and wouldn't work. Went back. Now, it was 1:30am, I'd
driven 5 hours, done a gig, did a radio show, and gotten to the hotel. As well,
yesterday I'd driven 5 hours, had a horrible conversation on the phone that
left me grieving and exhausted by the side of the road with about 10 minutes to
get myself together before I was to be live on air for a radio show, done the
radio show, still numb from the personal earthquake, survived a tornado (I'm
serious), done a show, cried myself to sleep. So. It was a bad few days, or,
rather, a challenging few days. And the third room the hotel clerk gave me
seemed fine, so I unpacked, got into my sweats and then the high pitched short
beep of the carbon monoxide detector started in and I realized the device was
broken. I called the clerk. She mispronounced my name "Mrs. Speechy".
And I just asked her (perhaps I was cranky, its possible) to either move me to
another room (again) or come up and help me tear this stupid device off the
wall if it wasn't going to stop beeping.
The knock on the door came fairly soon thereafter and the
clerk, a large woman who could have been anywhere from late 20's to late 30's
came into the room, stood on one of the beds to reach the alarm, and fiddled
with it for 20 minutes. All I could think about was my last few days and I was
barely holding it together, emotions threatened to spill uncontrollably out of
my pores that weren't appropriate nor were they wanted, but there they were,
knocking on my chest and behind my eyes and in my gut and I thought I was going
to lose it. And then....she fixed it. And I softened. And as she came down off
the bed, and I was profusely thanking her, and even apologizing for my tone,
giving all sorts of excuses, she turned to me very graciously to say 'thank
you' and I saw that tears were backing up in her large, sad eyes. And I said,
'are you ok?' and she had her hands together in a clasped wringing, the
"I'm barely keeping it together" gesture that I know very well. She
shook her head and nodded--both no and yes at the same time -- and smiled that
kind of "If I say anything I might just cry so hard I won't ever
stop" apologetic smile of the broken-hearted. I tried to stammer something
of comfort and she said, 'God will provide. He always has. I am praying for
strength and I believe I will have it' and I thought how brave of this woman to
just tell me this, and I had a thought of my own pain, and that whatever hers
was was larger, more enveloping, and then I had that feeling that we are all in
the same boat. The same damn, sad, lonely, jubilant, sometimes blissfull,
sometimes heartbreaking, thank-God-we're-all-together boat. And I wanted to hug
her but my legs wouldn't move and she let a tear or two fall and then nodded to
me, as if to say "I see the same in you and we'll be fine" and I
thanked her for coming to help and she went out the door and back to her desk,
wiping her eyes.
My own sadness was just wiped away by this woman, who came
into the room to fix the alarm of some bitchy, tired, stranger.
Life lessons come in strange wrappings. I wish this woman a
week of peace. A month of serenity and ease. I think she'll make it through.
She has that kind of grounding, I could see it.
Candlesticks and battened hatches
Deck of cards and waterproof matches
We'll stay warm through the storm
Come what may
We've got all we need, no reason to complain
When the world's been raining, raining, raining
Cats and dogs
When the world's been flooded, flooded
All the dry land is gone
All we've got left
Is each other and this boat we're on
(Chuck E. Costa, 'Battened Hatches')
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