I’m possible.
There was a young man, probably a teenager, looking at boxes of crackers and popcorn in the drug store. He stood with his back to the shelf that held the Lindt chocolate bars I wanted so, “excuse me,” I said and he scuffed forward a couple of steps.
I was so certain that he was unhappy. Why? I don’t know, exactly. I never saw his face. He wore loose, long black shorts and a loose, long black t-shirt. A droopy backpack hung from his skinny shoulders and his hair was badly cut. He had the heavy look of poverty as he stood there staring at the display.
He took so long examining the boxes, moving back and forth to check all the possibilities. I thought, immediately I thought, that he was hoping to steal something. I picked up my chocolate bar and glanced at his back.
I wanted to ask him if I could buy something for him, ask if he was okay, tell him not to take the risk of stealing. (Maybe he was only trying to figure out which box would last the longest for the money he had.)
The thing is, the last time I asked a stranger “are you okay?” I couldn’t just leave it at that. She was a tiny 18-year-old sobbing on the side of the road in a wealthy part of a wealthy town. She had five or six stuffed and overflowing bags, one with a broken zipper leaking her clothes. It wasn’t enough to hand over some money and a few kind words. I wanted to offer her a home and safety and a future.
Instead, I offered her my time, energy, acceptance, respect and all the other free things I had on me along with a $20 bill that was the last of my ready cash. I let go of my plans for the afternoon, and I don’t regret any of it.
She and I together taught each other, healed each other, helped each other in ways I’m still discovering (and I hope she is too). I am so glad I walked down that street on that steaming hot afternoon.
But I didn’t speak to the boy in the drugstore.
I don’t know why. Opening an unknown door in one place doesn’t seem to make it any easier to open another door in another place. I don’t know how door-to-door sellers make it through their day. Come to think of it, I don’t know how performing artists make it through either, but I did that for years.
Practice? Stubbornness?
You keep doing it because it’s what you do.
The door opening doesn’t get easier, but it does become more familiar. The failures are better failures than the ones I had last week, the rejections are things I recognize and nod a friendly hello to me in passing, the need I try to fill each time is the same once I get past the different clothes. Each time I do what I can when I can. Sometimes I don’t.
Boy in store: I hope you are okay. I’m sorry I didn’t ask.