I saw this sticker attached to a gas pump at Keith’s Superstore in Semmes, Alabama.
My imagination shifted into high gear as I pictured the scenarios that prompted a convenience store manager to make and affix this sticker. Does this happen a lot in rural Alabama?
When Cletus pulled up to the pump in his big old F250, he told his wife, “We’re almost empty, so put eighty bucks on pump two.” When they both got back into the truck with surprisingly good coffee and a bag of snacks, they buckled up and pulled back out onto the road. Glancing down, he saw the gas gauge pointing to the E.” “Crap.” After a quick u-turn, they pulled back in, only to find an old Cadillac pulling away from pump two with a full tank. After a long, angry, red-faced conversation with the cashier and store manager, Otis walked out with $20 in change.
Or it could have been that time when Lilly answered her phone as she swiped her card at the pump. She punched in her zip code, unscrewed the gas cap, and was just about to press economy when she exclaimed, “Are you kidding me? OK, I’ll be right there.” As she pulled away Emmet pulled up in his old Crown Victoria, saw the pump ready to go. All he said was, “Sweet,” as he filled up his tank.
Jake usually tried once a week, when he saw a new cashier at the register. “Hey doll, this is embarrassing, but I gave the other guy fifty dollars this morning and never pumped my gas. I had this killer migraine and had to go home. I’m feeling better now, so can you set up pump five for me?” His story rarely worked, but he kept on trying.
I’ve heard a few stories of people who forgot to disconnect the nozzle from their car and drove off, tearing the hose off the pump. Others, thinking they could squeeze a few more ounces into the tank ended up with a puddle of gas on the ground around their car.
I want to meet the guy or gal who prepaid and forgot to pump.
I now have a pretty good idea where the best parties are in our neighborhood.
I was out walking the day after Christmas when I spied with my little eye a beer keg on a front porch. Smiling to myself, I remembered changing out many of those in the fraternity house. We were always on tap. That’s one of the reasons you joined a fraternity in the 70s in Pennsylvania. A keg like that holds about 7 cases of beer. That’s not so much for a house full of guys watching football on a Monday night. But it’s a lot of beer for a Christmas gathering at your home!
Less than half a mile down the road, I saw a second house with a keg out front by the garage. I felt like I was walking down College Avenue across the street from Franklin and Marshall College, basically a fraternity row where each house had a few empties out on the front porch. No “bah humbug” in my neighborhood. Just like a post-dream Scrooge, these folks know how to keep Christmas!
Now chuckling to myself, I thought, “That’s why you want to get to know your neighbors!”
Walking on, I thought, “Why don’t we get to know our neighbors?” I know a lot of mine because I’ve been in our house for over twenty-five years and been out walking a dog (or two or three) just about every day. But it hasn’t been easy. Most people pull in the driveway as the garage door opens, and walk into the house as the door closes behind them. Unless I’m there at the right moment, I never see their faces or have a chance to say, “Hello.”
Or, if I leave an empty keg out front, I’ll bet I get to know them better.
With two carefully selected books in my hand, I dig my library card out of my wallet and approach the checkout desk. A cheerful voice always greets me, “I can help you here!” After she scans my card, she takes my books and riffles the pages of each one, looking for…
What is she looking for? I wonder what she has found in those pages?
Money? Without anything else for a bookmark, a dollar bill or higher might do the trick. Or, if you are feeling mysteriously generous, you could leave a twenty in there for someone to find one day.
A library card, driver’s license, business card, insurance card, or even a credit card. It’s easy to stick any of those into whatever is in your hands when you have too much to carry. Once they slip in a little deeper, you forget you put it there.
Some notes. I can’t write in a borrowed book, so sometimes I’ll write down quotes or facts on a piece of paper that doubles as a book mark. If it’s not sticking out, I might forget all about it.
I’ve opened books and discovered insects. They are usually dead, but not always. Silverfish are common. Or a mosquito who settled on a page at the wrong moment.
I’ve been known to snack while reading, or read at a meal. A candy wrapper? Napkin? I am certain I’ve left behind crumbs and stains.
How about a photo? I’ve found books on my shelves with kids’ school photos in them I used for bookmarks.
Those are the ones I’ve thought of. Some of them were out there. But some librarians shared some even better stuff they’ve found between the pages:
And now the ornery side of me begins to awaken. What kinds of things could I leave behind in a library book to be discovered at some time?
A spoiler sticky note half-way through a mystery
A recipe for something that sounds absolutely horrible
A compliment or joke to make someone’s day
Some cash or an unused scratch-off lottery ticket
Now that I’ve though of this, I am going to make sure I riffle the pages of books in the library. I’m not going to wait for the librarian to find all the good stuff. And when you find something, you might think of me.
One of the baristas suddenly walked over to the mobile order pickup spot, looked at the stickers on some hot and cold drinks, dumped them out, and threw out two or three food bags. I sat and wondered, “How often does that happen? How many people order online and never pick up? And why would anyone do that?”
Since this Starbucks is just off the interstate, many of their customers are traveling north or south on I-95 through northeast Florida. The food sign a mile or so before the exit might prompt travelers to open the app to place their order for a quick pick up. But then the driver gets distracted by a big truck on his tail or is yelling at children in the back seat or is fiddling with the radio and misses the exit. “What are you doing? I already ordered the coffee! Oh, never mind.”
Or, having ordered through the app, the interstate traffic suddenly comes to a stop. An accident has shut down all the lanes and no one is going anywhere for a while. An hour later, the hot drinks are cool and the cold drinks are room temperature. Down the drain they go.
Perhaps a child has borrowed mom’s phone to play a game or watch a video and happens upon the app. “I wonder what this does? Ooh, that looks good!” Before you know it, an order is on its way. Later in the day, a puzzled parent asks, “Were you on the app?” The wise and clever child replies, “I don’t know.”
It could be a prank by “friends” who notice your phone is unlocked. You know, the same friends who change the language on your phone. Or had those pizzas delivered to your house.
There are thousands of Starbucks in the US. Maybe you placed the order at the wrong store. And you were pretty aggravated when your order wasn’t waiting for you at the wrong store.
How long does an order sit there before being poured out? Let’s say it’s an hour. I could wander over at about 59 minutes to see what’s available for “pickup.” Yeah, my conscience probably wouldn’t let me get away with that. I wonder how many online orders are picked up by someone else? What would happen when the customer shows up at the one hour and five minute mark looking for their order?
Since we began booking Airbnb homes rather than hotel rooms to visit our son in Dallas, we have stayed in some very nice homes. Many had been recently renovated, were creatively decorated, and were thoughtfully filled with amenities. We’ve stayed in places that had wall-mounted TVs in every room, surface phone chargers, and an easy-to-use printer. The kitchen was stocked with bottles of water, coffee pods, snacks, and condiments for meal prep. The bathrooms were chock full of fluffy towels, soaps, conditioners, and lotions. The beds were full of pillows and the closets with extra blankets. Binders full of house instructions, favorite restaurants, and nearby attractions. The owners weren’t obligated to provide all this, but we were glad they did.
Most recently, though, we stayed in what I have labeled the “spartan” airbnb. It was sparkling clean. It was well-maintained. It had lots of space for guests. I slept well in the comfortable beds.
Amenities? Virtually none. We could not find one dish towel in the kitchen. We were not able to locate any extra pillows or blankets in the bedrooms. Bath towels were few and far between. There was nothing in the refrigerator. Not a single ice cube in the freezer. One condiment: a salt shaker. Three or four generic coffee pods. Very few knick-knacks or wall hangings. Just a couple of hangers in the closets. No instructions whatsoever for the fireplace, TVs, or internet.
OK, so it wasn’t all bad. The wifi was very fast. The house was a five minute walk from my son’s house. It was the week of Thanksgiving, and the hosts had put up a Christmas tree (although it was sparsely decorated). The home looked exactly like the pictures we had seen.
We had just gotten spoiled.
After I got home, I was surprised to read reviews from guests who described this house as the nicest they had ever stayed in. Obviously these folks hadn’t stayed in too many places.
And I was also amused when I texted the host and asked about check-out instructions. (Remember, there was no binder of instructions.) The only direction was, “Please naked the beds.”
As I waited for my duffle to make its way around the baggage carousel, an unfamiliar voice said, “You’re a saint!” I looked up but didn’t see anyone I recognized.
“I don’t think I could have put up with all that seat-kicking.” The voice came from a man a few feet away, also waiting for his bags. “I was sitting across the aisle, a row behind you. I don’t know how you endured that for a whole flight!”
My wife and I had just arrived in Dallas on a nonstop flight from Orlando. A family returning from a week long trip to Disney was sitting next to us and behind us. I felt the energy of the two little boys behind us as they ate snacks, played with toys, watched videos, and bounced around for the whole two hour flight. We know what it’s like to travel with little ones, so we weren’t surprised. We’re used to having young grandchildren around, too, so it was just another one of those days. I really didn’t think that much about it.
But it got me thinking: what are the qualifications for sainthood? Was that honor harder or easier to achieve than a flight home from the Magic Kingdom? I learned that there are five steps.
You have to die. The process of becoming a saint begins five years after your death.
You must be a “servant of God.” That seems a bit subjective. It involves an examination of your life and deeds. Witnesses testify to your holiness and virtue. It’s kind of like listing three references for a job.
You must show proof of a life of “heroic virtue.” This means that others have been led to pray because of your life of service and virtue. If you make it to this stage, you attain the title venerable.
A miracle is attributed to prayers made to you. As a citizen of heaven, you can intercede on behalf of others. At this point, you are beatified, that is, you are granted the title blessed.
A second miracle is attributed to prayers to you. However, if you die as a martyr, only one miracle is necessary. A special canonization mass and prayer are spoken, and you are now a saint.
Other than being mortal, or having the patience to fly with children, I doubt if I’ll ever qualify for the title of saint.
As the delivery truck pulled away, the alert sounded and a yellow Echo circle announced one new notification. A package has arrived.
When I opened the front door, a thick FedEx envelope fell across the threshold. A familiar sight, yet today very different. The envelope was wrapped in yards of packing tape. Beneath the tape I saw the envelope was ripped, torn, trampled, and water-stained.
But the package was not for me. My wife opened it when she returned home. Although she had purchased a used book, she did not expect to find it this used. The pages were wet, puckered, and compressed into a pulpy mess. When she showed it to me, I observed, “It looks like someone ran over it with a truck!”
So what happened? At what point did someone drive across the package, mummy it up with tape and send it on its way? I came up with a few scenarios.
Maybe the sender had set it on top of their car when heading off to the shipping place. As they pulled out of their driveway, they caught a glimpse of it in the mirror as it slid off the roof. They felt the bump as they drove over it. “Oh no!” “Well, we listed it in ‘acceptable condition. Don’t worry about it.”
Or maybe a huge pile of outgoing FedEx packages at the QuickShip place slipped off as the driver loaded up the hand truck on a rainy afternoon. No one noticed it until he felt the bump under the wheel. Glancing back, he saw the package on the asphalt. He jumped out, tossed it back into the truck, and drove off.
The book looked bad enough that it may have laid out in someone’s yard through a thunderstorm before they noticed it. Waterlogged and soggy, someone may have warned, “You can’t send it like that.” “You’re right.” So they microwaved it to dry it out a little, spun some wide tape around it, and sent it off.
It could be that someone else had purchased this book and it arrived in this condition at their house. They couldn’t return it. But they could resell it. Hey, if you don’t like it, just resell it. Buyer beware, right?
“Yes,” I replied, “I’ve got a few errands to run.”
“Would you drop these off at the UPS store. This QR code with this (a clothing item) and the other one goes with this (a box of something).”
“Don’t I have to pack them in a box or something?”
“No, just give them this and they take care of it. It’s all prepaid, too.”
That’s it? I was dubious, but trusted her instructions. In between the gas station and Home Depot, I found the little strip mall UPS store. As I stepped through the door, a line of people were waiting their turn.
They were all holding pieces of paper just like mine and an item. A shirt. A puzzle. Some protein bars. A sauce pan. Three workers behind the desk took each item, scanned the code from the paper, tapped a touch screen, and said, “All set. Have a nice day.” Ditto for me and my two items.
In that moment, I marveled at the booming business of returns. It’s just part of life. I do a lot of online shopping. My items arrive a few days later. I like some of the items. Some don’t fit. Other times the color is off. It may be a piece of junk. It’s not a big deal. Just print a return ticket, take it to a designated place, drop it off and immediately get your money back.
It wasn’t that long ago that I would go to the store, find what I wanted, try it on, purchase it, and take it home. Today, what you want probably isn’t in the store. You have little choice but to buy online. It might fit. It might not. You might like it. You might not. Whatever. You can always easily send it back.
My wife will order three or four of the exact same item online. When they arrive, they all fit differently. She’ll keep the one that fits, and return the rest. Easy-peasy.
The business of returns is huge. Amazon resells some used merchandise, but sells to liquidators, donates some to charity, and sometimes just throws it away, generating a huge amount of waste. CNBC reports that $761 billion of merchandise was returned in 2021.
You can buy a whole pallet of returned Amazon goods. It’s a blind purchase, and it’s on you to resell it to recoup your investment. One woman paid $575 for approximately $10,000 worth of returned items. Amazing.
Food pantries deal with this. They have to swipe the bar code with a Sharpie so that recipients don’t turn around and cash in cans or boxes at a local store.
I always buy more than I need for a home project. I return all the extra unused materials for a refund. The local Home Depot has more registers for returns than for sales. Lowes had long lines of generator returns after a close call with a recent hurricane. The power hadn’t gone out long enough to even open the box, so each got a full refund. However, those generators weighed a couple of hundred pounds each, so this was no easy task.
I’ve learned the hard way to check a box at these stores before I buy something. It’s easy to tell if the box has been opened and then taped shut again. When I didn’t check, I discovered that the fan or tool still didn’t work, or pieces were still missing from an assemble-it-yourself cabinet, or the corner was still damaged from that bookshelf.
Big screen TVs are returned the week after a big game. Suits and dresses are returned after a weekend wedding. Tools are returned after a project is complete. Stores hire extra workers for returns after holidays. What an amazing business!
I was having a good day. Matt the appliance repairman was back to fix our ice maker which had an annoying habit of freezing up and hoarding its ice cubes. He had been out the week before to scope out the warranty-covered repair, and had returned with the manufacturer’s solution kit.
I was out front working on some landscaping when I saw his truck pull up in front of our house. I like to think of myself as a friendly person, so I greeted him with the standard generic greeting, “Hey, how’s it going today?”
I expected to hear the usual generic response, “Pretty good” or “I can’t complain.” Instead I got his brutally honest reply, “Rotten!” It was only 10 am. And it was the middle of the week, not a Monday. As I let him in the house, I wondered, “How bad could it be?” I’ll bet his first appointment of the day was at 9. Most people are happy when their appliances are in working order again, so I would think his job was a positive one.
Maybe his first stops of the day weren’t as pleasant as this one. Maybe he couldn’t fix previous problems. Maybe the estimated repair cost outraged a customer. Maybe he wasted half his morning going to someone house who wasn’t even home.
Perhaps Matt’s rotten day started early in the morning when the dog threw up in his bedroom. Or he was in the middle of a heated argument with his wife as he headed out the door. Or his back was killing him. Or a close friend had died.
You just never know the story that frames someone’s day. You usually don’t know because almost everyone hides their anger, grief, pain and frustration behind a smiling “I’m doing fine!”
Even though I know it wasn’t appropriate, I’ve asked “How are you?” to someone in hospice, just before surgery, arriving for a funeral, wrestling a screaming child, slamming a door, a door-to-door salesman, people stocking shelves in the store, the coffee shop barista, and a complete stranger on the street. I don’t have the actual numbers, but I’ll bet 99% of the time, the response was, “Pretty good” or “Not too bad.”
I do this. I do this very well. I don’t have the actual numbers, but I bet I answer this way 99% of the time. I rarely want to unpack my baggage in casual conversation. So more times than not, I too am “fine” or “hanging in there.”
Every once in a while, though, I switch it up. Sometimes I’ll respond, “Much better, thank you.” This response makes the asker pause for a moment. It generates interest, concern and sympathy. It opens the door for more conversation.
Or I’ll say, “I don’t know.” That catches the other person off guard. It makes them pause for a moment. They can’t walk away. Now they’re curious. They want to know more.
I don’t know if I’ve ever just blurted out, “Rotten,” “Horrible,” or even “Lousy.” Like most, I instinctively put up the “having a good day” front for all to see.
So I am on a personal quest to stop asking, “How are you?” or “How’s it going?” Instead, I’m going to make a statement. I’m going to say something along the lines of, “I’m glad to see you!” Or, “I really like…” something the person is wearing, doing, or saying. Maybe, “That’s an interesting…” thing a person is carrying, tune a person is humming, or tattoo on a person’s arm. I don’t have the numbers, but I’ll bet showing interest in someone gets an honest response 99% of the time.
Rewind to Matt, the appliance repair guy. Once he said, “Rotten,” I stepped back and just let him get to work. But I could have said, “I am very glad to see you!” Or, “Can you tell me about the repair kit you ordered?” Maybe, “I’m impressed that you know how to fix so many brands of appliances.” I could have picked his brain to ask, “What brands of appliances have you found to be the most reliable?” Perhaps a little interest in him and his job would have made his day a little less rotten. I would also have learned a few things.
So there’s one of my goals. Counter some of the rottenness in this world. Greet folks with words and phrases that are creative, positive, and pleasant.
Waite for it... 