Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Out of Character

It was strange. 

I'd like to think it has something to do with the antibiotics, the oddly warm weather we're having, the surreality of spring break. Whatever the reason, I must have looked like something washed up out of the Sahara this morning to the kind BP station manager, who greeted me with a welcome wagon, while I recoiled behind my wide infinity scarf, shielding myself from both sun and smile.

"How you doing?" he announced, heading directly toward me.

What does he want? my body wondered, long before any thought-forms appeared. I looked around the deserted station. Is he talking to me? 

What led me to be pumping gas at a surreally vacant BP at ten this morning on Excelsior Blvd was a missed eye doc's appointment, which if you can believe, I showed up too early for. Unable to swing the extra hour and a half of Jude care, I  picked up some Sudafed for my sinus infection, grabbed a Caribou, an apple fritter, and headed home, feeling displaced. 

Earlier while pulling out of the clinic garage, a Somali woman was trying to anchor her SUV in a compact spot beside me as I inched out. I felt the familiar heat, the seed of a tirade, the useless righteousness that begs the same questions in times like this, "Why don't other people follow the rules? Why do I get punished when I do follow the rules? Why oh why did I get a small car? And who the fuck needs such a gargantuan car?  I'm like a minnow out here!" She squeezed further in, obstructing my vision of oncoming cars, who honked at me when I attempted to back out. And finally I just stopped. I gave up. I surrendered to the uselessness and helplessness of the moment. I could've very well put my head in my hands. What am I supposed to do now? I'm sure the poor woman recognized the fury in my eyes when I finally made eye contact with her;  instead of proceeding in the ineffectual passive aggressive way, I raised my eyes for the challenge. I felt myself bristle and buck, awaiting the crossbars on her face. In defense, I raised my eyebrows with petulant inquiry. 

But the woman was not angry at all. In fact, what I dared to see, when I dared to look, was a smile so sweet and opening, I felt something like a flower petal dropping inside my heart. Quickly, I smiled back, the humble sort, as she waved me out of my spot, directing me with the ok sign against any oncoming happy honkers.

Of course all of this took place in under a minute, but her smile stretched timelessly. I berated myself for being so caught up in my drama, my sinus infection, my hard day, for not having more faith in people. For not being kind first. I hate it when people beat me to kindness. It's like a daily showdown: who's going to smile first, me or you? I won't if you don't, but if I do it first I really don't care if you do or don't because I don't have an ego. What? It's not conscious and I don't like it, but it happens, especially during certain times of the month. 

And on certain days of the month or whatever reason why, a random unexpected kindness only goes so far, and by the time I get to the BP Station, I'm back into my contorted form, feeling like an alien pulling into a ghost town. 

Still, I did return the greeting to the manager who was coming right at me. "I'm good," I lied, "how are you?"

Without breaking stride, he seized the nearest squeegee and slapped it smoothly across my grimy window. "As the station manager, I like to greet my customers with a little kindness..." was the gist of what he said, as he continued to iron out my windshield.

I fumbled something in response, my animal body anticipating a sales pitch, or something to posture against. Thankfully, my domesticated side knows better. "Wow. Thanks so much," I said, "that's really sweet of you."

I felt compelled to make small talk after that. "Great amazing sunny..." I attempted, but trailed off when he smiled and headed back inside. He had no use for my throw away afterthoughts. 

There's no point to this story, nothing to share about writing or memoir; there certainly isn't a "happy" ending (it's actually rather anticlimactic: I came home, ate pastries with Jude and Too Cute Face, and did the neti pot). 

Of course it all got me thinking. Whenever I act out of character—belying all sense of self I recognize and rely on—I tend to call  myself out as a phony. Even though I realize it's this type of narrow thinking that gets me in trouble and keeps me stuck, not to mention exhausted, I fall for my thoughts way too often, believing I am exactly the person that I think I am, which gives me very little wiggle room to be an animal... and animal I am.

Of course this is getting wayward, but what I really want to say is that my instinctual withdrawal from kindness scared me a little bit. Sure, I'll regroup and get off the antibiotics, but I have to wonder  because, after all, I'm not the only one who's afraid every so often when kindness comes bulldozing through with a squeegee. 

WRITE WITH ME?

WHEN WERE YOU LAST OUT OF CHARACTER?