I didn’t look at my phone

I recently took my car to a local service station for its annual state inspection. I decided not to look at my phone while I waited.

Instead, I decided to pay attention to the activity happening around me and listen to what people were talking about.

The shop isn’t large, and neither is the lobby. 100% all male staff. Tatted up, good, hard working men who understand cars and deal with a lot of bullshit all day, as so many of us do.

A man came in who announced he had another nail in his tire. Apparently this happens to him often.

I asked, “Where are you driving with all these nails?”

He shrugged and said, “I don't know. But it keeps happening.”

Then he turned to his phone and we didn’t talk again.

I didn't look at my phone

After he left, the guy behind the counter, whose name I learned is Butch, told me about the man with the nail in the tire, how he works for a billion dollar property management company.

“They’ve been a client of ours for 20 years,” Butch said. “And if you’re even one cent off on the invoice, they will catch it, call you up, and make you send it out again with the correct amount.”

“I suppose that’s why they’re a billion dollar company,” I said.

Butch said, “I suppose so. Probably closer to two billion by now.”

Butch has a tattoo on the inner side of his left forearm that says: For my Butch, I love you more, Love…

From my place at the counter, the signature in the tattoo was illegible. Obviously from his true love.

I thought, How cool is that? To have someone in your life that warrants getting that message tattooed on your arm?

I learned he's one of five children. On Mother's Day, all five kids went to the cemetery to pay respects to their mother, competing with signs of their affection for her with ever increasing sizes of bouquets of flowers. He said it got to the point where there was no room left to put his bouquet.

“Everyone else’s was bigger and took up all the room,” he said.

“I bet there were plenty of graves with no flowers,” I said.

He nodded and said, “Most of them had no flowers.”

We got to talking about our elders. What happens when people get dementia. The other guy from the shop who has a kind face but looks worn down by life, was considering our conversation. Both of his arms are tattooed, with a giant New York Yankees logo covering his right arm -- the N and the Y -- and on his left arm by the crux of his elbow two rifles cross with words underneath I couldn't make out. His beard and mustache are gray. It looked to me like he doesn’t laugh enough. I wanted to give him a hug and tell him, You matter. And you're good.

I learned his mother is starting to show signs of dementia. How she's confusing details in conversations. 

“The other day we were talking about hundreds of dollars and she was talking about 1000s of dollars,” he said.

I asked how old she is.

He said, “72.”

She lives with him.

He told me there's new research about Alzheimer's and dementia, how in Europe they call it Type 3 Diabetes.

"Really?" I said.

"Google it," he said. "There's all kinds of information about it online. Says it's caused by all the sugar and processed foods we eat over here."

The conversation felt pretty heavy at this point. To bring us back to the moment, I mustered up a big smile and said, “On that note, how about this beautiful day! The sun is out and it’s supposed to warm up later.”

Everybody laughed.

Then Butch pulled up my record on the computer and asked about my dad.

“Says here this car is affiliated with James.”

I said, “Yeah, that's my dad. He's dead.”

Those words came out of my mouth so matter-of-factly, I think it surprised him. 

“Oh,” he said, pausing the way you might in church when the priest asks for a moment of silence. “I'm sorry.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Then, for whatever reason, I felt the need to explain that’s why I’m back in New York -- taking care of my mom who has Parkinson's. Can't live alone, but she wants to age in place. How it’s the right thing to do. How this country doesn’t do a good job of honoring our elders or supporting the people who take care of them.

“Most people just want to shove them away someplace and pretend they don’t exist,” I said.

The man with the Yankees tattoo whose name I didn't catch nodded. “I will never put my mom somewhere.”

We talked about what happens to people whose minds completely go; they have to be in lockdown. Which is Butch’s Aunt Ellie’s situation. She has to be monitored 24/7.

He went to visit her recently and she said upon seeing him, “Nice to meet you.”

“That was hard,” he said. “Her not recognizing me. If she doesn’t know who I am, I’m not going to see her for her anymore, right? I’m going for me.”

I said, “There's nothing wrong with that.”

He considered this idea then said, “You're right.”

But I sensed that admitting that out loud was a little uncomfortable for him.

The young man who did my car inspection, probably 19 or 20, just beginning his tattoos, with long hair and a gentle face, stood behind the counter near the door to the shop, listening to us older folks talking about people we love getting old. I wondered if he worries about the older people in his life. I wondered if he wonders how he fits into this world. If he asks himself, "What is my place?" If working on cars is part of his dream or if he thinks less of himself because he's “just a car mechanic.” If he spends a lot of time online and if that makes him happy.

I wanted to hug him, too. I wanted to hug all of them. I see people like him and Butch and the guy with the kind heart and machine gun tattoos whose mom lives with him as noble, doing work that really matters because they keep our vehicles safe and running. The vehicles that carry us from place to place to see our families and our children, to get us groceries, to take us on vacation, and sometimes, just to drive because we need to drive.

I would have missed all of this had I made a different decision about what to do with my time while I was waiting. If I’d buried myself in email or scrolling Instagram, I wouldn’t have heard the stories others are living. I wouldn't have learned about what some researchers are now calling Type 3 Diabetes. I wouldn’t have contributed to the bigger conversation with people who are on a journey of their own, not much unlike mine.

In that short span of a morning, we found a common connection with each other and celebrated being alive, doing the right thing, and loving each other even when it’s hard.

“And it’s hard sometimes,” I said, as I returned my credit card to its slot in my wallet. “To love people. But we do it anyway because what else is there?”

Butch said, “If you ever need anything, we’re here for you.”

And I knew he meant it. I knew those weren't just words he says. There was weight to them. A genuine sincerity.

I wished them all a great day and walked outside into the morning sunshine. The rest of my day lay ahead of me.

I vowed to make the most of it.