Two birds with one stone
I’ve been attending weekly dates with a couple of friends for over a year now. It might be close to two. Each Tuesday morning, we meet at a locally-owned shop for coffee and bagels. It is a highlight in my week. Deb works at the bistro, and every Tuesday she is there running the register. She smiles politely but it always feels as if it’s the first time she’s ever seen me. It became a kind of joke between my friends and I—who could win Deb’s affection. We tried different tactics. One friend declares “I’ll have my usual” every week before repeating her order again. Another friend slightly exaggerated a hand injury to connect with Deb about her compression glove. I brought in Christmas cookies. I held up the cellophane bag containing three cookies, a secular snowcapped evergreen tree and two brown mice:
Me: Good morning! I made these for you! Happy Holidays!
Deb: Oh, thank you. What can I get you?
I ordered my bagel, egg, and cheese on everything with coffee and took my seat. The woman is unflappable. She is there to sell bagels.
Occasionally, we have a lucky morning where none of us has anywhere to be and we linger in the bagel shop for a few hours. Deb comes out from around the counter and starts refilling coffee carafes and wiping tables and we eagerly ask her about her life, her daughters, and how she ended up working at this bagel shop. She answers cheerfully but never asks anything of us. Now, I know how this sounds—like I desperately want her to like me—and that is true. I want everyone to like me. I also understand that Deb is living her own life. For those who are not lucky enough to know a shop with fresh baked bagels, its an early day. They start making the bagels around 4am. By the time my friends and I are wrapping up our usually boisterous conversation three hours after our arrival, Deb is nearly through her workday. She’s tired and bagel-ed out, I’m sure. Work is work for everybody. But there is something about her lack of curiosity in us that makes me feel crazy. I just want her to take an interest in us, really. Isn’t she interested? After careful analysis of our experiments, the results show she is not interested. The why behind that is still being studied.
This whole situation with Deb pops up in my mind from time to time. Maybe it’s unusual to take an interest in the strangers you meet through your daily routine. It’s very possible my friends and I are the oddballs there. It’s also possible that the customer/service provider distinction, could be part of it. Maybe Deb believes it’s best to keep our relationship professional. Maybe friendly interest is bad for business. Or maybe she doesn’t want to pry, and I should volunteer more about myself. I could say I write on Sundays and once I wrote about you.
I hear a lot about our country being caught in a crisis of empathy, but I’m not sure that’s the right word. There is not a doubt in my mind that if I came into the bistro visibly upset, Deb would offer up some caring words. I think the crisis is one of interest. It seems we don’t care to learn more about the people we don’t know. We don’t have conversations with strangers and so there they stay, in the stranger category. I am invested in building a strong community because it’s crucial for well-being. How do you meet new people if no one wants to be met?
I’ve been catching up on a show called Call the Midwife recently. A group of nuns run Nonnatus House aiding mothers and babies primarily, but they help everyone in town if needed. If you haven’t seen it, it’s a lovely show about life and death and the women who ease the transitions. It takes place in Poplar, London in the midcentury. The show is a wholesome escape from modernity. My favorite part is how everyone talks to each other. They are just so earnest. One midwife calls everyone Precious. The oldest nun is always sneaking sweets and then absolving herself by quoting great literature that speaks of pleasure. There are hard truths told, but the way they are said is so poetic and loving that the recipient doesn’t mind. “The doctors just done a slight episiotomy, Petal. A couple of stitches and come morning, you’ll be right as rain!” followed by a gentle pat on the back of the hand. I find myself fantasizing about living in a world like 1960s Poplar where people use language as it was intended; after thoughtful contemplation.1
Something else I’ve noticed on the show is that no one is treated as a stranger. When someone walks into Violet Buckle’s haberdashery, they are greeted as a friend first and foremost. The new friend feels comfortable to share a bit of information about themselves. “I’ve just moved in down the street. I used to live on the west end, but we came here because my husband needed the work. I was wondering do you have a piece of pink ribbon? I’ve just finished knitting some baby booties for a friend who’s due any day now. Thought a ribbon would be a nice touch.” That’s nice right? Why don’t we stop and chat like that anymore? Now, if I want to buy pink ribbon, I go to a local big box craft store pick a spool from an enormous display of every pink ribbon they have in stock. I don’t speak to a soul.
That’s the relationship quality I feel is missing with Deb. She doesn’t reciprocate my interest in her. She is not interested in me at all as her customer. I’m not sure what exactly Deb could do or say that would make me feel like she cared about me. I’d like her to learn my preferred name instead of reading it off my credit card information. I’d like if she asked us why we started our breakfasts.2 I want her to say it’s good to see me, or nice haircut, or you look like you got some sun this week, did you go somewhere fun? I don’t know, something that doesn’t make me feel like a ghost standing in front of her, ordering a bagel. I think if we suddenly stopped showing up on Tuesdays, she’d carry-on selling bagels without a moment’s thought. Although once she noticed we missed a couple weeks in a row. And she calls us girls. That’s something.
It’s not like that in Poplar. Every exchange is meaningful and connected. They listen to what is being said and they don’t rush past the subtext. So often in situations of childbirth, the mothers make odd requests or get short with the midwife helping them. But the nuns see these outbursts for what they are, fear manifested. They answer patiently, kindly. Life is simple and so the celebrations feel celebratory. Their traditions are reliable and reassuring. In Poplar, the community rallies around each other, usually at the urging or insistence of the sisters. When someone moves into a new flat, the others bring their unneeded furniture. A pair of perfectly good, if not a touch out-of-fashion, window curtains might be offered. They bring a tin with cake. The help is useful, practical. But most importantly they are interested in the life of the person they are helping.
Life with ink 
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