Big Loneliness
The evening before I lost my cell phone, I saw a sad-looking man sitting on an upside down white bucket outside New Seasons grocery. Clearly he’d planted himself there to ask shoppers for money on their way in or out. But he didn’t ask me for anything. He just said hello. Wanted to talk about the weather. Or talk about anything really.
After a minute or so of casual back-and-forth, I asked if he might be wanting money and he acknowledged that he was, so I pulled a dollar out of my wallet and handed it to him. It felt stingy, but then I’ve been having some money concerns of my own lately. Tightening my belt, so to speak.
He asked if I was going inside the store.
I said, “Yeah, but later. First I’m walking over to Fred Meyer to buy something, then I’m walking back up Hawthorne for a dinner salad, and then circling back here.” I think I was sharing all this with him so that I could politely disengage. Maybe, knowing that I was about to do not just one, but a few different things, he might sense I needed to go.
My strategy worked. He got the message. We exchanged some brief parting words.
But he was still there when I returned about half an hour later.
“How was your salad?” he inquired tentatively.
I responded truthfully: “My salad was actually very good but my experience of eating it was only so-so, because I was preoccupied and eating in a hurry.”
“That’s not a good way to eat,” he offered.
“No,” I agreed. “It’s not. Next time I’ll be more mindful when I eat. And I’ll think of you, so thank you. By the way, I’m noticing you don’t have a sign.”
He said, “Yeah, I don’t want to impose on people. I don’t want to pressure people to give me money if they don’t feel like it. It’s not anybody else’s responsibility to take care of me, and I feel like holding a sign up could make them feel guilty and I don’t want to do that to anyone. That’s just how I feel.”
“Gotta do what’s in your heart,” I affirmed. Actually, again, I really just wanted to disengage smoothly, go do my shopping, and go home. I had an agenda for my evening. I wanted to sit back and read some books, and maybe a couple other little things.
So I slipped into the store, grabbed some avocados and apples and pecans and lentils and such, and then in the checkout line I saw that the guy from outside had also entered the store, and was talking with one of the grocery clerks who, looking bored and tired, shrugged and said, “Sure.”
Under the fluorescent lights, it was even more apparent that my new pal was indigent, from his stained clothing, to the stubble on his face, to his half-untucked shirt, to the pained, self-effacing meekness in the set of his mouth and in his eyes. And there was a palpable sweetness and softness about him too.
As I walked past him on my way out I asked him his name. He told me, I told him mine, and we shook hands. (And then I made a mental note to be sure to wash my hands well once I got home, especially before touching any food, because — you know — who knows?)
I walked out of the store. A minute later I realized I’d forgotten to buy mustard, so I turned around to go back in. The guy was already outside again, now with a large cardboard sign with big printed lettering. So he must have been asking the store clerk for a spare piece of cardboard, and perhaps the use of a marker.
I don’t remember the last few words we exchanged. I hoped the sign might help him but I didn’t say that aloud, not wanting to embarrass him. And again, it was difficult to tell him I had to go. He really wanted to talk. He was so lonely.
A Study in Contrasts, and an Inventory
I thought about him the next day after I lost my cell phone. Actually I’d been thinking about him before that too, because I’d gone to see a movie with a friend at an absurdly fancy movie theater that has couches and pillows and a whole menu of upscale food items like swordfish and elaborate house-made desserts which the theater’s “servers” will deliver to moviegoers right where they’re sitting. There was even a “host” who guided us to our (reserved) seats in the theater. (I inquired if someone might be coming round to massage our shoulders too, but no.)
So in my mind I was comparing this experience of luxury with the life experience of the man I’d met the previous evening. I was sure that no one was trying to foist on him a menu of tempting dishes. No one was guiding him to a seat, or to anywhere. I wondered where he slept, or if he had slept since I’d seen him.
A few hours later I was riding my bicycle, and I didn’t notice that one of my bike baskets had come undone and caved in until it was too late; my backpack had fallen out. I doubled back to look for it, but it was gone.
That backpack had held:
- Two paperback books I’d been reading
- A notebook I’d been writing in, which included some personal stuff
- 3 changes of shirt (I sweat a lot on hot days)
- My checkbook
- A bunch of pens
- Reading glasses from the drugstore
- A little notepad on which I record all the money I spend (including the single dollar I’d given to the guy the night before)
- My cell phone
Taking Stock
I had had that backpack for nearly 20 years. It was sturdy and nifty and I liked it a lot. But a close friend had wanted me to replace it for a long time. She thought it looked frayed and a little ratty. So she bought me a nice new backpack last Christmas and told me that if I didn’t want to give up my old backpack just yet, I should just hang on to the new one until I was ready for it. I guess I’m ready now.
The pens of course I can replace. Same with the drugstore glasses. Same with the books though they each contained a unique sentimental bookmark, one of which was a handmade card from an old friend. Oh well.
Online, I was able to stop payment on all the blank checks that were in the backpack. (Fortunately, I recalled the check number of the most recent check I’d written.)
The shirts were just plain colored t-shirts from Target; no big deal.
The notepad … actually not to get too deep into the weeds here but I had other ways of recollecting what I’d spent money on over the past week, and I only relied on that notepad for one week at a time. (Long story; I keep a meticulous record of all my expenditures.)
The notebook … now that’s a little sad. But whatever. Some callous stranger may be chuckling maliciously over my tender recollections of my grandmother even at this very moment, but that’s okay. Get a life, stranger.
But the cell phone! YIKES! All my contacts! All those text threads! All the precious sound files of people singing into my phone! Gone gone gone.
Then again, though I’m a sentimental hoarder of memories, I seldom glance at those old threads or listen to those lovely sound files.
As for images from my cell phone’s camera, somehow they’d all been saved onto my Google drive as I discovered later, though I didn’t really care much about those either.
In fact, in the immediate aftermath of realizing my trusty backpack was gone, as I retraced the path of my bike journey and searched in vain, I noticed that I wasn’t feeling too terribly upset. I thought about all the things I still had. I thought about the guy from outside New Seasons, and how incredibly wealthy he would feel to possess all I still securely (?) held. I thought about two close friends with serious medical conditions. And as I crossed over some railroad tracks, I thought about how perfectly unscathed my body was by any rushing trains.
Small (?) Silver Linings
I searched as thoroughly as I could before I gave up. Then I noticed my back tire was low on air, so I coasted into a gas station. The attendant pointed me to where the air pump was, and informed me that it would cost two bucks to make the machine pump air.
There was a vehicle parked alongside the machine; a young man was filling his tires. He had a friendly face. He told me, “I’ll be done in a second.”
“No hurry,” I said.
When he handed me the hose, the pump was still running. “I’m not sure how much time is left,” he remarked, almost apologetically.
“That’s okay, thanks,” I said, taking the hose from him, and briskly filling my tire.
“Perfect,” I declared.
“Great!” he said.
We grinned at each other and there was something heartwarming in that moment and I realized that this was one pleasant experience I would have missed out on had I not lost the backpack.
In the evening I called Xfinity Mobile to report that my phone was lost and probably stolen. I was on the phone with a guy for about 30 minutes. He kept thanking me for my patience and I kept thanking him for his efforts on my behalf. Again, I felt a real sense of warmth by the time I got off the phone.
Oh – and they are sending me a brand new phone – for free! Which should arrive in “two to three business days.” And once I activate it, it will have the same number that my lost phone had. I shall be restored (pretty much).
I sent a mass email to about 40 people with whom I have frequent contact, asking them to please re-send me their phone numbers. And I made the same request in a public Facebook post so that anyone I failed to email might see it.
The Luxury of No Cell Phone
I don’t know about you but, quite frankly, my cell phone led me around by the nose. It was the little dictator of my life.
I’ve not been someone who takes his phone with me everywhere, so maybe I’m ahead of the game in that respect, but when I’ve been away from my phone a few hours, it’s been the first thing I check when I get home, before even peeing or taking off my shoes. I check for text messages and emails and sometimes for Facebook notifications and, failing all that, I might check the NY Times front page. All just to get some kind of dopamine hit.
I do not take the cell phone into the room where I sleep, but I generally walk over to it first thing when I wake up each day (again, before I even pee). It has sat royally, ironically unassuming, on a little lamp table in my living room like a smooth-surfaced shiny black god, a miniature monolith. And throughout the day it ruled my life.
Don’t even ask how often I typically checked it in a single day. I don’t know! But I almost never walked by it without pressing its little button to see what it had to tell me. Has anyone texted or emailed me? Who out there is thinking of me?
Sometimes even when I’ve been in the next room – like, say, doing the dishes – the cell phone has soundlessly “called” to me and I have dropped everything to go look and see what’s new. (I have kept the sound on it muted, which has NOT enabled me to ignore it.)
As I write these words, it is late Monday afternoon. I’ve been without a cell phone now for over two full days with “one or two business days” to go, and I’m noticing a few things.
One, it’s remarkably easy to let go of having a cell phone. In fact, it’s a relief. There is a feeling of being less connected and (since I emailed most of my friends, and made that Facebook post) knowing that other people out there know I’m less connected and understand why. So no one will text me and be annoyed that I am not responding.
This in turn makes me realize that my compulsion to constantly check texts (and email) isn’t just about my own loneliness and craving for connection (though it certainly is that as well) but also my anxiety that others may think I’m ignoring them when they reach out to me. I carry a continual low-level background worry of being a delinquent responder, or unwittingly behaving disrespectfully by falling short of some vague, barely conscious standard of digital etiquette.
I can still check email right now on my computer. But I tend to leave the computer off when I’m not using it for a specific purpose. So I cannot check email instantly as I can with the phone.
In a nutshell, I’m being forced to let go of my primary controlling compulsion for at least a few days. There is luxury in this.
I Want President Biden to Let Go Too
It’s Monday, July 8. Joe Biden is still running for reelection. I’m in that camp of citizens who desperately hope he’ll give it up and pass the torch to Kamala Harris, whom I believe stands a far better chance of defeating Trump.
And I’m thinking about what Biden is being asked to let go of. The most powerful, high-status position in the world. The pinnacle of his lifelong dreams. The world stage. The arena in which history is made. What would it take for someone to willingly let go of all that? It’s an enormous ask.
I’m finding it hard (okay, I admit it) even just to let go of the non-replicable song recordings on my cell phone and the treasures in my lost notebook. I certainly would never have willingly let those things go. They were practically a part of me.
But to let go of being the president after 50 years in politics?
I guess we’ll see. No telling what the news will be by the time you read this. (I’m not optimistic.)
Agendas and Compulsions
I have all kinds of agendas and I find myself sabotaging them often. For example, I had wanted to finish writing this newsletter last night but procrastinated until well after midnight and, like Joe Biden, found I was a little sleepy and not at my best.
I’m thinking again about the New Seasons guy, and how pleasant and easy it might have been to offer to take him out for a little meal at, say, McMenamins down the street. Yes I’m “tightening my belt” lately, but I could have treated him to a meal (and more than two minutes of conversation) without much sweat.
I simply would have had to release my agenda to go home and spend most of the evening leisurely reading the two books I was destined to lose the following day. (In case you’re curious, they were: NO BAD PARTS by Richard Schwartz and A HUMAN BEING DIED THAT NIGHT by Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela.)
I could reorder those books from Alibris but they are not here now and would take some days to arrive. Anyway, I’m weary of compulsions, even the compulsion to complete reading two fine books.
There has been a certain lack of ease in my approach to things.
Maybe a few days with no cell phone will help me cultivate more ease.
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