It’s Not Green Yet
White noise. The woman across from me sits, looking at her phone. Suddenly, she lurches forward as the combustion engine pulls her. It’s not green yet.
Sirens. The red and yellow flashing lights of an ambulance pass by. The woman doesn’t look up—she’s too focused on the screen in front of her. Besides, the light isn’t green yet.
Space. The car in front of her is moving, and the gap between the two drivers grows. She quickly hits send and tries to get to the home screen as fast as possible. You can’t leave Instagram open.
Honk! Another woman waits behind her in a 90s-style Porsche. She wants to burn rubber and make a left turn. “Don’t worry,” I say, “the light’s still green.”
I walk into a room where a woman is playing piano. It turns out she’s just leaving as she packs up her music. I was only looking for a place to sit, but now there’s an open piano. It’s been at least a year, if not more, since I’ve played. Still, I decide to take the seat on the couch instead of the piano bench.
Not a moment later, another woman peeks into the room, holding a stack of music close to her chest. She’s checking for the open piano—and it’s open.
I see all this in my peripheral. I don’t need to look at her directly to know what she’s searching for. It’s something I’ve searched for many times. She makes her way quickly to the piano, bumping the lamp as she sets up her music. A quick tap of a few notes helps warm up her fingers, but they aren’t warm.
She jumps into a fantastical piece called "The Gladiator," but she stumbles a few measures in. She starts again and again, trying to learn from her mistakes, but each attempt ends with a frustrated sigh. Learning is frustrating; it’s uncomfortable. Several more attempts, no pauses—more sighs, more wrong notes.
A man pops his head into the room. “You sound great!” he says in a cheery voice. “Is that Gladiator?” he asks, already knowing the answer, excited that he recognizes the song—as if recognizing it makes him as good as the pianist, or better. Her affirmation massages his ego. Ego massaged, the man moves on.
Hawai'i
I have a memory, somewhat vague, of sitting on a beach in Hawai'i. A man was talking with my family, and he mentioned being a massage therapist. I think maybe his daughter was playing with my little sister or something. Whatever the situation was, my grandma, knowing I had been dealing with back pain for a few months, told me to ask the man for a massage. I’m guessing he had offered to do it, otherwise it would have been weird to ask a stranger on the beach for a massage.
My mom had some lotion in her bag, so the man took that and started to massage my back. I can’t remember if the man verbally spoke a prayer in his native language, or if I’m just imagining he did, but something spiritual occurred on that beach as I watched the sun set over the ocean.
In a world where I’m constantly trying to get things done—where I spend so much time worrying about my career, finances, and education, and the only podcasts I can find are yelling about politics and problems—I look back with great appreciation at that moment of peaceful interaction, inspired by the kindness of a stranger.
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