Have you ever paid attention to the people in your life without the leading roles? The people who you see on a somewhat regular basis, but don’t really know. Maybe you see them at pickup, the grocery store, or the post office. They’re the ones you make up stories about in your head. Sometimes I think my surrounding cast is just as important as the lead characters in my life. They add a sense of stability, without adding drama. And it always feels good to recognize someone.
I have quite the gaggle of characters, myself: (names changed so you can’t steal my favorite hairdresser, or car guy for the privacy of my crew).
There’s this lady in my yoga class. Usually, people lie on their mats while they wait for class to start, maybe doing a few light stretches (or sneaking in a quick nap like yours truly). Not this lady. She does the f*cking splits. She’s probably in her 70’s and has beautiful white hair, perfect skin, and twinkly eyes. I want to be her, and I am jealous I am not her. I am in awe. And sometimes I mutter to myself, “If I really wanted to do the splits, I could. I just don’t want to.”
There’s the guy on my block who usually walks in the morning. He has a limp. And the narrative I built in my head is that he had polio when he was younger. The less dramatic reality is he probably had a hip replacement. Sometimes, I spot him walking in the evening. When that happens, I say, “You’re a little late!” and he says, “I’m running behind today!” He recently told me his name is Dan. And his daughter is named Laurie, so he thinks he’ll be able to remember my name. I’ll add his name to a note in my phone, in a desperate effort to remember his name. But I’ll probably forget and continue my “You’re a little late” conversations without a name.
There’s my hairdresser, who I see approximately once a year. She usually looks pissed at the world, like she hates everyone. I loved my old hairdresser because she could carry a conversation and I just had to nod along. But Marge? She’s the opposite. She doesn’t want to talk, and neither do I. She clips in silence, occasionally taking my head in both hands and moving it, just the way she wants me to angle it. She presses my shoulders down often, as if annoyed by even them.
Sometimes, if I get bored, I ask Marge if they’ve been busy. She’ll roll her eyes and say something about snowbirds. Then she’ll talk about the over-development of Florida. And if I really want to get her going, I’ll ask if she thinks there’ll be any hurricanes this year. The answer is obviously yes, she sighs, and it’s all because of the snowbirds. The whole conversation lasts five sentences, and then we go back to silence. Marge never asks me any questions about myself because Marge doesn’t care. I like that about her.
And here’s the thing: She gives amazing haircuts. She tries to suppress her smile when I tell her how much I love the job she’s done. I tip her well, and she says, “Bye, love!” as I leave. It’s jarring. Calling me “love” doesn’t fit her carefully crafted, “I hate the world” persona. Maybe she likes the tip. Or maybe, she likes me. I can’t tell. I’ll never know.
There’s deli man at Target. I used to talk with him every week on my grocery shopping trips, right after we moved to Florida. He told me his wife has MS, and he always liked to say hi to Avery and Alice. But then COVID hit, and he disappeared behind the counter. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse, but I don’t know if he remembers me, so I avoid eye contact, being the awkward person I am.
There’s the mechanic who I visit twice a year for oil changes and car maintenance. Last month, I called him to schedule a visit. “Hi Scott,” I said, “I’m the owner of the greenish RAV 4…” (How am I supposed to start these phone calls anyway?) “Laura?” he asks. I’m shocked. Maybe he has caller ID. Or maybe, as I like to believe, he remembers me. His auto shop is the opposite of a dealership (and thank God for that). There are cushy couches, and the walls are covered with pictures of cars and wolves. Scott doesn’t do the usual dealership bullshit where they claim they have to run their own workup of the car before being able to schedule (2 weeks out) what actually needs to be done. Scott doesn’t ask asshole questions when I say, “The brakes are making a high-pitched noise”. He just says, “Okay, I’ll drive it around and see what’s happening.”
There’s the lady who brings out my Target Drive-Up Orders. She knows I normally don’t order a Starbucks drink to go with my orders, so when I do, she acts surprised. And that small act of her, remembering who I am: the disheveled mom, often bra-less, in the green Toyota Rav 4, covered in bird poop, feels special.
And maybe that’s what our crew of extra characters is for: To remind us that even though the world is vast and often overwhelming, it can also be small. That our storyline isn’t the only one. That we don’t need to have a complex relationship with every person we meet, and that simple relationships make life so much richer. And that being seen is one of the best feelings in the world.
