*Taking a break from the short story......
I was in the middle of nowhere, on my way to the edge of the world when I noticed the sign for a rest area a few miles ahead. Normally I don't like to stop too often on long distant trips, and my gas tank had a hundred or so miles left in it and my bladder had at least sixty. But something compelled me to stop, perhaps I was just bored of the dismal gray interstate I had been travelling for more than six hours. The trees were barren, everything was damp and all the other sojourners were plodding along about the same speed as I - I suppose I just needed a distraction. I eased off the ramp, and as I dutifully followed the car not the truck signs, I was sort of surprised to see the brand new building, shaped almost like a star, a big shiny glass and brick star.
I drove past some promising spaces, and was a bit irritated when I discovered I had drifted down to a dozen or so handicapped spaces, making me park quite a distance from the door of the rest area, given the steady drizzle that was descending from a depressed and frumpy cloud. I hurried as fast as the leather soles on my dress shoes would allow, and reached the entrance relatively undrenched, moist, but not saturated. I stomped my feet on the first rug I found and surveyed the spacious and clean foyer for vending machines and a masculine yellow sign indicating my path to relief.
I noticed two people working on a few open machines, and a dog resting across the space against the wall near a dolly full of soda pop. The man was fiftiesh, well groomed and wearing a nice insulated vest. He had a very sophisticated vending apparatus open and was steadily feeding large plastic bottles of pop into the tractor-like belts that would feed them to the dispensing area robotically. I was fascinated by the mechanism, and he either didn't notice me gawking, was used to it, or just didn't care. I turned my attention to his counterpart on the opposite side of the restrooms. She was his age, long reddish hair, also dressed in nice outdoor apparel. She was filling the older, standard machines and I wasn't as curious about her labor. I did notice she was standing very close to the flimsy plastic cover covering the front of the bulky Pepsi obelisk, but I didn't think much of it. She was staring right at one of the Mountain Dew tabs and deftly twisting the keyed lock that opened the hinged door. Not intrigued, I pressed on into the Men's room.
I didn't dawdle, as was my custom, and after rinsing the last of the bean burrito I had wolfed down a county back with a quick toss of water from my hand up into the roof of my mouth, I made my way back out of the impossibly white tiled and marbled lavatory. When I emerged, I was looking at the other side of the open central area where I noticed several large maps with all sorts of cute emblems and objects placed about indicating what I supposed were meant to be points of interest. I wondered if anyone who stopped at one of these places to take care of business really were going to redirect their journey based on a few colorful tokens pined to a large map underneath a clean but plexiglass shield. Accordingly, I averted my eyes.
As I looked down, stubbornly refusing the best efforts of the Michigan Chamber of Commerce, I saw the dog again, and in an instant, saw the whole scene differently. I was amazed how the situation had flipped, and I was reminded of a fictive variation, something I had learned twenty years before in a philosophy class. I had been taught you can never really know or apprehend something unless you could see it from every angle, all 360 degrees simultaneously; when you don't, your mind fills in details. This dog changed everything.
It had a scarf around its neck and a harness for a blind owner. It was a Labrador mix of some kind and it was just sitting by the pile of pop patiently. The dog looked at me briefly, then returned to its solitary vigil. I paused before I turned back to review the scene behind me. Knowing that she was blind would change the way I looked at her, would change the tenor of my perspective. She was still at the machine, slowly and carefully packing cans into the long vertical slots. The man, her husband I supposed, was finishing at his station. He drifted over to her, and I watched as they communicated silently as she finished her task. He would touch her gently, then direct her hand to a different stack of soft drinks. He stood there for awhile just watching her and occasionally softly redirecting her. After a few minutes, she closed the door deftly, then they both turned and walked over to the dog. As they approached, the dog perked up and leaned towards her hand as she slowly lifted it, palm upwards. The man had her arm as they reached the dog, then the three moved gracefully towards an open door, a storage room I presumed, and disappeared. I am not sure how long I watched them, maybe for a few minutes, but the whole play transpired as if I wasn't there. I appreciated my anonymity and the ability to stand and watch the simple but beautiful exchanges between the three.
I wondered if they were retired, or if that was their life, travelling around maintaining vending sites. I decided it didn't matter, I decided they were very happy and that I envied the three of them. I went to the fancy dispenser and watched amusingly as my Vernors Diet Ginger Ale made its way up, over, then down to the slot. I reached down to pick it up, then turned to leave feeling very good, better than the weather and the drive ahead of me.
I was in the middle of nowhere, on my way to the edge of the world when I noticed the sign for a rest area a few miles ahead. Normally I don't like to stop too often on long distant trips, and my gas tank had a hundred or so miles left in it and my bladder had at least sixty. But something compelled me to stop, perhaps I was just bored of the dismal gray interstate I had been travelling for more than six hours. The trees were barren, everything was damp and all the other sojourners were plodding along about the same speed as I - I suppose I just needed a distraction. I eased off the ramp, and as I dutifully followed the car not the truck signs, I was sort of surprised to see the brand new building, shaped almost like a star, a big shiny glass and brick star.
I drove past some promising spaces, and was a bit irritated when I discovered I had drifted down to a dozen or so handicapped spaces, making me park quite a distance from the door of the rest area, given the steady drizzle that was descending from a depressed and frumpy cloud. I hurried as fast as the leather soles on my dress shoes would allow, and reached the entrance relatively undrenched, moist, but not saturated. I stomped my feet on the first rug I found and surveyed the spacious and clean foyer for vending machines and a masculine yellow sign indicating my path to relief.
I noticed two people working on a few open machines, and a dog resting across the space against the wall near a dolly full of soda pop. The man was fiftiesh, well groomed and wearing a nice insulated vest. He had a very sophisticated vending apparatus open and was steadily feeding large plastic bottles of pop into the tractor-like belts that would feed them to the dispensing area robotically. I was fascinated by the mechanism, and he either didn't notice me gawking, was used to it, or just didn't care. I turned my attention to his counterpart on the opposite side of the restrooms. She was his age, long reddish hair, also dressed in nice outdoor apparel. She was filling the older, standard machines and I wasn't as curious about her labor. I did notice she was standing very close to the flimsy plastic cover covering the front of the bulky Pepsi obelisk, but I didn't think much of it. She was staring right at one of the Mountain Dew tabs and deftly twisting the keyed lock that opened the hinged door. Not intrigued, I pressed on into the Men's room.
I didn't dawdle, as was my custom, and after rinsing the last of the bean burrito I had wolfed down a county back with a quick toss of water from my hand up into the roof of my mouth, I made my way back out of the impossibly white tiled and marbled lavatory. When I emerged, I was looking at the other side of the open central area where I noticed several large maps with all sorts of cute emblems and objects placed about indicating what I supposed were meant to be points of interest. I wondered if anyone who stopped at one of these places to take care of business really were going to redirect their journey based on a few colorful tokens pined to a large map underneath a clean but plexiglass shield. Accordingly, I averted my eyes.
As I looked down, stubbornly refusing the best efforts of the Michigan Chamber of Commerce, I saw the dog again, and in an instant, saw the whole scene differently. I was amazed how the situation had flipped, and I was reminded of a fictive variation, something I had learned twenty years before in a philosophy class. I had been taught you can never really know or apprehend something unless you could see it from every angle, all 360 degrees simultaneously; when you don't, your mind fills in details. This dog changed everything.
It had a scarf around its neck and a harness for a blind owner. It was a Labrador mix of some kind and it was just sitting by the pile of pop patiently. The dog looked at me briefly, then returned to its solitary vigil. I paused before I turned back to review the scene behind me. Knowing that she was blind would change the way I looked at her, would change the tenor of my perspective. She was still at the machine, slowly and carefully packing cans into the long vertical slots. The man, her husband I supposed, was finishing at his station. He drifted over to her, and I watched as they communicated silently as she finished her task. He would touch her gently, then direct her hand to a different stack of soft drinks. He stood there for awhile just watching her and occasionally softly redirecting her. After a few minutes, she closed the door deftly, then they both turned and walked over to the dog. As they approached, the dog perked up and leaned towards her hand as she slowly lifted it, palm upwards. The man had her arm as they reached the dog, then the three moved gracefully towards an open door, a storage room I presumed, and disappeared. I am not sure how long I watched them, maybe for a few minutes, but the whole play transpired as if I wasn't there. I appreciated my anonymity and the ability to stand and watch the simple but beautiful exchanges between the three.
I wondered if they were retired, or if that was their life, travelling around maintaining vending sites. I decided it didn't matter, I decided they were very happy and that I envied the three of them. I went to the fancy dispenser and watched amusingly as my Vernors Diet Ginger Ale made its way up, over, then down to the slot. I reached down to pick it up, then turned to leave feeling very good, better than the weather and the drive ahead of me.
This is the most telling story yet..
ReplyDeleteIt takes a certain amount of deep introspection to appreciate such a scene.
Thank you for sharing.
Thank you. I have seen so many terrible things, things that I thought killed parts of my soul. God has opened my eyes to His beauty, and it is everywhere, even in a rest stop :)
ReplyDelete:)
ReplyDelete