The Kindness of Neighbors

Blanche DuBois famously says, “I have always relied upon the kindness of strangers,” and later comes to a grisly end.  I have strived for decades to be entirely independent, relying on no one – while yearning for someone to care enough about me to fight that independent streak.  Isn’t that poignant?  Or is it just neurotic?  They are sometimes so very similar.

At moments of emotional crisis, however, I have been very willing indeed to depend on friends.  The career-related rants I’ve shared with colleagues are legion; I once descended on a dear friend in college with a box of tissues, a live concert video of the Rolling Stones, and a demand to spend the entire day on her couch, snuffling, rewinding and being fed.  After the second-to-last ex dropped the sad news (via phone, from 3,000 miles away, a week before my birthday and two weeks before we went on a romantic Mediterranean vacation together) that he now Loved Another, I phoned people I hadn’t spoken to for years and wept piteously down fiber lines across oceans and continents.  Incidentally, the vacation was great – at least from a distance of 12 years.

This most recent spate of troubles drove a few phone calls, too, and at one point this amusing text exchange:

Me:  At Ritz Carlton, Tyson’s, in need of emotional support.  You around?

Friend with faulty phone:  Yes.  Who is this?

So thanks to all of you, and especially the friend who actually showed up that night, listened to me crackle and fizz, and then shared some horror stories of his own earlier career.  (Another phoned in to say, “As long as your final real-estate transaction didn’t include an ambulance and defibrillator paddles, I’ve got you beat.”  Oddly cheering.)

This trip began with a modicum of planning, including sending e-mail to long-ago colleagues and chance acquaintance, saying, “I may be in your area sometime in, oh, I dunno – mid- to late October?  Could I crash on your couch?”  Almost everyone accepted me generously.

Next step:  Sunday-night packing.  For a five- or six-week trip.  With driving, hiking, flying, swimming, dining out, strolling cities and riding a horse if I ever got a chance.  In chilly Fairbanks, damp Seattle, hot and cool Sedona, dry Lubbock and everywhere in between.  I threw seven coats into the car, and sorted all my jeans and socks and brightly-colored t-shirts into lights and darks, ready for laundering.

Sadly, the washing machine wouldn’t start.  And it was 5:00pm.  And I needed to sort through and pack shoes, electronics, hiking gear, hostess gifts and notebooks, water the plants, clean the fridge, wind the clock.  And the nearest laundromat is about ten miles away, and I wanted to save my quarters for parking meters.  So I phoned the neighbors.

No answer on either neighbor’s phone.  I strolled next door; Robert was just getting home.  He threw open his door to me, leaving it unlocked so I could go back and forth, offered me the dryer, too, and fabric softener if I wished.  My mental screaming modulated to a contented purr.  When I came back to get my bundle and walk it back to the still-working dryer (most entertaining to carry a basket of wet wash, even briefly, along a well-traveled, curving street on a Sunday evening), Cheryl came down to the laundry room with a fresh-baked muffin and many kind wishes for a great trip.  They all came true, Cheryl – but if you and Robert hadn’t provided the needed facilities that evening, the start would have been dramatically stickier.

I met some interesting people along the way, who were generous with stories and information.  But when the car battery died (turned on lights in drizzle, drove a long way, pulled into parking lot, turned off engine and 1) started reading; 2) fell asleep; car beeps when battery is dead, not just before it’s due to die), I sat in Tillamook, Oregon, and Santee, North Carolina, with the hood up in the international distress signal for at least 30 minutes each time without a single person offering to help.  Both of the AAA affiliated rescue mechanics were lovely, though.

But the people I know?  D.J. took me in, and K.R. tour-guided me, and M.J.’s friend came out of her way to hand over the keys, and M.J. left me her entire apartment to mess around in, and her doorman watched my bags, and L.T. gave me her house, and J. made me soup, beef on the side, while his daughters charmed me.  And D.B. waited supper, and K.B. let me hold the baby, and high-school friend left the key under the dog toys.  R.L. kept me posted on weather conditions; A.T. and R.T. put up with my time-zone confusion, R.M. changed the sheets for me, even though I know and like her previous guest.  T.M. figured out the parking, K.J. took me into the home she’d barely settled into herself, and I had a most marvelous trip thanks to the kindness of old friends and new.

That said, when I decided to crash myself into Oregon’s rough waves, I had the conscious thought that if they got too rough on me, my only hope would be the kindness of strangers.