One Man's Repot Lot

I’ve just turned the kettle on for tea when a knock sounds on the van’s side barn doors. I tense for an unpleasant exchange. The pandemic has changed people’s reception of me. No more, “Wow, cool! You live in that thing?” Now, when I squirrel into town every couple of weeks to resupply, people eye me warily.

Earlier, I shared with the guy at the bike shop where, weeks back, I’d upgraded my tires and now my cable housing the sting of this refashioning of my interactions. I didn’t know my longing for solidarity until his clipped reply. Out-of-town plates at trailheads made him think of overcrowding of “our” outdoor spaces, where “we” can go to breathe.

I can’t figure out who to credit for this image I saved in my photos in early 2020.

I didn’t defend my right to take into my lungs the fresh air of the Sonoran Desert, to be a dot among its 100,000 square miles, didn’t ask how he decided who fit into “we.” And I don’t want to defend my right to be at the laundromat now. I consider holding still until whoever’s out there goes away. But my nerves aren’t up for a more insistent rap on my window.

I pull up my bandana mask and push the door open a few inches. “Can I help you?” I say, making my tone gruff.

A man in a lumber jacket with a three-day-old beard and valleys stretching from the corners of his eyes is handing me a paper. In a soft voice, he’s saying he repossesses vehicles. What?

It takes me a moment to catch up. When I do, an image floods my mind—cars on blocks, indiscernible heaps of junk poking out from prickly pear patches and yucca shrubs. It turns out, many of the vehicles or their contents (“You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff we get”) end up in his yard. “My wife and I would be happy to have you come and look,” he’s saying. “See if there’s anything you need. It’d be free of course.” I take the paper with his information. He mentions his wife agains. She’s always there. I don’t need to call first.

“Times are tough.” His parting words are tender. “I’ve been there, too.”

I sit stunned, nursing an urge to call out that I have work, have everything I need, that I give to the “less fortunate.” When the kettle sings, I turn to dinner prep. It will be months before I see past my foolish pride, wish I’d not missed the offering of exactly what I needed—to be seen and cared for. Oh, the mountains of lost treasures to comb through, the stories I might have conjured alongside the kind of people who, amid waves of fear of the unknown, surface to offer kindness to a weary stranger.

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What are you in need of? A reminder you’re not the only one who finds the holidays taxing? Pictures of dogs being goofy? Hellos from far-flung places. ASK. 🤲 What do you have to share? A favorite poem? A funny, slightly irreverent meme? A photo of your fabulous BBQ creation? GIVE. 🎁 The ASK and GIVE chat is open 24/7. Every first Saturday of the month, I’ll tell a story of someone asking for or giving aid and add to the chat. Today, I have a request.

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SAVE THE DATE: You’re invited to CO-CREATE ON ZOOM, Sunday, January 21, 10am PST. 🍅🍎

Link: https://us06web.zoom.us/j/82573204423?pwd=X36gZlannezEzUCveDKOUJZtGgsRIA.1

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