A Kindness of Strangers
Have I mentioned that I like teenagers? Not just my own, but all of them, or at the least the ones I’ve met so far. (For the record, I presently have only one teen in my household, but I have had as many as three at one time, and then some, because: friends.)
Yesterday, I encountered one in the wilds of a Barnes & Noble poetry aisle.
I was at the Montclair Plaza, now known as Montclair Place, where at twenty-one I got a job working for JC Penney’s in the women’s lingerie department. (Not nearly as sexy as it sounds. Think folding and refolding tables of granny panties.)
I’ve had reason to be in the vicinity of Montclair recently, and since that was where I worked when I first met my husband—1994—and since we’re creeping up on 25 years married (on the 18th!) and that day, we happened to be in the vicinity together, because he was only somewhat grudgingly helping me move a pink wingback armchair to my office in Upland, afterward, we decided to take a stroll through the mall.
The last time I was in the Montclair Barnes & Noble, it was freestanding, across the street from the mall. So imagine my surprise at seeing one inside the mall. Who knows when this happened, but we were happy to see it.
My husband heads for the business section and I make a beeline for the literary periodicals and then the poetry section. I am looking for Ada Limón (because Ada Limón!) and begin browsing the shelves.
A young man is sharing the aisle with me. We acknowledge each other silently. I notice he’s thoughtfully picking up books, reading a few poems, putting them back; repeat. Black backpack, black hoodie, dark hair, dark skin. Young. Maybe seventeen? I try to imagine what drew him to the poetry aisle, but mostly I’m standing there with my head cocked trying to read the spines of the books. We move around each other like ghosts. Finally he puts the book back and starts to leave.
“Buying a gift or for yourself?” I blurt out.
“For me.”
“What were you looking at?”
He picks up a book by Yung Pueblo. I’ve never heard of him but I nod knowingly. He puts it back, pulls out Rumi, thumbs it open. Again I nod. He puts it back.
“I’m a poet,” I say. “Do you listen to podcasts?” I ask.
“Sometimes?”
“Try The Slowdown. It’s a poetry podcast.”
“Okay.”
“If you want to buy a book of poetry, you should.”
“Okay.”
He pulls Rumi back off the shelf. Looking straight at me—not through me, but finding my gaze and meeting it—he extends his arm and fist for a fist bump. I meet it as he is walking away.
My husband walks up as we are parting ways. That’s when I see Ada Limón’s The Carrying on a endcap. One copy. I pick it up.
“Don’t you already have enough to read?” my husband says. “You’ve got a huge stack by the bed that you haven’t read yet.” And I admit he’s right. I put the book back. I’m still holding a couple of magazines, so I head to the checkout.
The teen is ahead of me by a couple of people, but close enough that I can hear his exchange with the cashier.
“All I’ve got is ones.”
“Tips?” she asks.
“Yes. From the car wash.”
The cashier counts them out carefully.
Was I wrong to suggest he buy the book? Was this all the money he had?
I’m struck by the urge to run back, pick up Ada’s book, buy it for him, but before I can he’s done and headed out the door. The cashier is still counting out coins before she gestures to me.
“Next customer please.”
Here is a poem from The Slowdown, about what happens when we deconstruct beauty.
There should be a collective noun for strangers. I like a kindness of strangers. Looking up collective nouns for groups of people, I ran across this poem:
Collective Nouns for Humans in the Wild by Kathy Fish
A group of grandmothers is a tapestry. A group of toddlers, a jubilance (see also: abewailing). A group of librarians is an enlightenment. A group of visual artists is a bioluminescence. A group of short story writers is a Flannery. A group of musicians is — a band.
A resplendence of poets.
A beacon of scientists.
A raft of social workers.
A group of first responders is a valiance. A group of peaceful protestors is a dream. A group of special education teachers is a transcendence. A group of neonatal ICU nurses is a divinity. A group of hospice workers, a grace.
Humans in the wild, gathered and feeling good, previously an exhilaration, now: a target.
A target of concert-goers.
A target of movie-goers.
A target of dancers.
A group of schoolchildren is a target.