“Maybe I need to think about how good random acts of kindness feel and that there’s still the opportunity for them. Maybe I need to realize that just because we’re in a pandemic, there are still ways to connect with people in the most mundane yet human way. And that perhaps, just perhaps, I need …
This week…it finally happened:
I got out into the actual world of “adulting” as my twenty-year olds call it, versus the virtual one. In one year I haven’t been on one flight. I haven’t gone into one government building, one box store, one large supermarket. I have a “town day” and that’s Thursdays and it consists of going to a small market for groceries, a Pilates studio for a one-hour private session since that’s all they’re offering right now, the drive-thru lane at the post office and at the bank, and once a month to the drive-thru at the credit union to pay my mortgage. Then back home to my world of, shall we then call it, “hermiting.” But this week I had to emerge because I had to go to the DMV to get license plates. I’d put it off for long enough and my temporary plates were about to expire. I really didn’t want to go to the DMV. I really didn’t want to be around humanity for obvious pandemic reasons, but also because I’ve grown to like my isolated life. I feel safe in it: my land and my house and my pantry and my commute from bed to office (yes I finally got out of my bed). I’ve liked the peace of a pandemically paused world. But damnit, I had to go to the polar opposite place from my little sanctuary: the DMV. And I dragged myself, cursing, all the way there.
It wasn’t the sort of get-in-and-out-quick situation that I’ve been living for the last year. I had to wait. Of course I did. That’s the nature of the DMV. You pick a number. And you wait, smack dab in the throng of humanity. I haven’t waited anywhere in a year unless I’ve been in my truck. In this case, we were waiting in the parking lot staring at a sign with numbers on it until our number got close and then we were allowed inside. My number was H15. They were on G39. I groaned. And a maskless guy wearing a skull cap and a leather jacket that said Blood and Sacrifice with a bleeding skull said, “It’s moving pretty slow.” I hoped that he wasn’t the sort to go into the DMV without a mask, never mind Congress. I re-adjusted mine, snug.
Then another maskless man wearing a T-shirt that said Rock Paper Guns I WIN walked toward me and didn’t stop at six feet. Smiling, he said, “Looks like we made it through winter. That was a long one. My driveway is an ice-skating rink this time of year.” Talking winter to a Montanan is like talking rain to a Londoner. “Mine too,” I said, backing up a few steps. Everyone else chimed in about their driveways, the masked and the maskless. It felt like the first blush of ice beginning to melt.
Then a woman in a neat sweater and pleated pants, wearing a paisley mask that matched her blouse, came up to me and gave me her unused number H5. I almost started crying. It was like she’d given me the vaccine itself. “I’ll pass it on,” I said. “Your random act of kindness.” She smiled and climbed into her white, clean, SUV.
And I started to get a feeling low in my belly that I’d forgotten all about. The feeling of being part of the collective.
Not just heads on a screen but real live moving whole bodies, regardless of our differences. Everyone is the same at the DMV. And though I wished everyone would please mask up until this thing is truly over, whether you’re “sick of it” or not…I was still shockingly glad to be standing in that exact parking lot.
And then it got sort of…well…fun. Because why not? Why not play a little? After the year we’ve had. Why not treat a moment like this when you are required to be part of the collective a little like you’re waiting for a hot dog at Wrigley Field or Fenway Park. And you all really love baseball. Even though you might not agree with the ump’s calls. Maybe it reminds you of your grandfather and summer and being a kid. I bet these guys had grandfathers. I bet they like baseball. I bet they miss baseball. Maybe they’d come to one of my son’s games over the years, even. I’d seen all sorts of interesting T-shirts and jacket decals in those stands. Still, we cheered pretty much the same.
The sign said for the H1-H10 to come on inside. I ran my hand under the hand-sanitizer and went inside the DMV. It was almost sacramental. Almost.
Apparently H3 and H4 had had other things to do because they were no-shows so my turn came fast. The guy at the window was chatty. I asked him if there was a license plate that raised money for Glacier National Park or endangered animals. He said, “If you get the endangered animals one it’s harder for law enforcement to read it. There’s a grizzly bear on it and their lights glare up against it and they can’t see the numbers. Plus the grizzly bear is cool. It’s spendy though. Forty bucks.” Sold! Even though he didn’t mention anything about how my forty bucks helped endangered animals. I felt like I was shoe shopping. I haven’t been shopping for much more than chicken, spinach, potatoes, and box wine for a year. Now the stirring in my belly was ringing in my ribs. Random acts of kindness. Random chats with strangers. I’d missed it so!
I didn’t want it to end.
And the people in the waiting room didn’t seem to mind. They chimed in. They wanted the bear too. We joked about the license saying Dan before the number. A woman wearing a sequin mask like it was Carnivale in Venice asked me if my truck is a man or a woman. And I said, “A woman, of course.” And she said, “Well you can call her Danielle then.” That made the guy in the Blood and Sacrifice leather jacket laugh. He still wasn’t wearing a mask even though it said No Entrance Without a Mask on the door. I almost said something, but then I saw the bleeding skull on his leather lapel and realized that I was wearing a tie dye mask and that maybe I should leave it alone. I tend to get into trouble when it comes to decency and I really didn’t want trouble with this guy. Leave that to the chatty guy at the counter behind the bullet proof glass.
The maskless guy smiled at me and said, “Say hi to Danielle.” He had a nice smile. It was nice to see a smile. I smiled back. Why not? When I went to the door I saw some other people not wearing masks in jackets that matched his. Must be his buddies. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my original number and said, “Anyone want H15?” One of them said, “I’ll take it.” And I said, “Be sure to pass it on! We need random acts of kindness more than ever. Oh, and you better put on your mask. They’re enforcing it.”
I felt like the freaking mayor. I couldn’t stop.
There was a woman in a full army uniform standing in the parking lot. I said, loudly, “Thank you for your service!” She was wearing a mask but I could see her smile in her eyes.
When I got in my truck I realized my heart was pounding in a way that it hasn’t for a year. Like I’d done something. Been something. Was a part of something. Something that normally I avoid like the plague. Well, the plague is here and so I guess pretty much full house arrest for a year is due diligence enough. Fauci says to only go out for essentials and travel only for emergency. I sat there in the truck thinking about where I could go next that felt “essential.” I had half a tank of gas. How about the gas station? I hate going to the gas station but Maybe my buddy Murray would be working and I could keep feeling this way. Murray always hollers “Munson!” when I walk in like “Norm!” at Cheers. He has the exact voice of Frosty the Snowman in the Christmas TV cartoon when he says, “Happy birthday!” after being reconstituted. Murray always makes me smile. Maybe I could tell him about my grizzly bear license plates and he’d think I was cool. Murray gave me a blown glass horse once. It was the kindest random act of kindness I’ve ever received. I cherish that horse. But if he gave me that blown glass horse today…I might melt right there on the gas station floor that has said Caution Wet with an orange cone for the thirty years I’ve lived here. So I went to the gas station and pumped my gas and saw the top of Murray’s head inside and I realized I had no reason to go inside when I could pay right there, but I really wanted an excuse to hear “Munson!” I looked at the signs on the gas station window and one of them, a sign I’d glanced past for thirty years, actually came into focus. Chester’s Fried Chicken. That’s right. There’s fried chicken inside the gas station. I’ve never eaten that fried chicken. I’ve never really bought hot food at a gas station ever. Maybe a Kit Kat or something. Suddenly gas station fried chicken sounded really good. I figured it probably wasn’t locally sourced and organic but…
I went in and heard a masked and muffled “Munson!” and smiled and said, “Murray!” Then I ordered a piece of fried chicken and told Murray about my grizzly license plate and asked him if he thought that Danielle was a good truck name and we decided that it probably wasn’t. I told him I’d never named a car before. He said, “Aw, Munson, why not? Might as well have some fun in life. And that’s coming from an old man.” He did look older and I realized I hadn’t come into the gas station for a long time. “You should come in more often, Munson.” He looked truly sad. This year has been hard on all of us. So I said, “Well I might have to become a regular for that fried chicken.” He said, “It’s good. I’ve never touched the stuff but people say it’s good.” I waved at him, wishing he could see my smile.
And then I went outside and there was a guy at the pump who didn’t look very happy and his truck didn’t either. At all. Like this year had taken his heart and his home and maybe his soul too. And I said, “Hey I got an extra piece of fried chicken from inside. I haven’t touched it. Do you want it? It’s really good.” And he lit up and said, “Sure. Thanks.”
And I said, “Pass it on.”
And he said, “The chicken?” looking confused but willing.
And I said, “No. Just the random act of kindness.”
I wished then that my plates were actually on my car so I could feel like the cool, kind, grizzly, chick in her pick-up truck. Did I mention—the one thing I actually have bought during the pandemic besides organic chicken, spinach, potatoes, box wine, and new license plates is a new truck? My 2002 Suburban finally quit three days before Christmas. I’ve always had an SUV. I need a sturdy rig for my Montana lifestyle. I test drove ten SUVs. And then at the last place, I saw a used GMC Denali pick-up in the lot, said to the salesman, “What’s that?” and he said, “Only one of the best trucks ever.” So I got in, and it was love at first test-drive. I’ve never even heard of a GMC Denali and I’d never considered getting a pick-up truck. The character, Willa, in my new novel has a pick-up truck. Maybe I just missed her. She and her women were good company for eight years.
As I drove home, not actually wanting to go home for once, I thought: Maybe I need to write a new novel. Create a new place and new characters to ride out the pandemic and feel the way I feel today. Connected. Warm and cozy inside my heart for having looked into people’s eyes, whether we share the same politics, precisely because we share the same humanity. Maybe I need to get out once in a while and not get so quickly back into my truck. Maybe it’s okay to linger just a little bit and exchange some words and acts. (Masked and social distanced, please). If even to the DMV and the gas station. Maybe I need to engage in live chats with random strangers instead of online comments on Instagram with Followers. Maybe I need to think about how good random acts of kindness feel and that there’s still the opportunity for them. Maybe I need to realize that just because we’re in a pandemic, there are still ways to connect with people in the most mundane yet human way. And that perhaps, just perhaps, I need to stop using the pandemic as an excuse to be a hermit.
You know what I mean?
Haven Writing Retreat Fall 2021 Schedule
- September 8 – 12
- September 15 – 19
- October 27 – 31
Contact Laura to set up an informational phone call: laura@lauramunson.com
