But truly, yesterday I was snapped out of my torpor by a seemingly cliched phrase, the kind of which I'd usually blast apart in my routine scribblings here. In my by now almost daily exchange with the guy who makes my lunchtime sandwich, we of course asked each other, "howya doin?" I replied with the standard, "not bad, you?" and he replied with the seemingly equally standard, "I can't complain." Cliched, right? Two relative strangers exchanging automatic words, signifying nothing, just lubricating the social contract, kind of like a golfer taking a few absent practice swings on the first tee. But no, not this day. That "I can't complain" positively sung out and knocked me upside the head with its glee, its earnestness, its conviction. "And he meant it!" as Dennis Hopper said. A bit overwhelmed by the positive gale blowing at me, I muttered something inane about what a great demeanor the guy had and how I wish I possessed it. I soon took my delicious--truly--sandwich over to a table to enact my usual lunchtime (with my crazy work schedule, "lunch" often arrives, like yesterday, at 6 p.m.) ritual of scarfing down the delectable sandwich and reading the sports page. But I couldn't focus on the box scores this time. I was shaken by that tsunami of cheer--"I can't complain." Minutes later, to another customer, I heard him say it again, "I can't complain," and once again it rattled my core. Can I complain? Sure, whattaya got? There's always a ready list: my fate in the cosmos, the latest ache, yesterday's scores, the fact that I'm eating lunch at 6 p.m., the fact that in my morning fog I mixed the plaid boxers with the striped socks, the fact that yesterday (and appearing all week, folks) I was sporting a bullseye band-aid on my left temple--as if someone had tried to shoot an arrow through my head and it went in but not out the other side--the result of having a "thing" removed from said left temple and which is presently undergoing a biopsy (now there's a tiny atomic bomb of a word that deserves full explication here eventually--perhaps after the results are in, of which the doctor didn't seem too concerned). Yeah, pleasant sandwich guy, I thought, I can complain, but in the air suffused with his wholly upbeat, well, demeanor, how could I? Snap. As I ate that sandwich in that environment, my own always-ready-to-complain-about-something demeanor was broken as easily as a Lenten promise. The mental To-Complain-About list that often hangs quick to hand in my consciousness was replaced by that most wonderful list, Things To Be Grateful For.
At the top of that list at the moment was the, for want of a better term, Everyday People In My Life list. We all have them, those people we encounter regularly in the course of our daily treks, those people we kind of know and develop a strange casual "howya doin'?" relationship with. In addition to the sandwich guy these days, I look forward to chatting with the two women at the gas station I frequent (say what you will about the evils of caffeine, nicotine, and the daily paper, but such addictions open you up to a world of great Everyday People). I think back to other times in my life and all the great people I got to know in this strangely wonderful way--the various deliverymen I saw daily at my previous job--the guy I talked golf with, the guy I traded dirty jokes with, the guy I talked sports with, the guy I always asked how his baby girl was doing--all the other convenience store workers, secretaries, cafeteria workers, etc. You develop almost a routine patter and distinct kind of humor with each and every one of them. And they become like lighthouses for you, or bannisters to lean on during a rocky journey--pleasant little islands of sanity and amusement and good cheer. They're not really friends, because you know them in only a very limited way, but your life is so much better with them in it from day to day. Many of them you could see yourself--and even wish--becoming good friends with if the circumstances were somehow different. And then you move on or they do and that's it, you never see them again. Sad but that's life. How is that nutty guy named Thom doing, and his pride and joy daughter? I'll probably never know. But man my life was richer and funnier for the time we did see each other regularly.
It's funny, because yesterday, before the "I can't complain" revelation, completely out of our usual milieu, I ran into a guy who frequents my bookstore. These out-of-context meetings with your everyday people are often awkward, as if stripped of your usual roles--customer/employee, whatever--you're not always sure of the relationship. But as I sat there munching my sandwich (did I mention it was scrumptious?) and listening to another "I can't complain" exultation, I started to think that maybe, probably in some way, as the sandwich guy functions for me, I function for some of my customers. While I can and do (in private) certainly complain about some customers, I believe that with most I'm pleasant, cheerful, helpful, even fun. Being a card-carrying egocentric, I've never really thought about the fact that I am other people's Everyday People. An upbeat--could it be cheerful to the point of providing an "I can't complain" revelation to somebody else--Everyday Person. A lighthouse-needy lighthouse. A bannister-craving bannister. Isn't life amazing in that regard? I can't complain.
But, can't how? In the more figurative sense that I think we mean when we routinely say, "I can't complain"--sort of like, oh, lend me your ear and I'll complain for an hour, but really, I'm okay, given the possible nastiness of life, so I guess I can't (read shouldn't) complain? Or is it possible to mean it literally--I physically can't complain; it's against my nature and my peculiar laws of psychic physics? That would be above saint-like, I guess, to the point of divinity. But what a state to aspire to--to be beyond the capability (let alone the need, desire, addiction) to complain. No offense, but I'm sure the sandwich guy is not quite divine (though his sandwiches are heavenly), but his seemingly genuine "I can't complain" certainly served as a much-needed, good ass-kicking moment of grace for me. I'm glad he's one of my Everyday People, and through him I thank all the Everyday People I've been fortunate to know, past and present. And now I've got to apply the lesson--to be a worthy Everyday Person for the people who encounter me. It's a gift, after all; one that is happily received and should be as happily given.
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