The Way Out
The other day I’m at the check-out at my Vermont country store buying groceries and realize I have no money.
The bill is $28. While pondering the embarrassment of putting everything back on the shelves, a voice behind me says: “I got it.’’
I turn and face a big, tall guy wearing a mask. Unlike most masked people, I can see his big smile.
“I’ll get it - no problem,’’ he says again with a friendly wave.
So begins an internal clash of upbringing, culture, politics, guilt, generosity and the meaning of life - all in a 60 second exchange.
Do I accept the payment? I was raised not to accept money from people. I have never been sure why. But it has something to do with a deep-seeded puritanical WASPY pride in not accepting charity.
Honest people make it on their own - right?
Thirty seconds into the offer, the line behind me is growing. The young cashier is eyeing me for the decision. He couldn’t care less. He has a cash register to run and a to-go sandwich on the grill.
For the third time I say - “No, No, I couldn’t do that. You are so kind but really.’’ I am now fumbling with both hands and words to wiggle out of this predicament of my own making.
“No really,’’ he says, smiling again. “It’s no problem.’’ He is so comfortable doing this.
Buckling, morally bankrupt, beaten, embarrassed, I accept.
Thank you so much, I say.
Now we move to a whole different plain of guilt and culture.
“No problem,’’ he says again, with the ease of someone who makes these offers on a regular basis.
I bag my food and he pays. Do I just leave? I walk slowly out of the store so I can thank him one more time. We meet at his monster diesel truck where we exchange small talk and more thanks.
He climbs in - or up - into the cab. Says he lives in another town about 40 minutes away. He was up our way bear hunting.
The stereotypes are piling up now. The bear-hunting, diesel truck driving guy from the working class town and the Prius-driving consultant from a town with a lot of state employees, legislators, and non-profit thought-leader types who work from home in a pandemic without much trouble.
“See ya later,’’ he waves with a smile.
This exchange and its weirdness eats at me for a couple of days. Now what. Accept the kindness and never look back? Try to find him and pay him back? I did get his first name when thanking him. So a quick Google search with his first name, his town and the word “diesel,’’ hits the jackpot.
He runs a diesel truck repair shop. I’ve got the address.
Next day I am off with a check for the money. I am gonna make this right by God.
I head into his town, past the high school where I used to coach basketball and little league games for my kids. And there on the right is his house AND diesel shop. Giant rigs everywhere. Two oil-stained mechanics are in the double bay garage. My Prius is looking very small in so many ways.
“He’s on the phone fixing a problem,’’ says one of the guys when I ask for the owner’s whereabouts.
He emerges.
“Can I help you?’’ he asks, not recognizing me.
“I owe you some money,’’ I say, with some bravado, proud that I had come all this way.
He pauses and then recognizes me.
“Never thought I’d see you again,’’ he says with that smile. “You really don’t have to pay me back. I believe in paying it forward. Do it all the time. I never expected you to pay me back. You really don’t have to.’’
Fumbling and stumbling now.
“Well I felt it was the right thing to do,’’ I say. But I feel now that I’m insulting his kindness by not accepting it. But we move on. And I give him the check.
Thanks all around. Small talk about the diesel business, the electric car revolution, battery technology, the new garage he is putting up to house his growing business.
I’m off, overthinking about living in such an angry, unfair, nasty society when guys like that exist. I got a masters degree in a lot of things in about 10 minutes - stereotypes, expectations, work, generosity, guilt and morality.
It was never about the money for him. It was about how to live a good life. And he gave me a roadmap - for free.
