Hauling Secrets

So I turned 30 the other day.  I hauled all day.  A long, tiring day.

Around the middle of the day, I pulled up to the little shed at the Recycle Station where people hauling recyclables pay their fees and fill out paperwork.  I did what I sometimes do when no one is waiting in line behind me and I cut my engine to relax for a minute and talk to the person in the shed.  That way the person inside doesn’t have to smell my truck’s diesel fumes, and we can hear each other better.  The way my work day is (when we’re not in a mad rush) you really get to treasure these little interactions with familiar faces, even if it’s just a minute of small talk. Both of us are doing what amounts to customer service all day, and when you see someone you know, you can have a little break from being ‘on’ all the time.

Most of the time, and this time, the person working the shed is Shirley.  Even though she’s been working there longer than anyone, she always has some kind of trouble with the cash machine.  It’s cute. This time was no exception.  So as she fumbles with the machine, apologizing, I decide to share with her that I’m turning thirty today.  She stops what she’s doing to turn to me and say “Congratulations” in a way that doesn’t seem more significant than anyone else registering my big two-number-change that day.  “Thanks,” I say, putting my fists up in a little mock celebration: “I made it!”

She asks me why I’m working on my birthday and I say that I don’t really care enough to think to take the day off ahead of time.  As we exchange the rest of the usual chit-chat, she laboriously punches keys on the machine and finally gets it to print out a receipt for me to sign.  “Sorry,” she says as she hands it to me, rubbing her glazed-over eyes.  “It’s one of those mornings.”

So I sign the receipt and go on my way, and it’s only after I go through the warehouse and finish dropping off my stuff that I realize what a profound mistake I’ve just made talking to Shirley.  I’d completely forgotten what I’d heard a few months earlier - that Shirley’s son had recently committed suicide.

He was about to turn 30.  I realize now that Shirley might have been forcing back tears when she rubbed her eyes, that it wasn’t just the usual fumbling that had slowed her down just then.

So I pull the truck back around, get out, and walk up to the window of the shed.  Shirley’s inside, sitting, smoking a cigarette.

“I’m an asshole” is all I can think to offer.  She returns me a dazed look.  “Your son,” I clarify.  She puts out the cigarette and comes to the window. I stammer some kind of apology about saying “I made it” when not everyone does, while she listens and shakes her head, telling me that it’s okay.  After a minute we’re both crying.  Then she takes both my hands, squeezes them, leans forward and says, “Let me tell you something.  You have so much ahead of you.”

That’s probably what she didn’t have a chance to tell her son.

I didn’t really know what to say except “Thank you.”  She squeezed my hands again and thanked me back, and we froze there for a second until a truck pulled up to the shed and interrupted our moment.  We pulled away from each other and I got back into my truck and went on my way.

And now every time I pull up to the Recycle shed, the small talk never seems quite as small as it used to.