40 Hour Soul

Audio version of the story: https://youtu.be/gNosQzcyPo0

I get paid to frown and smile for the strangers I visit. I suit up in a faded blue shirt that struggles to contain my dad belly and drive a tired Chevy van where the air conditioning is conditional.

My knee-worn pants house my company issued iPhone with updates that grow and curl their mustachios with pointed, cutting-edge fingers.

I’ve learned to loathe and love my time. Beauty and peace can always be found in the debris of chaos. A quiet moment in time when the butterfly lands on the corpse of a building as the storm wall approaches.

I am an in-home appliance technician. Maybe I over think my 8-5 existence.

I am the bearded face that our customers see of a company more than 127 years old. And for over 15 years I’ve been in thousands of homes and witnessed the evolution of appliances and their owners.

I have heard the television in the living rooms go from daytime tv, to the unrehearsed rantings of faceless streamers and Discord rhetoric. I’ve seen the children, hiding from the summer sun, taking refuge in YouTube and the cool air of a dark living room and a 65-inch screen, watching as other children play with actual toys.

But it is the people that stay with me. The faces of those that have lived eighteen, forty, ninety-five years on this Earth and their stories, their life that has shaped them into a soul that echoes in the abyss of my tired memories.

It’s the moment of connection when they open the door to let me in, and I realize the person I am meeting, frustrated for having to wait two weeks for an appointment, has been shaped by love, heartache, sorrow, and joy. It’s a second of interaction where two lives collide, one of a million intersections they’ve crossed in their lives.

But in the moment, I struggle. I am tired. My empathy absent after resigning in a year I can no longer recall. I forget, and for the first few years on the job, never truly realized the implications.

It was Ms. Johnson that showed me the weight an unknown soul can have on a life.

She was 85 years old, the lines on her face telling a story, the wrinkles at the edges of her lips making it obvious it was one filled with joy and laughter. She was an old woman living with an old man that I had never heard say a word. But I saw the way he looked at her, and the way he would hold her hand as she passed, the smile that would strain to turn his tired lips.

Ms. Johnson would always greet me by name every time I called to confirm the appointment. Any time she would see me at the grocery store she would give me a hug. She was a woman with a heart that never ran out of love.

Two years ago, her old dinosaur of a dishwasher went on the fritz, again. The work order was vague on the symptoms, but I knew the name, and where I was going. My call went straight to voicemail, but it was a Friday, and I knew she would be home.

When the door opened a middle-aged woman greeted me.

I smiled, “Hello, I’m James. The technician for the dishwasher.”

The woman nodded and led me inside. It was a modest-sized home and always smelled like baking cookies.

But that day was different. Quiet conversation drifted from every room and a buffet of casseroles and baked breads filled the air. People sat and stood, dressed in Sunday attire, and moved with the trepidation of a child holding their breath when a butterfly lands on their nose. My stomach sank as the woman led me to the kitchen, her blood-shot eyes shadowed as she pointed at the old Kenmore. It wasn’t the dishwasher that stole my attention, but the picture on the counter above, surrounded by flowers.

Ms. Birdie Johnson

May 3rd, 1935 – July 7th, 2021

May the love she had for so many be received with grace in heaven

My voice caught and my vision blurred.

I’ve got a box I put things in. My childhood of depression and suicidal tendencies have reinforced it beyond expectation. I put that moment inside, took a slow breath and trouble-shot the appliance. Auto-pilot processed the order and rescheduled the appointment for install. I was a ghost in a house of tears and memories far, far deeper than my own of a woman I barely knew.

I was nearly to the door when a boney hand grabbed mine. The old man, for Christ’s sake, I didn’t even know his name, stopped me. The grief consuming him battered at the hinges of my emotional lock box, but I found a sad smile.

“I’m sorry.” Was all I managed.

With shaking fingers, he reached into a shoebox beside his chair and passed me an envelope. I nodded and quickly left.

In the van, I opened it. Inside was a card.

‘Thank you’ was printed in bold font on the front, inside, written in the kind of illegible cursive only the elderly can manage was a note.

“I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in Lubbock. I may not be back by the 2nd, but my husband will and hopefully won’t forget to give you this. The dishwasher isn’t coming on, it simply quit in the middle of a cycle and my hands are wrinkly enough without having to wash dishes the old-fashioned way, hopefully you’ll be able to fix it today, but if not, I understand. I just wanted to thank you for always taking care of us folks and remind you to have a good day.”

This woman, who I had known in passing for years, took the time to write the ‘repair guy’ a note. To be kind and loving enough to have gratitude for a man she hardly knew. It was a simple act, but one I will never forget.

I carry that with me. I am blessed to have the opportunity to meet people every day and see them as people and not just another job. Whether it’s a conversation with a lonely widow, or bringing the paper to the door, or staying an extra five minutes while they show me pictures of the grandkids. If I can give my customers a smile, give them an ear to listen and break up the lonely days that might plague their retired existence, then I am happy and privileged to do so. It is merely to be human in a world of unattached chaos.