Total Strangers & Simple Favors

Somehow, I had fallen behind with my classes. If I was going to graduate on time with my BFA the following spring with the rest of my classmates, it meant I had to spend an entire summer taking classes and playing catch up.

I loved college, don’t get me wrong. I loved living away from home. I loved the freedom and awkwardness of figuring out how to be an adult. But most of all, I loved my college friends and the knowledge that I could call any one of them at any given time to meet up and hang out.

However, during the summer months, my closest friends, including my roommate, returned to their homes. I usually went back home too, but not this time. I had work to do. And so, living in an apartment by myself for the first time ever, I was as alone as I had ever felt in my college town—the eternal summer’s day that is Gainesville, Florida.

I found that without the spontaneity of my friends around, I became a strange creature of habit—eating the same food everyday, working out at the same time everyday, watching Parks and Recreation at the same time everyday, etc. Filling every minute of my schedule with predictable things to do gave me both a sense of structure and also less time to think about how lonely I felt.

Despite my best efforts though, the angst of isolation that existed in my subconscious mind ended up bleeding into some of the art I made for my classes that summer. For example, for one of my first projects, I designed and constructed a prototype of a biodegradable coffin. Let me be clear that the assignment was in no way related to death or coffins; this was something I chose to do, and my professor gave me his blessing.

For the design, I kept the construction simple and used my own dimensions to determine the size. As luck would have it, I ended up finishing the project on my 21st birthday. Truly, there’s no greater gift a person can give themselves than an eco-friendly, made-to-fit coffin when they're in the prime of their life.

After finishing my coffin, I went home and spent my birthday alone. All the pieces of my life were falling neatly into place.

Adhering to the same routine every single day eventually took its toll. After a few weeks, the monotony and bleakness of my existence finally caught up with me, and I felt awful. To spice things up, I decided to start making my way through some of the titles on my “Movies I Need to Watch Someday” list.

Perhaps a poor choice on my part, I started with The Virgin Suicides. It was, in all honesty, a beautiful and very moving film, but also one that sits on you afterward like a wet blanket.

After a day or two, Sofia Coppola’s signature atmosphere of melancholy and ennui had aired out of the apartment, and I was ready to try another movie. This time, I decided on Amelie. It was one of the films on my list that had come highly recommended by many people for many years, and for that reason, made me put off seeing it for as long as possible.

I'd been an idiot to put it off for so long.

Watching Amelie was like falling in love. I was enamored by the characters and the music and the story and just everything about it. When Amelie discovered a small box of long-forgotten toys in her apartment, I felt her sense of wonder. When she played pranks on the mean neighborhood grocer, I shared her satisfaction in serving justice. When she melted into a sad puddle on the cafe floor after she felt like she blew her chances with her mystery crush, I melted, too. When the credits finally rolled, I was a changed man.

The next day, I had a renewed sense of optimism for life. Despite having to wake myself up at an ungodly hour to get ready for my 8 AM class, I felt buoyant and ready to see the world with fresh eyes. I had my headphones in—playing the Amelie soundtrack, of course—and practically skipped out the door on my way to campus.

As I was walking down the sidewalk and blasting the lovely and delicate track “Comptine d'un autre été” on my headphones, I pulled out a piece of gum. (Quick tangent: I was a truly obsessive gum chewer in those days. Like, I could and would chew a single piece of gum all day long. My jaw muscles at the time were freakishly toned from literal hours of chewing gum on a daily basis.)

Anyway, just as I was putting a piece of gum in my mouth, I heard someone call out to me over the sound of my music. A little startled, I pulled out an earbud and looked around. It had been a construction worker—an older, black man who was sporting a neon orange vest and hard hat. There was some sort of construction work underway on my street that morning, and he was directing traffic with one of those double-sided signs that said “stop” on one side and “slow” on the other.

“Hey, little man, let me get a stick of gum,” he said casually, with one arm stretched out toward me while diligently watching the road.

I handed him a piece, and he gave me a smile.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you back.”

“That’s okay, don't sweat it!” I told him cheerfully and continued on my way. I knew that his promise had just been a polite thing to say, but it didn’t matter. It was a nice, little moment shared with a stranger, and I was pleased as punch. It wasn't the sort of thing that happened everyday, and with the Amelie soundtrack scoring the scene through my earbud, the entire thing felt like some kind of sign from the universe. I wasn’t sure what the sign was trying to tell me, but it was still a sign, I was certain.

The next morning, I saw the same construction worker on my way to class. He was directing traffic again but stationed a little further down the street. I was surprised to see him again, and I thought there was a pretty good chance he had forgotten that I was the kid that had given him gum. All the same, I turned down my headphones as I approached just in case he did say something or asked me for another piece.

As I got near, he pulled his hand out of his pocket, as cool as a cucumber, and held out a stick gum for me.

“Here you go, little man. For yesterday.”

It wasn’t a brand I normally chewed (I'm a Trident kind of boy), and it was a little moist from sitting in his pocket, but I took it gratefully and thanked him. He gave me a nod, and I continued on my way.

I found myself oddly touched and was smiling for the rest of the day. This total stranger had made the conscious decision that morning to bring gum to work with him, so if he happened to see the scrawny college kid again who had given him a stick of Trident, he could repay the favor.

It was a small exchange, but for the first time in weeks, I felt less alone. The sign from the universe was a bit clearer to me now.

I’ll admit, I didn’t chew the gum he gave me. As I mentioned before, it was a little sweaty. But I held onto it, and I still have it today, nearly six years later. I keep it in a tin full of movie ticket stubs, concert wristbands, handwritten letters, and other mementos I’ve collected over the years. On the few occasions that I do dump out the contents of the tin and take a stroll down memory lane, it always makes me smile to find that stick of gum in there—that little reminder from the universe that I'm not as alone as I sometimes think I am.

ps - for those of you wondering, it all worked out in the end, and I did end up graduating on time