A Kick in the Backside

I’m a mediocre writer, so bear with me. I don't have an MFA, and I’m probably not going to win a writing contest, especially not one titled “Letters of Gratitude,” which will certainly be filled with amazing tributes to cherished parents, steadfast friends, and lifelong partners.

If you can’t beat them, join them, right? Not my style. Instead, I'm going to write something different, and start by talking about myself.

Within the never ending dull daily routines of life, moments of clarity occasionally appear.

In one such moment, I realized I had ADHD.

I sat in a job interview. The hiring manager leaned forward, a knowing smile on his face, and said, “I can tell you’re always thinking about ten things at the same time. You’re thinking of something else right now, right?”

I felt a bit insulted. I returned my gaze from the window to the interviewer, fought off an instinct to respond with an angry, “How would you know?” and said, “Yes, that’s right.”

He nodded with a kindly smile, like an uncle taking care of a nephew. I tried to pay better attention for the rest of the interview.

Surprisingly, I got the job. And afterward, I realized he was onto something important.

My mind was like a washing machine, always churning with new ideas, which also often leaves me unprepared to respond to things politely as I should when unexpected events arise.

Yesterday, heavy rain was pouring down outside my window at 8am. As I prepared to leave my apartment, I was thinking about what I would do at work that day, what I was going to eat for lunch, what writing I would do afterward, the feeling of my sneakers on the soles of my feet, and the technical ingenuity of zippers which I had learned about in a YouTube video the day before, when I forgot to take my umbrella.

The elevator arrived at the ground floor, and I saw out the front entrance of the building, that rain was pelting the pavement like a swarm of angry bees. I hesitated to take the painfully slow elevator back to the 10th floor, and decided to wait for a break in the storm. When the downpour lightened, I dashed for the bus stop a half block away.

Reaching the bus stop, I was half-soaked, and huddled under the cover of the shelter. A minute later, the bus arrived, and one by one, the others waiting unfurled their umbrellas, stepped out of the shelter, and walked the couple of steps to the bus to get in.

As you might recall, I did not have an umbrella. I hoped to sprint in last to minimize my time in the rain. I waited patiently for everyone to board. When the last person was getting into the bus, I made my run.

Just as I reached the bus, the last person’s gigantic umbrella blocked the doorway. She stood in the bus, wrestling with the physics of pulling in an open umbrella wider than the door. After pulling and tugging several times, she finally stepped out, closed the umbrella and got back in.

Of course, I was standing on the other side of the flopping umbrella, in the pouring rain, hoping this was happening a lot quicker than it was.

We managed to board the bus, me completely drenched.

I walked past her. She glanced my way and said, “Sorry.”

At that moment, it was too late to listen to an apology. I stomped past, and sat sullenly in the back of the bus, staring at my wet clothes.

Hours later, I realized it wasn’t her fault. And that I had made her day just a little worse by not accepting her apology.

I am not a patient stranger.

Despite my flaws, I can occasionally pull myself together to do a good deed. One day, I walked into a 7/11 to buy a juice. Two massive, clearly very drunk rugby players lingered by the front desk, heckling the cashier, a tiny woman who looked terrified. A wiser person, fearing for their personal safety, might have turned and left, but having spent half my life in bars, I felt I had a grasp for dealing with drunks.

I pushed to the checkout, caught the attention of the friendlier-looking guy, and said, “Hey, how’s it going?!”

“Who are you?” he shot back. He appeared to want to say something mean, but in his drunkenness, he forgot what to say mid-sentence. His mental operating system apparently rebooted, and he smiled, “Yo, bro! We are having a good time!”

“Yeah!”

“We are dru~~nk!”

“I love drinking!” I said, bringing my mind to times I was as drunk as they were.

After a few rounds of agreement about the joys of drinking, they left the store to continue their party outside. For months after that, the cashier would give me a little nod for rescuing her from an awkward situation every time I walked into the shop.

(Pro Tip: Never tell drunk people they’re drunk or causing problems. Being agreeable always works better.)

Another story:

Over a decade ago, I was living in Japan, and starting a new family. My daughter was then 18 months old. She had begun standing on two feet and babbling cute nonsense. Her grandparents in Wisconsin had never met her, so I proposed to my wife I would take our toddler back solo, and give my wife a much-needed break after nearly two years of nonstop childcare.

It didn’t take much convincing, and a few weeks later, my toddler and I sat on a transpacific flight.

After the allure of in-flight snacks and TV wore off, my daughter lay down, exhausted, and tried to take a nap. Her tiny body barely fit sideways in the tight economy seat, and she struggled to get comfortable. She started to pound her little feet on the armrest next to her, startling a Japanese man seated next to us.

“Sorry,” I murmured, and pulled her back up into my arms. After an hour of holding her, exhausted, I needed to put her back down.

She began kicking the armrest again. An occasional kick got under the armrest, straight into the Japanese man’s backside.

“Sorry,” I said again, hoping to defuse the situation, and truly out of options on how to fix the situation.

“No problem. It doesn’t bother me,” the man replied with a reassuring smile.

I tried my best to keep her calm, but in between inflight meals, naps, and walks around the cabin, I lost track of how many times my daughter kicked that man’s chair.

When our flight path was descending over Canada, close to Hudson Bay, with Chicago in sight on the map, there was an announcement.

“Attention, ladies and gentlemen. There’s been a medical emergency on our flight, and we will need to divert this flight to the nearest airport, Fairbanks, Alaska.”

I watched in disbelief as we did a 180-degree turn, then flew backward for two hours to land in Alaska. It became clear that someone was having a panic attack, not a medical emergency. We sat on the tarmac in Fairbanks for hours, waiting for the plane to refuel, before we got back in the air.

We landed in Chicago eight hours behind schedule. The flight felt like an eternity.

“Sorry,” I said to the man across from my daughter, as we prepared to disembark, in the now very messy cabin.

He nodded, as if it was a minor inconvenience, while a slight grin as if, perhaps, he was even fortunate to share an 18-hour flight with a restless toddler. He quickly turned away to grab his overhead bag and left without a word.

To all the patient strangers of the world, I salute you.