First Impressions

Sometimes I think I have a sign that says “Please Talk to Me” pasted on my forehead.

Or maybe I’m viewed by strangers as “approachable.”

I’ve lost count of the number of random conversations I’ve been involved in that were initiated with little or no eye contact.

Several months ago, during one of my impromptu trips to the grocery store (that often include an ample amount of impulse shopping), I stood in the dairy section pondering over the seemingly endless variety of cheeses: slices, blocks, sticks, shreds, cubes, and creams. I had a coupon for the Sargento sticks, but the bigger bargain would be to buy the store brand Muenster slices. I was so entranced with the options that I didn’t hear the quivering voice a few feet to my left.

“Excuse me, sir. Could you please help me?”

She was all of 5 ½ feet, sporting a bright yellow sundress. She was also wearing a light pink cardigan, even though it was the middle of July. Her sensible, orthopedic shoes were computer terminal beige, much lighter than her brown stockings. Her permed grey hair had a slight blue tint.

“Oh…sure, ma’am. What do you need?”

“I need two cartons of the heavy whipping cream from that top shelf. For the life of me, I don’t know why they put something so small on the highest shelf. I’ve told Marty a thousand times he needs to do something about that.”

“Marty?”

“He’s the store manager. If I complain about something long enough, he usually gets around to rectifying the problem. If he were a few years younger, I’d try to fix him up with my granddaughter. I think they’d get along really well.”

“Oh…ok,” I said, as I moved closer to the shelves to reach for the cartons of cream. I’m barely able to touch them without standing on my tiptoes. I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but I was gonna do my best to vacate the premises, pronto!

“You have long arms; that was no trouble for you at all. Thank you so much! What’s your name, young man?”

“Roderick,” I said as I placed the cartons of cream in her cart.

“Roderick! That’s nice. It sounds so regal, so sterling!” she said, beaming.

“Actually, Sterling is my last name.”

“The heck you say! With a name like that, you should be in the movies! Ugh, look at me, rambling on. I’m sorry; I’m sure you have more important things to do than talk to an old biddy like me.”

“It was no trouble at all, um….”

‘Oh, where are my manners? My name is Virginia,” she said as she took a few steps away from her grocery cart to do a proper curtsy.

I smiled.

“Nice to meet you, Virginia. I’ve really enjoyed our conversation, but I really have to get going.”

“Nice meeting you as well, Roderick!”

I was in the store for at least another 30 minutes, hunting for the items I had coupons for and taking advantage of the free samples of sausage patties, flavored coffees, and a new brand of rice chips at the tastings stations strategically placed throughout the store. Leaving the grocery store with a full stomach meant that the few purchases I could afford today would get me that much closer to payday.

As I exited the store, I saw Virginia standing at the far end of concrete stanchions surrounding the entrance and exit doors. She saw me and waved me over.

“Roderick, would you mind watching my cart as I go get my car? The last time I was here, several of my bags grew legs and walked away by the time I drove up.”

“I could carry the bags to your car,” I said.

“No, no. I’ll be back with the car in a moment.”

Five minutes later, Virginia pulled up in a metallic blue Toyota Solara, looking as if it was expertly detailed moments ago. As the car came to a stop, I heard the trunk lock disengage. I placed my groceries in the top shelf of the grocery cart and removed her bags from the main basket, placed them in the trunk and gently closed the trunk door shut. As I walked along the passenger’s side of the car, Virginia rolled down the windows and the pleasant smell of vanilla wafted around me.

“You’ve been an absolute darling, Roderick; I truly appreciate your help,” said Virginia. “My best to your parents, they did a great job!

Thanks, Virginia. Glad I could help.”

“I’d like to send you a Thank You card for helping me today.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“No, I must!” She quickly reached over to open the glove compartment door. She pulled out a small notebook. A blue ink pen was stuffed into the spiral binding. She handed me the notebook through the window.

“Please write down your address.”

Refusing would only prolong the interaction, so I wrote my address in the notebook and handed it back to her.

“Thanks again, Roderick. Have a great day!” she said, as she drove off.

As I walked the four blocks back to my apartment, it dawned on me that I was smiling, and had been since Virginia drove away. The encounter totally threw off my schedule for the day, but it was so pleasant!

A few days later - a Friday - I received a card in the mail, as bright and colorful as Virginia’s dress. Yellow, with the words, Thank You in blue emblazoned across the front of the card, followed by a large, red exclamation point. Inside, the card read:

Thanks again for your kindness, Mr. Movie Star name!

Chuckling to myself, I placed the card on the mantel and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

After sleeping in Saturday morning, I decided to go for a run. As I exited the front door of the apartment building, I noticed a sizable cardboard box to the left of the door. It was addressed to me, but there was no postage or return address.

“What the…?”

It was too early for mail delivery, so someone dropped it off. Cautiously, I picked up the box and turned it over a couple of times; it didn’t sound like anything fragile.

“This has to be Virginia’s doing,” I said aloud.

I took the box back to my apartment, grabbed a box cutter from the kitchen and opened the box, which was full of packing peanuts. I gathered handfuls of peanuts and placed them on the floor beside the box. At the bottom was a worn blue and gray duffel bag. Inside was two large plastic food storage bags full of…money! I opened one of the bags and removed the contents: Fifty and hundred dollar bills totaling $10,000, secured by silver money clips. Glancing at the other bag, it appeared to contain the same amount of bills.

At the bottom of the duffel was a little black book: a brand-new Moleskine journal, with the logo sleeve still intact. I opened it. Written on the first page was a local address; other than that, the journal was completely blank.

I sat on the living room floor for hours, surrounded by wads of cash, trying to figure out what to do. Should I follow the instructions or keep it?

Man, I could really use this cash, I thought. My freelance opportunities have not been very plentiful as of late and this would definitely get me back on track.

I glanced at the clock. “Well, so much for my run.”

This package has to be from Virginia, I thought. Who else could it possibly be? My circle of friends wouldn’t do something like this. Hell, they barely have $500 laying around; let alone 20Gs!!

It was obvious there would be no productivity on anything I had planned for today, so I decided to take a drive and at least try to see who this money is really for. The address wasn’t in the best part of town.

The house was a blue and white one-family dwelling. There were five or six Hispanic kids in the front yard playing Freeze Tag, or Red Light, Green Light, or something like that. The house appeared to be in good condition, but the lawn had seen better days. On the porch was a much older woman, seated in a wheelchair.

Parked in the driveway was a red van backing up and stopping just past the porch. The driver got out – a husky, dark-haired man who appeared to be in his 30s – and opened the sliding door on the passenger’s side before making his way onto the porch. He scooped the old woman out of the wheelchair and carried her across the lawn and placed her in a seat in the van. Once she was secure, he went back to the porch, folded the wheelchair and carried it to the van, placing it between the rows of seats.

Watching this scenario, it became obvious to me that I was given a part to play in a Pay It Forward situation. I headed home; I had to figure out how to make this delivery without it being a big production. I couldn’t just walk up on the porch and give them the duffel bag. They don’t know me, and I don’t know Virginia. Do they know Virginia? Or did she meet them as randomly as she met me? Was our meeting really random, or were we all chosen? Is Virginia really the person behind this?

“Regardless of what I decide about the money, I’m keeping that little black book,” I said aloud. “It’s practically unused and brand-new!!”

After some whiskey-induced thinking, I decided the best way to complete my task would be to mimic – to some degree - the way the money was given to me. I weighed the money at the self-serve area in the local post office and proceeded to buy a boatload of stamps to cover the postage. That way I could mail it myself without including a return address.

For the next few weeks, I drove my car more than usual, to drive by the house and see if there were any tell-tale signs of the anonymous gift. The last time I drove by, a wheelchair ramp was being installed over the front porch steps.

So I guess I completed my task successfully.

A month or so later, there was a bubble-lined manila envelope among my payment plan bills.

There was no return address. I carefully opened the envelope and peered inside. The contents of the envelope triggered several minutes of gut-busting laughter.

And now I know.