So this guy in New York walks into a grocery store

The Column: 04.08.22

There is so much plasticity and pretense in the world today that when I come across the authentic such as a little kid bawling because his sister kicked him, it restores my interest in life. He isn’t trying to sell me something or even raise money for a good cause, it’s true feeling. His sense of injustice is real. I think he should hit her, which might spare his having to go through expensive therapy in years to come, but he does not. Perhaps he’ll be a stand-up comic instead.

I find authenticity in church, in the prayers, in the psalm, and last Sunday we sang “How Great Thou Art” and it was so joyful it reduced me to rubble. We sang all four verses and the chorus built each time around and the third and fourth choruses were so euphoric, they would’ve melted a stone-cold atheist and my bass voice got shaky, hearing those sopranos soaring. People held their arms in the air, we were freed from our Episcopalian decorum into realms of pure joy, I get teared up now writing about it.

On my way home I went into Trader Joe’s and when the cashier said, “How are you today, my dear?” I was moved. New York women in their twenties do not address a male stranger as “my dear,” and okay, maybe she was trying to sell me on coming back to Trader Joe’s, but it sounded genuine to me and after I paid, she said, “Thank you, my dear.” I stifled the impulse to pat her shoulder — there still are boundaries, after all — but her lightness, coming on the heels of the hymn, touched me.

I’m descended from Scots-English men who avoided strong feelings and so I don’t weep at funerals or movies or reading about suffering and am grateful for the chance to do it in church. My dad and uncles came and sat by the bedside of their dying mother and were so uncomfortable about grief, they went out in the hall and talked about cars and carpentry. I was a solemn young man, which made me appear more intelligent than I was, so I skated through college without learning much of anything. I still look rather somber. Panhandlers avoid me, nobody asks me for directions, and so my wife’s affection touches me. She sits on my lap every morning, an arm around me, her head against mine, and after thirty years it’s more affecting than ever. She says, “Don’t talk to me, I just woke up,” and sits on my lap and there’s no need to say anything. If I saw this in a movie, a slender woman in pajamas sitting on a man’s lap, her head against his, I’d bust out crying.

She is a hugger and she does it in a beautiful spontaneous way. I sometimes go so far as to pat someone’s shoulder but she raises both arms and the embracee steps forward and accepts it. I feel like embracing people but haven’t learned the choreography. I know many small children who’ve suddenly become middle-aged, and I want to put my arms around them because I fear for the country they are inheriting. We’ve lost the presumption of innocence, which is the basis of civility, the assumption that others mean well and want to do the right thing, unless they prove otherwise. MeToo was a vigilante movement on the left in which a single anonymous accusation could destroy a long career, and it was followed by anti-cop hysteria and suspicion of America itself, while on the right you saw anger against public schools, journalists, public health, gays, and the idea of representative democracy.

I can’t drive anymore because I see two white stripes down the middle where there is only one and rather than wipe out a nice family in an approaching car, I live in Manhattan where owning a car is about as practical as owning a llama. The neighborhood is mostly Jewish so there are old union stalwarts around and lots of shrinks and social workers but also Orthodox who won’t ride an elevator on the Sabbath. We’re Democrats but we’re as conservative as we can be. We love the streets with the little shops and if anyone tried to put in a Walmart, we’d fight to the death, or if a developer tried to tear down a row of brownstones to put up a 20-story condo tower. We’re predominantly hetero but we don’t persecute gays because it’s wrong plus which doing so would kill the arts. And there were several male couples singing “How Great Thou Art” and what about the cashier who spoke endearingly to me? I’m guessing she’s gay. Which makes the “my dear” all the more wonderful. So thank you, sweetheart.

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FROM THE ARCHIVES 1996 (Get our your magnifying glass)