“Big dog, get up,” he says. I’m standing next to him and we are both standing, holding a sticky silver rail at the front of the bus. In his large hand is a tiny frail Asian woman’s hand. She had been shuffling towards the bus doors, four different bags filled with random things hanging off her arms like ornaments on the branches of a Christmas tree, and he politely kneeled, offering her his hand and help up onto the bus. Now, holding it, he zeroed in on a boy who looked around 27, slumped over in his seat, scrolling through his phone aimlessly, not paying attention to anyone or anything going on around him, smooshed into a crowded row of bus passengers like stuffed animals shoved onto a shelf in a five year olds room. The tiny Asian woman shuffles toward the seat, which is now empty, because Big Dog promptly got up once summoned by the large man with the deep low voice. As the man makes sure the older woman is okay and settled, he turns and we are face to face and I give him a nod and a huge smile. A smile where you see all of my teeth, every single last one. He flashes me his own teeth and returns my nod.
My heart is soaring because I love to see humanity at it’s best. If you believe humanity can function on a higher frequency, that we can be tolerant, loving, attentive human beings looking out for one another, you can find proof of it. You just have to look for it.
“Some gross old man groped my ass on the bus!” Lucy is yelling as I walk into the store. She is holding her butt, protecting it, or maybe comforting it after being violated. Lucy had a very different bus ride to work it seems.
“I called my son and he said at least your ass is still gropable Mom,” Lucy says scoffing.
“You should have punched him in the face,” Rita tells Lucy.
“This is why I need a gun,” Lucy confirms.
I was deep in reflection, imagining an old man accidentally brushing Lucy’s buttocks as she walks down the crowded aisle trying to get off the bus, and as she feels his touch she turns, pulling a gun out of her backpack and shooting him in the face. I decide not to share my moment where a rainbow appeared over the 517 LAX Employee East Lot Bus and carried us to the airport on a divine cloud.
Jung approaches me, she seems to have appeared out of nowhere, holding a packet of Korean coffee and what looks like a piece of feces wrapped in clear plastic wrap. “For you,” she says. “Add just a little bit of water to the coffee and then eat the sweet potato with it,” she tells me. “Jung,” I say, touched, “thank you.” I give her a hug, “I love sweet potatoes,” I tell her, but why is this one so small and brown and mushy? I think.
“Oh see Jung there you go, you found someone to eat your sweet potato,” Lucy says, scoffing again. She looks at me, “Jung tried to offer that to me, I told her Jung, why are you giving me that, what do you want?” Lucy pauses to look at the tiny brown sweet potato, “I’m not eating that thing.” We are all looking at the mushy sweet potato poop in my hand and I brush Lucy’s words off and focus on Jung. “I needed this today Jung, this will be the perfect pick me up around 11 tonight when I start to lose energy.” Jung smiles holding both her hands together and near her heart.
Because Jung gave me her sweet potato poop, I now had to do something nice for someone else. That’s the way this works. On my break I traveled to the bowels of the airport, where our break room that houses a vending machine that sells reasonably priced snacks resides, and bought Emily some flaming hot Cheetos, her favorite, because she was on her period and about to pass away in Moncler.
The next day Farid popped into the store with a salad from Trader Joes, “Jennifer, I went to TJ’s before work. I bought one for me and one for you because I never see you eat! You need to gain 7.5 pounds!” I am so touched I ignore the very specific number of pounds Farid wants me to gain. “Thank you! Farid, that is so kind, really!” I tell him and give him a hug. “You are always so thankful for the littlest things!” he says to me, beaming. “I love being nice to you!”
Lucy, in the background, pretends to retch.
Another day, as I stood turning to dust in the sunglass store, which I was covering for the day and that had been empty for hours, when Sean from the other sunglass store across the way appeared with two dark haired women. “Jennifer will ring you up,” he said, handing me a pair of glasses. “But Sean,” I said as he smiled and disappeared around the corner. Later, I visited him in his store. “I was having a good day,” he shrugs and I give him a hug.
The art of gratitude changes everything. The more you can appreciate the smallest of things, the more good things roll into your life like gifts you never asked for. I get to work and I silently thank God for my car and that I got to work safely. I clean my small studio apartment and I thank God for this safe space for Noah and I to live. I open the fridge and marvel at its fullness- thank you. Out in the ocean, euphoric with wonder and joy, I send my prayer to God, to the universe, to whoever or whatever is responsible for the mysterious, beautiful ocean, for the sun, for my body that’s able to swim in it, for being alive, here in this moment.
It’s an art form, gratitude. It’s an endless prayer of recognition.
On Noah’s first day of first grade, Silvio and I dropped him off together. Afterwards, we walked to a Starbucks to grab a coffee. “It’s on me,” I told him smiling. As he rattles off his fifteen ingredient coffee order, I add my plain drip coffee and slide my card and the tiny machine takes invisible numbers away from me and Starbuck’s invisible numbers tick upwards.
As we wait, Silvio chatters on about I don’t remember because in my quest to be grateful for absolutely everything, he seemed to have forgotten to say thank you and I was now perplexed over this. Silvio is not an ungrateful person, he just exists the way most people do- a mixture of expecting certain things and not noticing small things that actually add up to become enormous triumphs at the end of one’s life. At the end of my life, I want everyone gathered around my coffin in agreement that I cherished them and their kindness. I also want Snoop Dogg to entertain everyone by crip walking to Natasha Bedingfeild’s 2000’s smash hit “Unwritten.” This means Snoop Dogg will have to live to be 300 years old, but if anyone were to live that long, I would hope it would be Snoop. Or I suppose it could be a hologram of Snoop. But it wouldn’t be the same as a 300 year old fragile Snoop trying not to fall down as Natasha sings “release your inhibitions, feel the rain on your skin!” This is the best funeral I’ve ever been to everyone will exclaim!
As I turn silent, stewing, waiting for a thank you that never came until I said, much like I do to Noah when he forgets, “remember to say thank you.” “Oh, sorry, thank you,” he says clumsily and carries on yapping. As we part ways, I stew on the drive home. And in the shower. And on the drive to work. For some reason this one forgotten thank you is pulling up years of forgotten thank you’s from deep within the archives and it’s beginning to bum me out.
Once at work, I see my team lead, beautiful, sweet Angelina, wandering through the terminal with red puffy eyes. “Angelina,” I say reaching out to her as she recoils. “I’m ok,” she says, nodding reassuringly.
Alone in the store I think of what Angelina likes. Angelina loves the lavender drink from Starbucks. I’ll buy one for her on my break. My next thoughts are all the invisible numbers in my account. I had already bought an expensive Starbucks drink today but whatever, I’ll sell something on Facebook Marketplace and make it all up. My phone lights up with a text from Emily who is next door at Moncler. “Want to split a Starbucks drink for Angie?” it says, she also noticed that Angie wasn’t ok. The universe. I look up and say to no one, “yes!” “If you go and pick it up, I’ll give you cash later,” Emily writes. Emily has a phobia of waiting in line for Starbucks. It is not an impatience thing, it’s a fear. I am not sure what happened to her while waiting in line at a Starbucks but it must have been bad and it’s specific to the Starbucks corporation. Other lines are ok to wait in.
On my break I run to the Starbucks all the way down at the 150 gates because it is my favorite one due to the fact that it is hidden away and there are always a lot of Germans hanging around there. “Thank you Jose, I hope you have a good shift!” I say to my favorite Starbucks employee. He is always nice to talk to and he will sometimes, when his manager isn’t there, give me a grande drip coffee and only charge me for a tall.
I run back to the store with Angelina’s huge neon purple lavender whatever the fuck kind of drink, and when she sees it, her eyes well up. “I don’t know what happened Angie, but we love you,” I tell her and she gives me the biggest, tightest hug. “Thank you,” she says. She leaves to go thank Emily and later that night she is smiling and back to herself again. She tells me, “that changed my whole day around, truly thank you.”
Later, as I wipe down the glass counters, I am struck that I experienced buying two people Starbucks today with two very different reactions. Had Silvio been in emotional turmoil perhaps he would have been more grateful, but also it should be a reflex- to notice kindness or help and to respond with gratitude. It should be the things we notice the most throughout our day. When you are hyper tuned into it, it makes each day new and fulfilling. Who can I help today? Who needs something that I can provide? Who is helping and providing for me? These are the small forgotten moments and gestures that are actually what give our life it’s true meaning.
As I run the cloth around in circles I send my prayer out again to the universe, thank you for giving me a do-over today.
Word Vomit 
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