clerk

She wore a black sweatshirt that matched her heavy eyeliner and her hair, and kept her heart in her big darkbrown eyes. She struck you as the sort of girl you wouldn't really expect to see standing behind the counter at check-out; she seemed more naturally suited for park benches in old neighborhoods, milling about with friends in wide-legged jeans strung out on chains. One of her friends might have a guitar for playing moody music, and she'd be standing or sitting listening to the conversation around her, processing everything she heard with those eyes.

But there she was, ringing up the people ahead of me, and I noticed how she spoke to the customers: quietly and kindly, her voice pitched low, even-toned, her speech a little slow, thought-out. You noticed that she was really there, taking in the people, looking for their eyes, and I thought she had a singular gift of being present. It's something I'm not good at myself; I'm always in a hurry or lost in thought, never really quite here, living somewhere in my own head. I have to train my concentration on the world around me, on the moment of the here and now; but she already lived there. She had a kind of calm about her.

When my turn came, I stepped up with my arms full of milk and vegetables and set them down in front of her. She said hello in that slow, quiet voice, and as I fished around in my purse for my debit card, I felt her taking me in the same way she'd taken in the people before me. It's a strange sensation, being seen.

"That's an interesting T-shirt," she said in that same voice, a neutral sort of voice, but I heard a little pitch of concern underneath it.

I looked down, having forgotten what I was wearing. Oh yes. My deceptively cheerful, ironic, macabre bright red sweatshirt declaring in happy letters surrounded by rainbows and hearts, I Hate Myself and I Want to Die.

I smiled. "I think it's funny," I said. "All the hearts and rainbows."

And then I looked up at her, and saw in those fully present eyes that she was worried. She put on a little smile for my sake, and I was again surprised: At first glance, she's the kind of person I would have ordinarily marked down as someone who would be amused by the shirt.

I changed tacks. Still smiling, I said, "I don't wear it when I'm actually feeling that way."

She handed me my receipt and bagged my purchases, looking half skeptical, half relieved. "I'm glad," she said. "That might cause some concern for your loved ones."

I don't remember what I said to that. I thanked her as she handed me my groceries, wished her a wonderful day, and departed.

In a thoughtful mood. I've had a lot of reactions to that shirt: horror, disgust, anger, amusement, camaraderie, delight. Never that kind of open concern, especially not from a stranger.

It was a different experience. There aren't many times when you feel like you've come into contact, really met, the Other. And there are even fewer times when meeting the Other results in a realization of love. Even universal, impartial love.

I think I used to have that gift. Not of being present, but of noticing people. It's much less there with all my worries and absence from the here and now. I check out a lot. I'm brusque and concerned with my own affairs. But this girl, who looks to be a misfit in society, seems to love everyone in it -- not in a perky, chipper, irritating way, but in a considering way. And she takes the time to notice.

I wonder if she feels overwhelmed by it. By being present. That's why I leave the present so often -- it's immeasurably difficult to face other people's difficulties and heartaches and problems and panics all the time. She didn't seem afraid, though.

I usually walk into a grocery store with the intention of making my clerk's day a little better -- saying a cheerful hello, asking them how they're doing. But that day, she made mine. A single girl tends to feel a little invisible if she lives far from family. There's no one to notice if you're looking peaky, or if you're depressed; you have to declaim it outright in order for people to know. And even though I really was in a good mood that day, a stranger saw something and responded.

It was a beautiful gift.