I man the turnstiles, and I’ve seen them come and go.
Usually, they walk in slowly, and I have enough time after hearing the outer door open to put away my writing and stand at attention. Sometimes, they’re trying to move in, sometimes they’re trying to move out. Sometimes, they’re just trying to pay the boss, and I take the money.
Butterflies. There’s a little of that each time, before the man or woman comes into view. They walk through the entry way, open the interior office door, and descend a handful of carpeted steps. As they do, they turn the corner and come to the counter.
And every single time, they cower in the fear of insignificance, even as they battle for the God-given right to be noticed.
When I stop working here – when I’m no longer guarding the turnstiles but instead walking through, on my own way out, I’m sure this will be the most important thing I learned: to be faceless is oblivion, and to be known is everything we’ve ever dreamed.
Mel eased onto a stool at the counter and assured me I’d heard of him.
“Yeah, been here my whole life, building walls. You gotta use plaster or the whole flipping thing will fall down, or at least get bent outta shape. Ya know why they use dry-wall?”
I didn’t.
“It’s easier to put up! It’s cheaper and faster too! Put it up and in fifteen minutes it’s ready to get a splash of paint. Nah, that’s not even a bit of how it’s supposed to be done, not even a whiff of sense.”
I agreed. He didn’t notice.
“Now listen here, you listen here, young man you don’t remember the war do ya? Now, I wasn’t old enough to participate in that cluster, but I went to Korea, in the navy. Didn’t fire a gun or kill nobody, but I typed. My mama told us boys we all three needed to learn to type. And so we did. You see, my grandparents all came over in boats and they weren’t looking for nothing fancy, nothing to blow up neither. They just wanted a plot of land, a little piece to call home. My mama taught us boys that too, and I haven’t made big money, but I’m okay, I’ve always just been looking to set up my own little home, like my grandfathers and grandmothers. So, go and learn how to type, she says…”
Mel’s hands were historical, and his fingers were chiseled stone. He may have spent his time in the navy typing, but he’d been in construction here in town for the last forty years. I glanced quickly at the fragility of my own hands on the desk behind the counter and winced.
He kept talking as I hid my delicate fingers, smiling and nodding, just keeping beat to the melody of the conversation he was writing. His hair was whiter than the early spring clouds floating outside, and it was thin, but combed and styled to perfection. He’d been to Scandinavia and the Balkans and Budapest. His sleek jacket fit shoulders that slumped unwillingly. His wedding ring rested loosely in gold as he joked about the tyranny of his marriage.
“I better not make any decisions here before I talk to my wife. Son, are you married? Do you know what I’m talking about? An old man’s feet rest on shaky ground.”
“I am,” I said. “And I’ve felt the tremors myself.”
He laughed with gusto at perhaps the only sentence I was able to complete during his visit. But I could tell he loved his wife with the confidence and sincerity of decades hand in hand. He wouldn’t stop bringing her up, and twenty minutes later, I saw them driving together down the road outside my office window.
“I spent two weeks cleaning the muck out of the bilge, oil from the pipes, grime, cigarette butts, and then they walk by a group of us getting coffee and ask, ‘Anyone here who can type?’ Well, you know I raised my hand for sure, and next thing I know, I’m working in the office, just a job, like you got here. Then, next thing I know, the captain’s yeoman goes on leave, and I step up to the plate. Nobody gave me any after that for the rest of my stay in the service. I didn’t make much money then, haven’t made much since. Didn’t shoot nobody though.”
Mel kept talking, and I couldn’t help but wonder. I’m just the gatekeeper, but they all stop to talk. They walk in for business and spend most of the time in communion. Not everyone stays twenty minutes like Mel did, but they all crave an instance of connection.
Recognition.
And their faces betray their half-hearted postures at maintaining distance.
Mel’s face spoke of experience. His stories were compelling, his voice commanding. He maintained eye contact, and I was completely aware of my youth in his presence. And I disagreed with him throughout most of our conversation as it drifted between politics, social commentary, and storage unit pricing. I disagreed with his contempt for the other.
But in watching his eyes, I could tell he was deeper than his skin, his political, religious, and cultural views. His eyes danced with his opinions, and to reject that dance would be to wholly deny his person.
Oh, I know. You might say that that’s exactly what he did himself in the space of twenty seconds when he ridiculed billions for their faith and accused every immigrant of rape and murder. He denied them their humanity.
But I’m not about to throw Mel out with his dirty bath water.
He sat with me for less than half an hour, and he proved his inner juxtaposition of this and that. We’re all made up of dissonance. We’re trying to balance the chaos. Mel’s been trying for sixty years longer than I have, and yes, in some places I’m sure he’s settled like warped concrete. Maybe he wishes he hadn’t.
But in other places he’s still reaching for heaven. We all are; those we love and those we misunderstand. Maybe that’s what I should have said when he took a breath, but instead I held mine.
“Yeah, well that’s my story.” He sighed.
I couldn’t figure out whether he was getting ready to leave or set up camp. He paused and rose to his feet.
I thanked him for coming into the office, and I let him know his reservation would be ready when it came time.
“Alright,” he said.
“Alright,” I said, and he left.