1469 words, reading time 5.9 minutes
I had casual conversations with three men on a recent business trip. It wasn’t until I was thinking about them on the way home that I realized how special each visit had been, and what wonderful surprises were in store for anyone who noticed these men and took a moment to pass the time of day. Here they are:
DANTE
Dante worked at the hotel where I stayed, cooking breakfast for the guests at a breakfast buffet. I met him the first morning — he was hard to miss with his tall white hat cocked at an angle, and wearing a smile that lit up the room.
“How do you want your omelet, sir?” He almost sang it to me in a West Indies Accent.
“Oh, just ham and cheese,” I replied, “winter in Baltimore must be a lot colder than where you’re from — Caribbean?” I asked, just to make conversation.
“Oh, yeah, man, this is even colder than where I last moved from — Arizona, I really loved it there,” he said.
“Why did you move here?”
“Well, my mom was sick and I came to take care of her. And when she died I had taken this job.” He smiled and cracked more eggs for the grumpy guy behind me in the line, who seemed to suspect that our conversation was going to delay his breakfast.
“Why didn’t you move back there afterward? There are lots of hotels would love to have a cheerful cook like you.”
“Yeah, I know, but man — I really love what I do here — and in Arizona you gotta go to this school and get a food handler’s license. And I just wanna cook, man. And now I got a girlfriend and I’m happy doin’ what I do. So I put up with this cold, because that’s not as important as doin’ what I love to do.”
We said our good days and I took my eggs to my table, and behind me I heard Dante telling the next guy, he was going to get a specially good omelet for being patient while Dante ‘visited with his friend Tom’.”
Dante had next few days off, so I didn’t see him till the day I was preparing to leave.
“Hey, Tom, goin’ back to that warm California?” he greeted me.
“Yep, Dante, going home today. I just came by to get one more of your omelets.”
“I’ll make you one up special. You take care now, and I’ll see you when you come back.”
He was as happy as he’d been the first day I met him.
I’ll always remember the Jamaican guy who didn’t mind the Baltimore winters as long as he could cook omelets for the guests in that hotel. Doing what he loved to do.
TILLEY
The hotel desk lady told me that they had a limo driver who could take me to the airport. I thought she said he was named “Tilley.” I pictured a kind of Irish guy so I was surprised when my driver turned out to be emphatically Middle Eastern.
“Where you from?” I asked him, as we got under way.
“Casablanca,” he said.
“Oh, I just wondered. When they said your name was Tilley I expected a Irishman or Englishman.”
“Do you trouble if I’m Moroccan?” he asked, “Because I can turn you over to another driver if you prefer, Sir.”
“Oh no, I’m fine, and you have a lovely car.” I said.
Then after driving in silence for a while I asked him why he had offered to get me another driver.
“Well, since 9-11, some people don’t like me because I’m Moroccan,” he told me. “They don’t care that I’m good driver and not Al Queda.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I told him.
“Yeah, last week this guy told me that my people killed friends of his at the World Trade Center. I told him that those were Saudi Terrorists, and I’m American citizen for twenty years. It didn’t make difference for him.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “My dad’s from Iran and my daughter got hassled in school back in 1980 when the Iranians took those hostages from the American Embassy. And she was born here and has more Danish blood than Iranian. People can be pretty dumb when they’re mad at someone.”
He chuckled, “It doesn’t bother me very much, Sir. I’m married to a wonderful woman and have two wonderful children. They love me. And I own this fine car and have a good life. These rude guys don’t bother me at all. I know what people say to me isn’t really about me. I’m happy and I know God loves me.”
He was a very wise man.
We rode the rest of the way to the airport in companionable silence.
ODAMA
On my way to California I had to switch planes in Atlanta, with more than three hours between flights. I made my way to the airline club to wait in comfort. It was a slow day with very few people in the club. The room was warmed by the sun streaming through the windows in cozy contrast to the icy day outside.
As I made my way to the men’s room I passed a shoeshine station, high leather chairs against a wall. I startled an older man sleeping in the sun in one of the chairs, and arranged to get a shoeshine on my return from the restroom to make up for waking him.
He was from Nigeria, and as we talked I asked him if a slow day at Atlanta airport did him much damage in the pocketbook.
“Oh, I take it as it comes,” he said. “God knows what I need and it all balances out. Some days slow, some days busy. I never fret about what I can’t change. I just think about doin’ my best and things turn out mostly okay.”
He whistled a little tune to himself as he worked over my shoes, nodding his head as he whipped the cloth around my heels. As I got down I reached to shake his hand. He pulled away.
“Oh, no Sir, I’ve got polish on my hands and you’ll get dirty.”
“I’ll go wash up, but I want to shake your hand and than