I love to give…from the heart, when it opens in truth towards another. But alas, it’s that time of year when those have tos, rear their cocky, cheeky, entitled heads.
We get a letter every December first, stating, how many years the building men have all been here, as my friend Ed so eloquently put it…though who really gives a shit?
Certainly not I.
I know it doesn’t sound like old, benevolent me, but it’s just my response, an Uzi to the head feeling more like a mugging than generous gesture.
I prefer selecting those who make a quiet, unassuming difference in my life, like my sushi man who always makes me a fresh quinoa roll whenever he sees me. I never ask for him to do this, so it’s nice to be treated with such kind regard.
Then there’s the fruit man on the corner who not only gives me credit, but will put a surprise avocado in my bag. They’ll both get nice, warm socks.
Danny, the mailman, who’s always late, apologizing as he drops things like the Mad Hatter of letters with a smile that could melt ice, will also get a gift…a little money, a pair of gloves.
Jose, the coffee cart fella, bestowing that complimentary donut when one’s having a bad day, he’ll get a John Lennon T-shirt who is, come to find out, to borrow language from Lincoln, his beau ideal.
Their humility and honest attempts at doing their best opens my heart, where the men here truly do not. They all have summer homes and brand new cars, a union that protects them no matter what they do. Paid vacations, and in the super’s case, a free apartment, attitude you can cut with a cleaver, plus top-of-the-line wages
Maybe they should be giving me an envelope.
Mother Teresa said, none of us can do great things, but that we can do small things with great love. I’m with her. Trouble here is, if I baked cookies or gave Starbucks cards, my hot water might be turned off. I’m bettin’ they all sport tattoos that say…
I love to give, from the heart, that’s beating in Yuletide protest.
Pollyanna, drunk at the bank.