Time You Enjoy Wasting Is Not Wasted Time

I’m not sure why I thought of this story, maybe because of Thanksgiving coming up, but I was thinking back to a time at least 12 years ago, when I was still an undergrad. I had gone home for a break, maybe it was Thanksgiving break, maybe Christmas, I don’t remember, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t summer.

I had brought my friend Ian’s guitar home for him because I had room in my car for that. So one afternoon I left my Mom’s house, guitar in hand, all set to drive to Brooklyn to deliver the guitar and see my friend when as I closed the front door I had the realization that I was missing something. My keys! Dammit! I left my keys in the house and guess what, I’m locked outside now! Luckily for me I had a spare key to my car door, just the door not the ignition since the key was in case I accidentally locked my keys in my car, so I locked Ian’s guitar in the trunk so I didn’t have to lug it around all day. Then I decided I would walk to a pay-phone, remember this is in the days before everyone had a cellphone, and call my Mom. I told her I locked myself out of the house and would be at the Diner down the street if she could pick me up on her way home from work. I also called Ian and told him I was an idiot and couldn’t get his guitar to him until tomorrow…

I then walked down to the Diner and hung out for a couple of hours. I don’t remember if I had much money with me or what, but I know I didn’t order much. And you can only take up a table for so long before the waitress wants to get someone else in. So I walked around and eventually wound up hanging out in the lobby of the diner.

Now, you have to remember, while the substance of my character was much the same my outer appearance was less mainstream than it tends to be these days. My hair was down to my waist, my beard was bushy, I was in my normal clothing, which was jeans, T-shirt, flannel, with my leather jacket and either Chucks or combat boots (I don’t remember exactly what I was wearing). It was an interesting sociological experiment. Most people ignored me. Some looked on with disgust. But one group of people were the Good Samaritans, and it struck me as ironic. They were the stereotypical looking biker gang. From the tough-looking guys to the bad-ass gals, society would have you think they’d just as soon rob you than help you. But of all the people who passed me by it was the bikers who actually stopped to talk to me. They asked if I was all-right. They offered me a ride if I needed to go someplace. They were genuinely concerned about me. I knew I would get home soon, so there was no problem, but it was nice to have at least one group of people notice that I was there. I find it most gratifying that it was the seemingly least likely group who did stop.

I’ve told this story before, because I like it and its don’t judge a book by its cover twist. Still all these years later, I still remember it. Thank you anonymous group of bikers, you made my day that day!