I knew I was at the right address when I encountered a gun and handcuffs.
There, at the door, stood a sleepy police officer, complete with law enforcement accoutrements. I caught his eye and said quietly, “I have an appointment.” He gave me the once-over and allowed me to step inside, leading me to a small counter where I was instructed to put my things.
Two hours on the meter. That’s what I’d paid ahead of time at the parking garage, for the privilege of having my bag now searched, for walking through a metal detector (it detected metal; I went free after removing my shoes), for eventually sitting more than three hours to wait for Mr. L. to stop taking the walk-ins ahead of the appointments.
At about 2.25 hours in, that’s when my Artist Date officially began, though looking back now I realize I could have envisioned it that way right from the start, if only I’d been more attuned.
Of course, I’d brought a book and my new issue of Poetry magazine. The book, with what I’d eventually understand as irony, was This is Where You Belong, and it is partly about how to make yourself at home in your community. As it turned out, the IRS office was my mini-community for the day. And a woman named Katie helped make it that way.
Katie and her husband were walk-ins, so at first I was wary. Not more people! And they look so nice I’m sure they’ll be helped before me. No, no, no, no, no. So went my thinking as I watched a soft-spoken, genteel older woman and her husband (he was using a rolling walker) make their way slowly to the counter. I buried myself deeper into This is Where You Belong and felt my pulse rate increase even more than it had been in the past two hours, as I watched person after person be served because they were making payments on-the-spot, and I was just trying to make a payment in a more circuitous way by having the IRS confirm that I hadn’t stolen my identity (and thus they could go ahead and process my return, filed months ago).
The older couple was told to sit and wait—that it might be hours before they’d be seen. I felt a small relief. A glance at the clock, though, told me I hadn’t paid for enough parking time. I’d get a ticket. And that would add insult to the boring injury of this day.
“How many books have you read while you’re waiting?”
The older woman had sat two rows ahead of me, her husband now at her side, clutching an old orange-red-covered book. I held up my own new orange-red-covered library book and laughed. “Just three chapters.” She smiled. I thought to go back to reading. But it was not to be.
She told me her name and their story. He sat smiling sheepishly. The regrettable tale was about losing track of a life-long task of doing one’s own taxes. So now they were in arrears and hoping to make good. She’d driven very far to get to this grey, dull place. It had been arduous, and they’d gotten lost. It had been a long walk for her husband from the parking garage.
I closed my book and put it in my bag. My pulse settled down. We talked about chair yoga, exercise, the brain, longevity in Costa Rica (“Do they blame the wine?” Katie asked. “No, it’s actually about the power of social connection, ” I revealed, noting the small irony of that, too, as I sat here being invited to socially connect in the least likely of places.) I looked more closely at the book in the man’s hand. Old English Poetry, in translation.
“You like poetry?” I asked.
He smiled. I heard more stories. About a stint at seminary that spurred an interest in old languages, about the ownership of a rare Erasmus book, about how life feels like it’s now getting short and the books have become a burden that the children don’t want. “There are just too many books, ” she explained. “I’m getting rid of them, ” he said. “Or rather, they are getting rid of me.”
We talked about the feeling this couple has, that time is short. He’s 85 and retired from the reinsurance business. I don’t know how old she is. “You look fit, ” she told me, and assured me, when I revealed my age, that I might have another good forty years.
“I run a popular poetry site, ” I told them at some point, and I handed the man my new issue of Poetry. He ran his hands over the pages, scanned some of the poems. This is love, I thought.
Mr. L. finally called me to the desk. I produced my proof of identity (passport and driver’s license). He opened my file and began comparing it to a printed tax return I provided. Another walk-in came with a check in hand. “Just a minute, ” Mr. L. told me.
I turned to the older couple. “Let me read you a poem from your book.”
And so I stood and read, dramatically, the tale of a seafarer who was weary, hungry, and full of woe. I remarked that this was surely apt for a day at the IRS office. Behind me, at the desk, Mr. L’s demeanor lightened. I could hear his tone shift as he worked with the walk-in. About halfway through the poem (it was long), I stopped and said perhaps that was enough for today. Katie’s husband clapped and exclaimed, “What a wonderful reading!” For her part, Katie mused, “That was very good. I might need to read poetry.”
There was something imperceptible that grew between the older couple and me in those moments. Along the way, I’d torn the title page from Poetry (sorry, Poetry!) and written our website name on it. “What’s your name?” Katie had asked. I wrote that, too. Both my pen name and my day-to-day name.
When I turned back to the desk as Mr. L. was finishing up with the walk-in, Katie’s husband was about to rip the title page from his book of Old English poetry. “You don’t have to do that, ” Katie said. “Take a piece…”
I saw her pointing to the Poetry title page and I sat down and ripped a clean strip off the bottom. “Here, write on this.” I put the torn strip into his life-worn hand.
“What we’re doing here is making sure your identity wasn’t stolen, ” Mr. L. told me. I listened patiently and glanced back at the couple. While Mr. L. began typing more numbers into his computer, a slip of paper became mine. Katie and Tom H— was written on it, in a shaky hand. Beneath it, a phone number, an address.
“Looks like he gave you all our information.” Katie smiled. “Now I guess you’ll have to write us an Easter card.”
Back at the desk, Mr. L. looked up and smiled. “You’re fine, ” he assured me.
I thanked him, put my materials away, and turned to go. But first I stopped in front of the couple I’d initially wished had not come here as walk-ins.
“I believe I came here today to meet you, Tom…” (I shook his hand.) “…and you, Katie.” (I shook her hand). They beamed.
“I hope you don’t get a ticket, ” said Katie.
“If I do, it’s just the price I paid to meet you both.” I smiled, and I meant it. This was where I’d belonged.
Photo by Ian Sane, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by L.L. Barkat, author of Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity & Writing and The Novelist.
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Megan Willome says
This is a fabulous story! It’s set in a place we all hate. You’d done what you thought you needed to get through this mess, but in the end you needed poetry. And people. And to give a dramatic reading.
L.L. Barkat says
Who knew 😉
(You would think that I, of all people, would! 🙂 Well, it was a lovely reminder. The experience has stayed dearly with me.)
Will Willingham says
I’m still not quite sure how you managed to be that patient. But this is a really terrific story of what can happen, if one will let it, even in the midst of great aggravation. 🙂
L.L. Barkat says
Rule of thumb. Always bring a good book and poetry, wherever you go. But? I should have paid for more time on the meter. I really thought I was being careful by paying for two hours. Ha.
Katie and Tom made it a delight. I felt sorry for a Hispanic couple who had been there since morning (and the husband fell asleep about 3 times while I was there, before they got to the counter).
A favorite moment I didn’t get to put in the piece: they told me the story of how they met in Switzerland when he was there on business. “You’re a lucky man,” I told him. She immediately chimed in, “We’re both lucky. We always think of it that way.”
Such a heartwarming experience, in the end.
Laura Brown says
I love this. And I might want to read that orange-red-covered book.
L.L. Barkat says
I was actually thinking you might enjoy the book. 🙂
Sandra Heska King says
Oh my goodness! This is an amazing story. It sounds to me like you were right where you belonged. And, considering my current circumstances, sounds like something I need. (Did you get a ticket?)
L.L. Barkat says
Sometimes I think we have more power to help ourselves belong than we think we do. The book I was reading seems to suggest that, as well.
I did not! A nice surprise after the needless worrying. 🙂
Sharon A Gibbs says
Ahh, I can relate!
The habit of always bringing a book wherever I go started over 30 years ago when I was a young mother. If there was an unexpected delay, I’d pull a book out of my canvas bag and read to my sons in waiting rooms or the back seat of our car. We were, most often, able to get through the wait unscathed.
Today, I continue the practice for myself, having learned to make the most of those hours of waiting with my reading and writing. You remind me how those experiences could be more meaningful if I take some time to engage with others.
And to use what i or they are reading to bridge that gap. ?
What a lovely story!
(The red book is on my wish list.)
L.L. Barkat says
Yes, add writing to the list of wait-time diversions. Great idea 🙂
In general, I’m not averse to a wait. Even a long wait. I think what really threw me off here was that the appointment did not matter at all. Almost every person who just walked in went before me (and before the Hispanic couple that had been waiting since morning). On top of that, I had been instructed to “arrive 10 minutes early.” This, I suppose, was to test my patience even more 😉
Before meeting this older couple, I was entertaining myself by watching a mom and two kids who were not at all versed in IRS decorum. I felt a little sorry for the mom. But I was also amused (the little girl was especially good at getting around all the mom’s admonitions).
Donna Falcone says
This made me feel a warm and fuzzy inside… and really really happy for each of you – for you, for Katie, and for Tom. And yes, we have such power over our situations even when we think we don’t sometimes. I mean, we can’t always change our situation – I mean you were there – you needed to get this thing done – and so in order to do that you had to wait and wait and wait. BUT we can change our own attitude about the situations we are in… like how you chose not to be miserable about it and you probably, in making your own life bigger that day, encircled Katie and Tom, too. That’s the way it works, isn’t it? We never really know who we are going to meet in a day, or who will be needing who without even knowing. We are always in the right place at the right time, but it’s not always easy to believe it. I’m so glad you shared this. Thank you. I want to be more fully present to others and stories like this are great reminders of why it matters. 🙂
L.L. Barkat says
I felt that Katie was the one who’d encircled me. It was good of her to begin the conversation and good of them both to continue it. And then it was fun for me to live into it, yes, with the poetry reading. It felt quite mutual in the end.
Happy this made you feel warm fuzzy 🙂
Michelle Ortega says
Such an unexpected encounter, neighborly and refreshing! I love that you read the poem aloud- can just picture it!
L.L. Barkat says
I thought that if it didn’t mean getting searched every time, it could be fun to entertain people at the IRS in the future, with impromptu poetry readings. 😉
Laurie Klein says
“You’re fine.” Oh my, yes, you are all that and more. Wish I could have been a wee spider in the corner listening in to that reading. I feel I’ve been to a soul spa, and emerged stretched, toned, burnished. What a re-telling!
L.L. Barkat says
I love when a mere spoken sentence ends up saying more than intended, and we as writers can use it so easily if we think to. A gift. (And I love when someone like you notices the double meaning. 🙂 )
Really, I can’t imagine actually *intending* to do what I did. Yet it grew so simply and naturally out of the moment. Maybe that’s partly a definition of poetry & that which is poetic. Words, images, life… that just springs up and must find its way to a heart.
Marilyn Yocum says
“I handed the man my new issue of Poetry. He ran his hands over the pages, scanned some of the poems. This is love, I thought.” Just loved that, your recognition of a kindred spirit. Also, the comment about Costa Rican longevity as a consequence of social connection.
Thanks for the reminder to relax and stop sweating the timing.
Laura says
This story has a way of making believe that maybe, just maybe, we are all where we belong. For a little while anyway. 😉 Thank you for the soul spa, as Laurie says. Imagine if Katie and Tom were bowlers.
L.L. Barkat says
I think they would be very fun bowlers. Lively people. (Can you chair bowl? 🙂 )
It can be hard to find a place of belonging in places that feel, for one reason or another, hostile to us. I note that it was the presence of two special people that helped to transform this dull, annoying place into a special meeting place.
Bethany R. says
I love this. The warmth of that couple and your attention to them.
L.L. Barkat says
Thanks, Bethany. 🙂 It was a surprisingly remarkable and lovely encounter.