I went into a house and it wasn't a house—
Slow white petals from the may-tree fall;
But it hasn't got a blackbird,
A blackbird,
A blackbird,
It isn't like a house at all.
I don't know where I'd be today without A. A. Milne's poetry. The word "bask" would have probably come into my vocabulary at a much later time than it did (and thus enter my conversations far less than it does) were it not for the poor old shipwrecked sailor "Who had so many things which he wanted to do That, whenever he thought it was time to begin, He couldn't because of the state he was in" (and who, by the way, is uncomfortably similar to myself ... though that's the point of the poem, isn't it? if one could be so bold as to insist that a Milne poem is intended to make a point...). I love rice pudding, which can quite possibly be attributed to the vehemence with which Mary Jane (and Casey in Candleshoe) despise the dish. And I may have never known that "Jack" is a nickname for "John" (did you know that?) were it not for King John's lesson in humility as his letters to Father Christmas become increasingly desperate in his quest to receive his "big, red, india-rubber ball". The list of things I learned through exposure to Milne stretches on ... he taught me to distinguish between geraniums (red), delphiniums (blue), and chrysanthemums (yellow and white) — and how to spell the convoluted names of all three specimens at an age when reading each Boxcar Children book was a journey of several days — he taught me that the Queen can declare one's hands "purfickly clean" ... it may be thanks to Milne that I always do like a little bit of butter on my bread ... and who could ever forget (Now, then, very softly) J. J. M. M. W. G. Du P., who Took great C/o his M***** Though he was only 3? At the oddest times I'll remember a snatch of one of his poems that is somehow precisely applicable to my situation in life, even though I am neither Very Young nor any longer Six.
Tonight I encountered one such situation.
For several months, while my car was out of commission (due to a thrown rod that suddenly placed my poor vehicle in dire need of a new engine and radiator ... and my funds were insufficient to fulfill that need), I relied largely on the Tulsa Transit bus system to carry me to and from work.
Acknowledgement here is appropriate for those wonderful people to whom I am greatly indebted for providing me, at the collective cost of much of their own time and convenience, with rides to and from bus stops — rides that were not necessary but were incredibly helpful.
As my route home at night consists of two separate busses, with an eighty-minute layover between them, many of my evenings from 9:00-10:00 PM were spent at the McDonald's near 71st and Yale, where I would read, solve Sudoku puzzles, listen to music, perhaps try to catch a nap, and nearly every night order my signature Mocha Frappé (medium, with an extra shot of espresso, an extra shot of hazelnut, and whipped cream but NO chocolate syrup). Within a couple weeks, I was a familiar face to the evening staff at that McDonald's, and one or two of the employees would even go so far as to begin preparing my Frappé as soon as I walked in the door ... a couple of times they even gave it to me free of charge. I felt welcomed.
I regret to say that I cannot recall the names of any of those employees, though I know their faces at a glance. I held friendly conversation with the night manager; I once managed to order my Frappé in Spanish for the benefit — and to the delight — of a young lady whose English is still slow (I did have to ask her the Spanish word for "syrup" [miel]); I chatted about a variety of subjects with the exuberant young man who once made me an unsolicited (but welcome) second Frappé just for the fun of making it, and whose name is on the tip of my tongue but sadly still escapes me.
Once my car was finally repaired, I no longer needed to take the bus and therefore no longer had a reason to stop at that McDonald's on the way home. However, I did stop by a couple of weeks later, just for old time's sake, and I saw the face of my just-barely-nameless friend light up when I walked through the door; he immediately asked if I wanted my usual and gave it to me free of charge. It was like returning home after a long vacation.
After that night, the McDonald's largely faded from my mind as the other inevitable demands and concerns of life pressed upon me. Tonight, for the first time in a couple of months, I dropped by that McDonald's again on the way home; walking through the door brought back a host of vague memories characterized mainly by feelings of ... sentimentality ... and I was slightly amused to consider the seeming impossibility of a cold, plastic, fast-food environment arousing such warm, homey feelings. With an almost-foolish smile, I strode to the counter ... and as I realized that I knew none of the faces behind it, the smile faded. The unfamiliar manager-on-duty regarded me calmly but distantly as he waited for me to make my order, and the workers at the drive-thru window, whom I had never seen before, barely glanced at me.
In the slight shock of seeing such an unexpected turnover in employees (ALL of the workers I knew were supplanted in such a short period?), I fumbled slightly with my order, but rattled off the recipe for my signature Frappé with constant searching glances for any hint of recognition. I saw none. Perhaps the people I knew are all working shifts earlier in the day ... or simply no longer working Thursday nights ... perhaps they have moved on to more distinguished jobs than "fast-food cook at McDonald's". All of the employees I met there had bright personalities, almost tangible aspiration, and warmly professional demeanors, instilling in me even as I grew fond of them a certainty that they would sooner or later move on to some higher calling. Yet what higher calling is there than to brighten, for however brief a moment or for however long a memory, the lives of the people whose paths we cross — perhaps once in a lifetime, or perhaps many times with an abrupt and final end? I was surprised at how disappointed I felt to lose that welcoming sensation of almost-camaraderie with those five or six friendly McDonald's evening shift employees.
The employees present tonight prepared my Frappé and I paid for it, and though one person seemed vaguely familiar (he might have been one of the people I knew, with a different hairstyle), I caught his eye several times and never saw the slightest spark of recognition. The place was keenly familiar, but the spirit I had come to take for granted had disappeared. Downcast, I carried my treat back to my car as a line from Milne's poem ran through my head:
"I went into a house, and I thought it was a house...."
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