Last night I was at a church supper. Lots of people roaming around. Terrible food. Little girls twirled on the stage without any embarrassment. We sat at long tables covered with plastic covers that stuck to your arms when you shifted in your seat. The noise was painful.
I looked for a spot, not really knowing anyone. I don’t really like to eat much, so my plate of mixed things that all were white was really about having something to hang onto, not really about eating. My bottle of water kept me busy as I tried to fit in.
Then there was Richard. I sat next to Darlene who motioned across the table to her fiancé. These are not spring chickens. I reached out with my hand to introduce myself. The right thing to do. He greeted me warmly with a hand shake that could have taken out half of California. The tattoos up his arms told stories.
This was a wonderful moment for me. Here were people I needed to know. Remember, I am a writer.
After we finished the macaroni and cheese, I leaned across the table and asked Richard what excited him in the morning. What made him want to get up and start the day. Hell, where do these questions come from?
He paused. He thought. He chewed on his bottom lip. Then, he said, “I love to drive.”
“Drive?” I asked, a little confused.
“Yup, drive. I drive cars, I drive motorcycles, I drive a lawnmower. I drive.”
I sat back. This was a new look on life for me.
Then it came to me. This was a story. This man was offering me language, a view on life and a chance to see something through another’s eyes. This was special.
I have decided that I need to drive. My new goal is to stop everyone who will let me hold them up. I want to hear what gets you up in the morning. I want to learn about your passions.
Tell me about your drive.