The Pursuit of Friendship: Part 1

APRIL 2012-CHICAGO, IL

It’s Saturday night, and Daniel and I sit in his car outside of my building. Completely stumped, I cannot understand how our 5^th date has come to an end without so much as peck on the cheek or a touch on the hand. He can’t possibly be interested; why does he keep calling?

I have known Daniel for a couple of weeks by this confusing evening.  He checks in at least once a day, and has started calling me pet names like “honey” and “dear”. After hours on the phone and marathon-length dates, I cannot get past the fact that when it comes to romance, we are still at the starting line.

“Goodnight, Daniel,” I say with a forced smile as I slowly get out of the car. “I’ll see you again soon.” I walk to the door and take a quick glance back. Daniel, still in the driveway, waves goodbye. A feeling in my gut tells me this is the end. I walk inside, whole-heartedly convinced this will be the last time I see him.

The next morning, Daniel tactfully explains that he is not looking to date. While my inner voice wants to scream “THEN WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING ME OUT?!” my calmer, more rational side manages to muster up a response. I tell him that I appreciate his honesty, and would prefer us to go our separate ways. I explain that I am looking for something very different, and don’t think a friendship with him would be good for me.

Two weeks later I find myself in the middle of corporate chaos. I am working from home on this particular Tuesday, and am face to face with crisis. The day has been impossibly busy. By the time I look up from my computer, the sun is beginning to set. In a brief escape from my tunnel-vision, I notice a piercing stare from my beloved pooch. “You poor thing,” I gasp. “Gabby, I am so sorry! Do you want to go outside?” I reach for her leash and my blackberry as Gabby prances to the door. I have hardly looked at her since early that morning.

Walking around the block, I am amazed at how quickly the day has gotten away from me. What time is it, anyway? I wonder to myself, looking at my phone.

6:15-- my heart skips a beat as I read the numbers. But why? Is it because it is now 12 hours since I have left my apartment? Am I late for a conference call? Do I have somewhere to be? I frantically check my calendar. Nothing….

And then it hits me: my parking had expired at 4. I race down the street. This cannot be happening right now, please, let my car be there.

I continue to run as Gabby trails behind. Four more blocks and there it is: an empty parking spot. Sure enough--my car has been towed.

Breathless, exhausted, and now sans car, I begin to panic. I look down at my blackberry and remember the one number I have saved. I can easily go back home for my personal phone. I think. But who am I kidding? Four months in my new city, my only two friends are at work. Almost without me knowing, my fingers begin to dial. Rrrrring, rrrrrrrring….

And then he answers.

“Just when I was ready to give up…” says the voice from the other end. “…where have you been, stranger?”

“Daniel, I am sorry to do this to you, but I need a favor. I am having the worst day…” I say, tears welling in my eyes.

“Hold on,” he replies without hesitation. “I’ll be right there.”

Friendship

Minutes later, Daniel arrives at my front door. “It’s going to be okay.” He says with a hug. “What happened?”

I tell the story, but my mind is somewhere else.

“What a day,” he says, as he opens the car door. “But don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

And as it turns out, we did.

In the midst of my most stressful, awful, day, I stumbled upon something wonderful. I found a true-blue, there-when-you-need-him, 100% friend. 

The most life-changing impulse purchase I've ever made

SEPTEMBER 2010- DALLAS, TX

It's a quarter 'til noon and I'm scarfing down the last bite of my frozen dinner. Before I return to the day's tasks, I take a quick break on Facebook. Among the hundreds of updates, one post catches my attention: a picture of a teary-eyed puppy with a caption that reads "SAVE A LIFE TODAY". Despite my better judgment, I click on the link. My local animal shelter faces extreme crowding, and unless enough dogs are adopted today, many will be put to sleep.

Admittedly, I have wanted a dog for some time. Researching breeds for the past couple of months, I decide that a boxer is the dog for me. My demanding work schedule leaves little time for potty training, and my tight budget means that a purebred puppy is out of reach. Still who can resist that headline? I feel compelled to help, even if my bargain is against the odds. I offer a hesitant negotiation to adopt a dog if the following (very unlikely) pup is at the shelter:

Gabby's first picture. (I was still calling her Trixie) 

1. A purebred female boxer

2. She must be older than 6 months (this reduces the adoption fee by 50%)

3. She must be potty trained and up to date on all shots

4. She must be neutered and healthy

5. She must be available today. After all this, I have to help with the Facebook post!

I visit the shelter's web site and discover that adoptions are open until 5:45. It's going to be a close call, and I return to work. The end of the day arrives, and I head straight for the shelter. I pull into the parking lot at exactly 5:15 and race to the door.

"Good afternoon!" I hear from a friendly voice behind the counter. "How can I help you today?"

"Hi there," I respond. "I saw your post on Facebook about your crowding issue and I'd like to see if I can help."

My little party animal

"Oh certainly," the woman smiles. "But we are almost out of time. Adoptions close in 30 minutes. I can hardly expect you to make a decision that quickly. Would you like to come back tomorrow?"

"Actually, I know exactly what I'm looking for," I say, as I rattle off my list.

Remember:

-purebred female boxer

-older than 6 months

-potty trained and up to date on all shots

-neutered and healthy

-available today

"You're never going to believe this," she laughs. "Follow me." The woman leads me down a long corridor of barking and howling dogs. Young and old, big and small, breed after breed. Many of the kennels are packed 3 dogs deep. Wow, this place is crowded. I think.  We reach the end of the row and I am face to face with my fate. There she is: 8-months old, all her shots, healthy, "potty trained", and neutered yesterday.

Gabby and I during a walk in Chicago

"She was surrendered two days ago by her previous owners, and just became available today," the woman looks at me with a satisfied smile. "Her name is Pixie. Would you like to meet her?"

"Gladly," I reply. "But I hardly need to. We can go ahead and call this a done deal."

Two years and two name changes later, Gabby (formerly Pixie and Trixie) has secured a permanent place in my heart. Shamelessly enthusiastic, she wears her heart on her sleeve. Her propeller-like tail wags her entire body when I walk through the door. Outgoing and playful, Gabby never meets a stranger. The world is her oyster, and she's been known to strut down the sidewalk on our evening walks. Gabby has taught me patience, sacrifice, and unconditional love. She has been my companion through 3 moves, and her outgoing nature has even made me some friends. Despite the many carpet stains, chewed belongings, and veterinary bills (she is VERY mischievous), I have never regretted my split-second decision to bring Gabby into my life. While I'd like to think I found her one day in September, Gabby knows the truth. She found me.

Keeping me company while I work

to judge a book by its cover

JUNE 2012- CHICAGO, IL

Friday night and I am heading home from my third date with Nick. We are waiting for the train after an evening in the suburbs. I am having a great night and feel like we are really starting to develop a connection. Although I’ve only known him a short time, I admire Nick’s outlook on the world. Optimistic, ambitious, and compassionate, he challenges me to think about a situation from every perspective.

While we are waiting, I do a quick survey on the crowd. I notice an unusually dressed man sitting on a bench. He appears to be in his sixties, but his attire is more typically suited for a mid-20s rocker. His long white pony tail is tucked under a black leather hat. His hands are covered with the kind of skull-and-cross bone rings you find in a gumball machine. He wears a black vest with khaki shorts. His swollen feet pour out of his hiking sandals. I give him the once over. What a strange outfit. I think to myself. I glance over at Nick for back-up. Surely he notices too.

We board the train, and the unusually dressed man sits across from us. Nick takes me by the hand and points in his direction. The man’s head bobs up and down as he struggles to stay awake. He must have had some night. I think, satisfied I am not alone in my observation.

At the next stop, the unusual man gets off the train. He begins to pace the platform as we pull away. The man slowly drifts out of sight and Nick leans into my ear.

“Poor guy,” he whispers. “I wish I had given him some money”.

“What?” I say, judgment oozing from my mouth.  “Why would you do that? He looks like he’s been out all night.”

“Trish, he probably has.” Nick calmly replies. “He appears to be homeless, and my guess is that he has diabetes. Did you see his swollen feet?”

I am stunned at how quickly I have expected the worst in a stranger. How could I be so harsh? The clothes on his body could have been all he owned; his sandals, the only thing his tired, swollen feet could fit into. He could be out at 2 am because he has nowhere to go, and sleeping on the street is too dangerous. So what he has a crazy outfit? My quick-glance judgment blinded me to his potential need. I am left ashamed at my lack of compassion.

“I feel terrible,” I admit to Nick. “I didn’t even think of that.” I sit quietly in my seat as we continue home. My mind races across the many cries for help I could have missed. I make a silent promise to default to compassion, and remember a time I could have easily been dismissed.

OCTOBER 2011- LONDON, ENGLAND

The team on our last night in London

The whirlwind of my business trip in London had come to an end. After 5 days with no sleep, countless presentations, and a six-hour time change, I had reached my breaking point. Naturally, when my wake-up call comes at 6:30, I sleep through it. Fifteen minutes later, another call. Sometime around 7:30, I awake to a banging on my door. It is hotel security. They have come to check on me since I have ignored their many attempts. I assure them that I am alright, but my sleep-deprived sub-conscious prevents me from knowing that I am just 30 minutes away from missing my ride to the airport. I return to my bed.

I awake again at 8 to a ringing phone. These people will not let up. I think, half asleep. This time, it is my co-worker calling from the lobby. “Where are you?” I hear from the phone. This is when it hits me. I am going to miss my flight. “Give me 10 minutes.” I answer back and immediately drop the phone. I hear a faint “Wait, Trisha…” coming from the receiver, but I have no time to chat. I begin frantically tossing my belongings into my suitcase. Still in my clothes from the night before, there is not enough time for a shower. I manage to change and wash my face before rushing out the door.

I arrive in the empty lobby, frantic.

“Have you seen my friends?” I shout to the front desk.

“Do you mean those blokes?” I hear from across the room. I glance out the front door and see a cab pulling away.

“Oh no!” I cry as I sprint out of the hotel. “They have my passport!”

I run down the street yelling after the cab. The car comes to a stop as I open the door.

“We are so sorry; we waited as long as we could. Thank goodness you are awake!” My boss says as she hands me my passport. “You’ll probably need this. Brad is waiting for you in the lobby. He’ll take you to the train station. See you at the gate!” They drive away.

Pathetic and sweaty, I wander back to the hotel. I check out as my coworker, Brad, calls a cab. We arrive at the train station and he sends me on my way.

“Have a safe flight.” He says. “And do you have sunglasses in your bag?”

Confused and very tired, I ignore his last question. I walk to the platform and find that the benches are all occupied. I drop my bags on the ground, and take a defeated rest on my suitcase.

Paddington Station

“Is there anything I can do to help you miss?” I hear from a concerned but calm British accent behind me. Wishing for just one moment of peace, I turn from my hunched over position and am face to face with the shocked gaze of a train attendant.

“Oh, thank you,” I reply, “I’ll be okay, just waiting on my train to the airport.”

“You mean that train, miss?” He points behind me just as its doors are closing. “Not to worry” he says as he sprints toward the moving locomotive.

The attendant reaches the train just as it begins to depart. Panic strikes as I leap from my suitcase and run toward the doors.

“Oy! Oy!” he shouts. “Stop the train!” The doors open, and he extends his arms for my bags. He promptly crams my luggage into the sardine can of a storage area, and walks me to passenger seating.

“Could anyone spare a seat for the lady?” he says as he reaches for my arm. Yeah, right. I think to myself. There is no way anyone on a crowded train is willing to stand for 45 minutes so the girl who held it up can rest her feet. I scan the passengers and notice the same concerned stare.

“Gladly,” says a voice from the back. I am in awe as I move toward his seat. “Thank you so much,” I reply. The attendant looks me in the eye, gives a kind touch and says “Have a safe journey miss.” We depart the station and I take a sigh of relief. I reach into my bag and search for my makeup, hoping to mask my fatigue. It is only now I begin to understand the many concerned stares. Covered in sheet marks and mascara, my face looks like a sad clown. While I had managed to splash a few drops of water in my rush out the door, I had not considered the fact that my eye makeup was not water proof. With all of the running (and London’s extreme humidity) my scraggly ponytail would suggest that I had endured a tornado. I look down to realize that my shirt is on backwards and inside-out. I spend the remainder of the ride freshening up as best as I can, grateful that so many people had come to my help.

While the many dilemmas I find myself in may not be life or death, a helping hand always makes a difference. If it weren’t for the security guard, taxi-driver, Brad, or the train attendant, I would have missed my flight. I could have easily been written off as a stranger in a crowded train station, but the compassion of others came to my rescue. Months later, as I miss an opportunity to lend the same helping hand, I can only take it as a lesson learned. And vow to be that compassionate stranger at the next chance I get.