I just noticed and approached the CEO of Xerox at umami burger on 6th Ave. We had a short conversation in which she asked what I did and where I went to undergrad. It felt like a mini interview, but cooler – but then less cool, because I’m not sure how I’d be in touch with her again. I didn’t want to be intrusive. Where there’s a will there’s a way. The burgers were also delicious.

On the train around 8 last night heading into lower Manhattan, I was sitting next to a mother and her two boys. The one who caught my attention in particular was probably about six years old, but looked like a chubby man. He had big curly hair, glasses that seemed embedded into his face as if he’d worn them for a lifetime, and a square jaw. I don’t remember if he had freckles, but he seems like the kind of kid who would have – and wrinkles.

We were on the D train, and running parallel on the other side of the platform must have been the A. The brother of the boy that I just described, probably also around six or seven years old with curly hair, stood up and told his mother that they should try to catch the other train that had already stopped at the station as we pulled in. There were lots of people in between and the likelihood of their catching it after also crossing the platform wasn’t that great, something his mother must have realized. She decided that they would wait until a later station to try to make the transfer. I don’t know what awaited that little boy at the end of a ride on the A, but whatever it was was enough to make him cry at the thought of missing out.

Whenever children start to cry I always feel like they’re just joking, and I am often amused. Then I see the actual tears, and while my amusement does not give way to guilt, it is usually accompanied by it. The tears come almost immediately which is also quite astonishing. It is as if their faces are bipolar, transforming from smooth to wrenched accompanied by Bellagio-type water works at the flip of a switch. I always want to ask “How did you do that ?!” It is only then that I’m reminded that they are in fact children. And that they are in fact crying. And that they are in fact far from joking, because “issues” are “problems”, and their “problems” are very real, and huge. Like missing the A.

As we left the station that boy stood and looked through the windows of the D at the A on the other side as they both rode parallel through the tunnel until it disappeared. He cried more. The trains eventually met again after a few minutes and the mother’s decision was vindicated, her quiet resolve rewarded. What mattered most though was the response of the curly haired, bifocaled little man to his brother when he first started crying. He put his little hand on his brother’s back and said, “Don’t cry… Life is good.”

Yesterday evening I went out to buy a Spanish book to improve my grammar and begin a regimen more focused on verbs and their conjugation. How I ended up at a mixer for several hundred professionals and people who like ratchet music is anybody’s guess. Work hard, play hard apparently.

As I stood with my friend over the course of the evening, occasionally connecting with people I knew as they walked by, I people watched. I had a drink. Tyson Beckford walked by. I watched people watching him. I read lips. I lip-synched. I listened to music. The women were still melting. So was my ice. I thought about all the Spanish verbs that were probably going to damage my self-esteem, so I decided to continue feeling good about myself for the time being. I got another drink. I watched people watching other people. I watched Beckford walk back on his way out the door. While this was inherently interesting to some extent, it was much more interesting because of the reaction of other people.

Then it happened.

A woman seated immediately behind where my friend and I stood, reached between us and pushed a piece of paper at TB just as he passed. She practically jabbed him with it. He took it, which was not entirely surprising, but that he began to engage her was. She seems to have been the most surprised of all. He studied the card, while I looked at it too. It seemed to have a picture of a saint in the catholic tradition and a line of very small writing at the bottom. In a slightly annoyed if not perplexed tone he said, “What’s this?” I’m impressed that he inquired because I probably would not have. The girl sheepishly said, “It’s my number”. He turned over the card, to reveal… nothing. The other side was as blank as this woman’s chances appeared to be dim. He replied with another to be squandered opportunity, “Ookayy. What do you do?”

Her response made both my friend and me cringe. I literally cringed. My “cringe muscles” cramped. They are still sore, because I am still partly cringing. He said, “Ookayy. What do you do?”, to which she said in a very meek and hopeful voice… “Anything?” (read: “Pleease, Sir.. may I have more porridge?”). Anything… I wish that I could describe the look on his face. It’s not that I cannot locate the appropriate words and corresponding shades with which to describe the color draining from the situation and our own faces… it’s that I simply did not look. I could not look at him. Or my friend. Had there been a mirror set right in front of me, I would not have been able to look at myself. I was that embarrassed. But eventually (after the split-second that I just described which felt like an eternity), I did look. His face said exactly what I was afraid that it might. In the meantime, she composed herself and in a last ditch effort to salvage whatever dignity she could scrape up off the floor of the 40/40 club, she said, “I represent artists!”. He said, “That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to tell me.” And then he walked away. I looked at my friend and said, “Well, THAT went poorly..”

Besides trying to decide whether he was being savvy (and he himself not wanting to squander a possible opportunity), being patient, polite, or simply curious; I have to say that I respect the way that he handled that situation. There were no frills, but he did engage when I’m sure that many other people would not have. He gave the young woman every opportunity to explain and present herself, and she collapsed astonishingly. Even though I know the value of having crisp introductions (elevator pitches) and professional business cards, this was a real live case study; and one when I least expected it, which is in large part the point.

This guy showed that we should be patient with others even when it seems that they are asking for our help. We may be able to give it, which would be inherently rewarding; but they may also have a pleasant surprise for us. Furthermore, if we are seeking opportunities to shine and move forward, and if we are bold or courageous enough to step forward, be ready. The amount of time that TB spent with this lady, after his body guards had already cleared a path for him, and after he appeared to be leaving with purpose, indicates to me that this lady may have had his ear had she said something compelling instead of undisciplined. In the blink of an eye, her life could have been improved. It’s a lesson that I hope she learned, though it’s an experience I doubt that she will ever forget. These were things I learned more deeply by reminder.

If you are not an organ donor, you should give it serious consideration. After serving 8 years in two organ procurement and donation boards, and having two siblings die, I know how real this is.. #canttakeitwithyou