Nothing better to do

There I sat. The bench was hard and cold. The light, inadequate. Still, it was just enough to read by if I held my music at the proper angle. When I realized that, I suddenly deeply regretted lacking the foresight to bring along my library book. Rehearsal had been over for about 10 minutes, and Daniel had been gone for about 40. I was growing bored and needed something to do, so I picked up one of my many sheets of music and debated whether to attempt to sing some Charpentier under my breath.

The only light actually situated in the room was several feet away, at the opposite corner, above the desk where the guard, an off-duty sheriff, tan uniformed, a bit thick through the middle, distinctly bored, and rather obviously gun-carrying, also sat and waited. For him the wait was about the hands on the clock. At 10:30 he could lock up. For me, the wait was about something a bit more difficult to pin down. Sometime in the next hour Daniel would reappear, having picked up a friend who was fresh off a plane from Los Angeles.

The guard and I had already discussed his plight and mine. It was decided that since it really wasn't safe for me to walk anywhere else to wait, and since waiting outside wasn't any safer, if Daniel hadn't appeared by 10:30, the guard would drop me off at a pub nearby that might keep late enough hours that I could duck inside and out of harm's way to finish my wait. I would call Daniel and tell him where to find me, and it would all work out somehow.

In the meantime, I waited there in the foyer of the old Arts building. It was roomy and mostly made of glass. It had the look of an edifice intended to make an impression -- large, angular, strong lines that promise strength and beauty. There was plenty of glass and metal. Lately, the only impression the interior of the place gives is that it really needs some care. The hard lines have gone soft with age. The carpet is worn and ragged. The walls have taken on an institutional pallor more fitting for a hospital than a theater or gallery. A sign at the doorway leading into the rest of the building proclaims the intent to refurbish. In the meantime, though, the place is somewhat gloomy.

My bench was up against one of the glass walls to the exterior of the building, and the light that I read by was that of a street lamp filtered by the leaves of a tree. My eyes strained to distinguish the notes in the dappled light. I had decided to sing as quietly as I could, but the little bit of noise I was making soon became uncomfortable for me. Although I had needed to raise my voice to make myself heard by the guard when he had asked me some inane question moments earlier, I felt too exposed to muddle through the baroque masterpiece with an audience, even one as unlikely to listen or even hear as the present company. When I glanced up, I noticed that most of the time he was lost in his thought, staring off into the distance behind me, and his look varied between boredom and pain. He was aware of my presence, but I was clearly the least of his worries.

Determined to keep my mind and hands occupied, I settled on whispering rhythms, gently tapping my hand or my foot to keep the beat steady as I navigated the eighth and sixteenth notes with the dexterity and subtlety of an elephant climbing stairs. Thus I remained, drilling the more difficult passages in fits and starts, until the last people had trickled out of the building and the pale blue display on my cell phone indicated that 45 minutes had passed and 10:30 had come.

I lowered my music to my lap and looked expectantly up at the guard. For his part, he wandered near me and inquired as to when I had last heard from my husband and when I thought he would arrive. My wait was perhaps just 10 minutes longer, so the guard decided to wait there with me. Just the two of us, tired and bored in a big, empty building, with nothing better to do than wait.

"How long have you been married?"
I started a little, wondering at the simultaneously personal and casual tone of his question.
"Five years last month."
"My wife just left me after 23 years."*
"Oh. I'm very sorry." What does one say?
"Her name is Kelly. Look out the window behind you there."
I turned, and there on the next building over was the name of some business "Kelly ..." I didn't catch the rest. The rest hardly mattered. Speechless, I looked back at him and put my music down on the sloppy pile next to me.

"We met some new people. They have money. Lots of money. I don't. One of the women is young and worth millions. She goes both ways, if you know what I mean. Well, Kelly started hanging out with the woman more and more. Fine, I thought. She's found friends... and one of the men, I think, though I can't be sure... I think she may have left me for ..."

"I didn't see it coming. I had no idea... We were childhood sweethearts... we'd known each other since we were in third grade...

"I've never lived alone before... the house is so quiet..."

I interjected into his story now and then a quiet concerned murmur or a reflective question, as he filled in the details of the house, the kids, the bills, the history ... he talked on like nobody had listened in a long time. Perhaps nobody had. I was a captive audience, and he was in need of one.

"I think that may be your husband now." It had been eight minutes. He gestured to a car just pulling up outside. Indeed, it was him, with our friend, just as expected. I gathered up my things and left out the door that he had opened for me. "See you next Monday," he said.

"Yes, uh, I suppose you will. Take care."

I walked out to the car to join my faithful, constant husband who had, as he always does, come for me as promised. The guard went about the business of closing up for the night, before driving in silence to his empty house.

I'm not sure why. Sometimes it mystifies me. But I seem to be the hearer of stories everywhere I go. Stories like this one -- so often offered freely, unsolicited. Ordinary stories about ordinary people made extraordinary only by the details that separate each one of us. It has happened countless times. Almost without fail, whenever I sit or stand alone with nothing better to do, someone comes to me with a story to tell... usually a sad one.

Listening is powerful, too, it would seem. Once, in college, I listened to a stranger selling magazines, who then proposed marriage on the spot. He'd take me to Arkansas with him. We could leave right away.

I declined.

Sometimes listening is uncomfortable, but I don't have the heart to silence the storytellers. I feel too much for them and understand all too well the need to unburden one's soul through words. Simone Weil says, “Difficult as it is really to listen to someone in affliction, it is just as difficult for him to know that compassion is listening to him.” Difficult, yes... but somehow freeing and cleansing. For both, perhaps. I'm not sure if this, listening when perhaps nobody else will, is the gift I offer other people, or if this spontaneous trust is somehow their gift to me. Perhaps it is a gift we give to each other.

I do know one thing. When the sun goes down in my life, as from time to time it does, I pray someone will be there, sitting quietly in the darkness... with nothing better to do than to listen to me.

*The details have been changed.