I’ve been down lately, not depressed, but down in the
ground, as in building a pit toilet. My lovely bride wanted one for the
“casita,” our tiny hideaway next to a sandstone bluff near El Morro, New
Mexico.
I had the hole – a six-foot-deep beauty – so had only to
build the platform** above it as well as the throne that would afford a view of
the rocks and stars.
The platform came out fine. It has 2x8 joists with hangers
and braces and plywood that make it strong enough for a herd (if herd is the right word) of square dancing
hippos to have a hoe down.
The plywood chute was tight, very tight, tighter than a duck’s butt, as they say, and had to be hammered in.
So all was good, even if the all was simply dealing with basic, foundational needs.
I like that. I can handle that, more or less. After years
teaching college I am ready for a break from all the quibbling over abstraction
and self-actualization. All that stuff can be a bit over-rated.
I thought I had it all down, chapter on basics closed. My
bride was going to ride our outhouse into the sunset, coasting on
the satisfaction that comes with successfully dealing with square one.
***
Then we went to Gallup this morning for supplies, big stuff
like food, a toilet seat, and gas as well as little stuff like finger nail
clippers and aspirin . My mountain bike computer battery had gone bad after
only five years or so of faithful service, so I was browsing the battery rack
of a real store (not many of those where we are in El Morro) and I saw the
battery – a flat disk with the designation 2032, the right one. I reached for
my back pocket to grab my wallet and it was not there. Hmmm.
Mr. Wallet was last seen paying for gas about five minutes
before. It was not like him to go off on his own like this. I began to worry.
I’ll save you the frantic search that followed. The upshot
was that my wallet, ID, money, receipts, and all that implies vanished,
dissolved, disintegrated, went MIA into the New Mexico ethers between the gas
pumps at Giant and the aisles of Safeway.
When entering this level of crisis, the world has a way of
jumping into sharp focus. Even the melting tar in the parking lot takes on a
karmic importance. The distance and padding between me and “out there” is ripped
open and away to reveal contact and
vulnerability. I became one with the panhandlers, day laborers, and derelicts
who haunt this particular crossroads.
I sit here writing this without even two copper pennies to
rub together.
Of course, what this kind of situation brings into focus is
what is really valuable. I did have a phone, a laptop, and the keys to my
truck, but that is not what I am talking
about.
I also needed ID to
fly to the Midwest in three days. That’s not what I am talking about either.
What I am talking about is my friend Tom. I called him from
the bottom of the heap of needs that had to be met before I could continue this
crazy adventure called civilized living and summer travel plans.
“Hello Mr. Toso,” he said with his amused formality into the
receiver. “How are things?”
“Well, I am here clawing my way to the bottom of Maslow’s
Hierarchy. I lost my wallet. I am frantic. No money, no driver’s license, no credit
cards. Just a laptop, phone, truck, and a full tank of gas.”
“So, what do you need?” he asked. I knew he was busy with a
life of his own: work, family, things to do. I said it anyway.
“My passport.”
Tom went to my home
in Tucson and found my passport. He then Fed Exed it to Albuquerque, where I will
catch my flight to Madison, Wisconsin.
That is what I am talking about. I am near the bottom in
terms of needs and am seeing things from the pit beneath my wonderful new
outhouse, from the clear perspective of no cash, and what I see is Tom: radiant,
light evanescence of Tom. He is my hero. I will never again utter the words pit
toilet, abject poverty in a strip mall in Gallup, or online cellular rescue
without thinking of Tom, Maslow, and the fragile web that holds us all above a scramble to survive.
* Phrase courtesy of Phyllis Siken
** Design work by Tom "The Man" Brightman
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