Twenty

Catcher in the Parking Lot

There are a few lines in The Catcher in the Rye about holding hands. Holden, being Holden, over-insightfully analyzes the process of holding hands with a girl he loved. I don’t recall the exact words, but I know he discusses how, with this girl, he didn’t feel awkward; he probably said something to the effect of it being “Goddamn swell.” The girl didn’t need to move her fingers around; he didn’t worry about sweating. They could sit there in a movie and hold hands, in the same position, and it was just great.

I love this part. I love it for a few reasons, one of which being that it’s just so Holden. Another is the beautiful weight, the simple significance Holden puts on the act of holding another person’s hand. Typical Holden, he manages to mock convention while discovering beauty in it at the same time. Ever since I was 18, there’s probably not a time in my life when I’ve held hands that I haven’t thought of Holden, of his sweet observation about how much love can transpire between palms. 

Today, at 45 years old, I was reminded of Holden yet again.

After driving 45 minutes, I finally found the suburbanly hidden, supposedly “less busy” Social Security Administration office I’d been meaning to go to for months. Just there to take care of some long-ignored, mainly irrelevant old paperwork, I was hoping it’d be a quick visit, but as soon as I pulled up, saw all the cars and the security guard out front I knew I’d best get ready to settle in for a long winter’s visit.

Initially chastised by the guard for bringing my delicious Panera Iced Tea TM near the building, I had to run back to the car. Walking across the parking lot in my second attempt to enter the building, I was approached, rapidly, by a 20- or 30-something short-haired and serious young woman. She walked awkwardly, stumbling a bit, and was focused intently on getting to me as quick as she could. Behind her, a tall, beautiful, well-dressed young woman of about the same age followed, calling her name, urging her to wait, to slow down. Putting two and two together, I figured out that the woman approaching me had some sort of special needs, but I had no time to be nervous about how to respond to her or worry that I was ill-equipped or awkward or anything of the ridiculous sort, because suddenly, she was close. Then, she was beside me, reaching for me.

“Hi!” I said as she grabbed on to my arm, holding on tight. Her caregiver was right behind, clearly on her way over to intercept her approach. She called her name softly and urged her to get in the car so they could finally head home. The woman holding my arm I guessed to be nonverbal, as she was trying to tell me something important but couldn’t. I said hi to the caregiver, as the caregiver explained to both of us that it was time to go home and get something to eat, since [name of other young woman here] had been so patient and good for such a very long time. I said that sounded like a great idea, and that’s when it happened.

The young woman holding my arm slid down toward my hand. I was distracted, talking with her caregiver, when all of a sudden, I felt a tightness around my hand. It was then and only then that I looked into her eyes.

They were huge, almost black, and beautiful. They spoke loudly, urgently. In the bottom of each of them, settled deeply in each lower lid, were tiny pools of tears that seemed to ebb and tide as she rocked back and forth. Beneath her eyes, her brown skin was streaked, lighter brown tracks streaking downward, indicating the path where many of the tears had recently fallen. It was these streaks that held my gaze. They told a story, a story of being trapped, both in a small, somewhat smelly waiting room and in a tiny body.

She held my hand oddly--tightly around it, closed like Pac Man, like a puppet eating its dinner. Somehow her tiny hand engulfed mine. At the exact moment I became mesmerized by the streaked face and pooled eyes in front of me, I felt the hand around my hand tighten. I looked down, saw her dark skin surrounding my pale hand, and suddenly felt a small jolt, an unyielding electricity transpiring between us, a story unspoken. I couldn’t have let go if I tried. Instead, I looked upward at those giant eyes. She was telling me she was ready to go home. She was asking me to take her, I knew it. I knew everything she was saying, all at once and with all kinds of energy. Pulling her caregiver back into our moment, I told the young woman I know you want to go home, and you did a great job. That wasn’t fun, I know. You can go home now. 

Her sweet, quiet caregiver unlocked our hands, told me to have a great day, and guided the young woman toward their car. I stood there for a second in the middle of the parking lot, iced-tealess and alone, watching them walk away, and I could still feel the tingling from the jolt in my hand. Then it was gone.

Inside, waiting (and waiting) for my number to be called, I just sat there. Instead of answering emails on my phone or checking Facebook, I thought about Holden Caulfield. I’m still not sure what transpired out in that parking lot, but I am grateful to have been part of it, because I know it was something really cool, really special. Those are the kind of moments in which you have to listen, to open your eyes and ears and realize that something wonderful is taking place and that you’re a part of it. 

That jolt invigorated me, and that young woman made me feel special for approximately 25 seconds. It came out of nowhere, but, like Holden, I know it was swell. Like Holden, I won’t forget it. I don’t know what this connection was or what it meant, but I do know it was wordless and it was wonderful.