Saving Graces - Elizabeth Edwards [96]
The women eating lunch on the carpet roll, the woman with the Bush sticker on her car—these are not women I knew before, but now, having traveled with them, having worked on something together with them, I knew I could trust them. And it was not just the women. It was also the people with whom we traded, with whom I still trade. Ricky at Green Front, Ginger at Market Square, Red at Latimer Alexander, Anthony and Pete and Doris—a whole world of friends disguised as business contacts. Like everything else I have ever done that would have been fun no matter what, it was miles more fun because I got to know the people from whom I was buying fabric or whatever it was.
B.A. and I were shopping with Ginger recently, asking about her daughter’s new house and the changes at her workplace, when another couple joined us, looking at furniture in the same showroom. They could not understand our relationship—who was the salesperson, who was I, why was a customer pulling out catalogs for them—because our relationship didn’t bear any resemblance to the model they expected. Somehow we have gotten to a place where we aren’t supposed to know the name of cashiers—although almost every one of them wears a name on their shirt. We don’t call by name the bag boy whose name is on his shirt or the waitress who told you her name when she handed you the menus. And I think we are worse for it.
Bobby used to serve the iced tea at the Belk’s cafeteria—“Sweetened or unsweetened?”—and his face would light up when he would see us, his friends, in line. And our faces would light up when we saw him. The last person to check me out in Target was Amy. The fellow framing our new house is Mac, and Steve is laying tile. So for our house in Washington I didn’t just buy furniture in High Point, I made a whole town of friends. And for the life of me, I cannot see why everyone doesn’t do the same thing. When I get on the phone to say the cable service is on the fritz, I listen for the name on the other end, and then I use it. I know that it may be a false name; when I call and reach someone named Harley in what is obviously India (which has happened), I am pretty sure it is a false name. But I use it nonetheless, because it is the way to treat people. Coincidentally, there is another benefit: unless I am mistaken, you actually get better service from people you have treated well. I spoke to a health care providers’ convention recently, and I told them to personalize their service. None of us wants to be “the patient in room 206.” Yet that is how so many otherwise good people think about the mailman and the maintenance man and the bag boy, as if they were all nameless. But the mailman is Edward, and the maintenance man at the children’s school is Drew, and the bag boy at Harris Teeter is Sam, and my life is better because my children and I can expect to be greeted with a smile by Edward and Drew and Sam.
So Washington, where people are treated as various levels of royalty, where a magazine publishes the A-List of the most desirable dinner guests for the upcoming year, was probably not a perfect match for me. But as long as I didn’t fall into that trap, I would be fine. I admit that I was pleased to sit at lunch with the wife of the ambassador from India—she is a genuinely lovely woman. And it was a great pleasure, an honor really, to go to the British embassy. The people were interesting and friendly, and I enjoyed every minute. But I also enjoyed Evelyn and Mr. Clare in the book room of the Goodwill retail store and Jimmy and Shakira, elevator operators in the Capitol. I still start up conversations with the person behind me in line at Home Depot.
My less-than-perfect fit with Washington was nowhere more evident than at an event the Senate spouses had for the First Lady. Every year, we had a luncheon for the First Lady, and every year she would return the favor. This particular year was Laura Bush’s first year, and the theme of our luncheon for