Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [73]
You do that. You! Otherwise irrelevant and unimportant in this crazy, self-indulgent world of ours, you find some way to be selfless. It isn’t fake and there surely aren’t any ulterior motives behind your actions. After all, you aren’t going to benefit financially by being a great guy. You aren’t going to get tips from the clientele that ride your bus. As a matter of fact, you’re going to get your same paycheck regardless of what kind of attitude you bring to work.
But are you even really that special? I mean, you don’t do my taxes, you can’t represent me in the courtroom, and you can’t operate on me if I tear ligaments in my knee. You’re not a big shot, and you don’t bring home a six-figure salary. You’re just, well, a normal, run-of-the-mill kind of guy.
Except that you’re not normal. Which is the reason I’m writing to you.
I’m writing this note to you because I’ve ridden other buses, and I’ve had other bus drivers. Some are cordial and some are not. Some smile and some don’t. Some have an extra quarter lying around if we’re short on fare and others are penny-pinchers. Some can’t wait for the workday to end, while others, like you, represent what is naturally good about our society today.
We are so very necessary, guys like you and I. After all, without us, who is going to drive buses or move furniture? Who is going to fix cars or serve breakfast to those doctors and lawyers and accountants?
The crazy thing is that there are millions of people like you around our country! Just as there are millions of people with poor attitudes who wake up with selfish intentions, there are people like you, who wake up with the purpose of making a difference in somebody’s day. They’re everywhere: bankers, construction workers, retail employees, landscapers, and roofers; doctors’ assistants, dental hygienists, restaurant managers, and used car salesmen. Well, bad example, but you get the idea. The simple fact is that some people will go through their lives virtually unnoticed, while others, like you, will be remembered.
And I would just like to say “Thank you.” Thank you for making a difference in my life, however small you think that difference may be.
Today is my last day riding your bus. Chances are, I will never see you again, but at the same time, I want you to know that I will never forget you.
Cheers,
Adam Shepard
As I handed him the letter and exited the bus on that Friday morning, I really felt good about what I had written. My letter to the bus driver was applicable to so many people. There are many reasons that America is the greatest country in the world, and guys like the bus driver represented that. He—just like everybody else—had a right to a place in our society. He belonged. I could have made copies of that letter and started handing them out to people that had made a difference in my life in my two months in Charleston; people that had made a difference in my life since I had had the capacity to retain memory; people who had really shaped me to be the person that I had become; people who had made a difference maybe just once; and people that had been major factors in my growth: family, friends, bosses, coaches, and teachers. Average people performing above average feats.
I told Jill and Curtis that I would need Saturday off so that I could go car hunting. I had stocked up on cereal, milk, and orange juice, and I had prepaid a month’s rent to Mickey, which left me with just shy of $1,750 in the bank. I wasn’t sure what kind of car I would be looking for, but I knew the price: $1,000. Spending a grand of my money on a car would leave me with enough money in the bank for a couple of months of insurance and about $400 in the event that something went wrong with my new automobile.
If there was one thing that Max at Max’s Made-Over