"Where's Steve?" I asked the mechanic at the auto clinic's front desk.
"Steve's not here anymore," he said.
Now, I've been going to the same place for 17 years. Steve's always been there, including six months ago when I went in for an oil change. (I don't drive much.)
Later that morning, I drove to the place that's done my safety inspections for 17 years. A man came out. He said he's the only mechanic and inspector now, so no weekday afternoon or anytime weekend inspections. And I wondered what happened to the inspector I'd had six months earlier for my emissions test, the guy who always did my inspections, the guy who back when I had no money and a different car in essence said he passed me because I had Waylon Jennings singing on my car CD player.
That morning, I also went by a lot of closed businesses, some I'd patronized, some I hadn't. Dreams lost, livelihoods lost.
I thought a lot about Steve and my fellow Waylon lover when I got home. Had they been downsized? Found better jobs? Moved? Won the lottery? I wouldn't let my mind go (much) to whether they were sick or worse. And what about those business owners, their employees, and their patrons? Where was my familiar past?
Eventually, I turned to Genesis 19:26: "But Lot’s wife, behind him, looked back, and she became a pillar of salt." Lot and the rest of his family kept their eyes forward as they left Sodom and Gomorrah, and survived.
There's a fine line, I think, between getting stuck in the past, and using your experiences to comfort or help others. I'm going to do some self-examination about whether I cross that line too often.
But I still hope Steve and the Waylon lover are all right.
