Crumpled for Life

On a particularly blustery day in New York City, a young man of no more than twenty years strutted down the sidewalk on his way to class at the university. The cold wind whipped at his cheeks, turning them a rosy red while his conversation with his father the previous evening replayed in his head.

Your younger brother received word of a promotion in his construction career today. When are you going to start earning a decent paycheck? Art isn’t going to pay the bills. It’s a hobby, not a job. He never had approved of him attending college. Learn a trade. Why waste all that money? Anger swirled in his gut, threatening to rise like a geyser.

As he hurried along, a piece of paper the size of a sticky note found its way to the front of his black sweatshirt, where the wind held it captive. He was about to toss it aside when he noticed the handwriting. Holding it in front of him, he continued dodging oncoming pedestrians and read out loud, “Let it go.”

The young man stopped abruptly, and a stocky woman bumped into him, knocking the note from his hand. He watched it flutter as the wind caught its breath. The note landed on the ground in front of the woman before sticking to the sole of her shoe as she bustled along in the opposite direction.

Shaking his head, he lowered his chin to his chest to shield his face from the next gust and stomped on toward class. His father never had cared for his creativity. But he would show him just how wrong he was about art not being a career. Someday he’d see. Until then, he’d prefer not to answer his father’s calls anymore.

The stocky woman shuffled her way down the subway steps and boarded her train, heading to visit her daughter-in-law.

A younger woman watched as the older woman tried to find a seat. Despite her parents’ insistence that she should have the best of whatever her heart desired—from a seat on the train to the corner office with a view—the young lady stood and offered her a place to rest.

“Why, thank you, dear.”

The young woman noticed the yellow note sticking out from under the stocky woman’s shoe. “Excuse me, but it looks like you’ve dropped something.” She pointed to her shoe.

The woman leaned over, struggling to reach the slip of paper.

“May I?” The young woman didn’t hesitate to bend over and retrieve the damp square of paper.

As she held it out, the woman said, “Oh. That’s not mine.”

Curious, the young lady read, Let it go.

The train rolled up to her stop, and as she climbed the stairs leading onto the street where a high-rise stood above the rest, she left the note stuck to the subway tile wall. She had a meeting at nine o’clock, the outcome of which would determine whether or not she had earned the right to move from her current cubicle into her dream office with a view.

Thirty minutes later, she entered the conference room with her shoulders back and head held high, confident they would choose her. For the past seven years, she’d served in her position with excellence. She got along well with almost everyone in the office, and those who didn’t particularly like her, she was still kind toward. She loved her job and thrived at using her creativity to solve problems.

Before her manager even asked her a question, the human resources lady said, “I’m sorry. We’ve chosen someone else for this position.”

“May I ask who?”

“Michael.” The friend of the CEO’s son.

Deflated, the young woman returned to her cubicle, passed over for someone who apparently had the right connections. Someone far younger than her with less experience. I’ll show them …

A homeless veteran in his late seventies made his way up the subway steps, tightly clutching the few dollars a nice man had given him, afraid the wind would steal his lunch money. A yellow piece of paper caught his eye, a bright light amidst the black, red, blue, and gray fliers raging about the latest political contests and relating local happenings at joints that couldn’t seem to afford colored ink. Let it go. He snatched the note from the wall, shoved it in the pocket of his frayed, army-green coat, and headed off toward his favorite pizza place.

As he entered the restaurant, he noted the glances fellow human beings took from the corner of their eyes before returning to their conversations. He crossed the assumptions of others every day. “When you assume you know something, it makes an ass out of you and me.” He muttered the adage under his breath as he walked to the counter to place his order.

The kid at the counter greeted him with a step backward, putting distance between them. “What can I get for you?” No eye contact. No respect in his tone.

“I’d like two slices of pepperoni and mushroom pie with a bottle of root beer, please.”

“That’ll be $10.49.”

He handed the kid eleven neatly folded dollar bills, returning the twelfth to his pocket alongside the note. The kid crammed them into the register, then shoved the soda and pizza box at the veteran, who found a seat near the door.

He removed his Vietnam Veteran ballcap and laid it on the table. As he took his time enjoying every bite of the pizza, he studied the note. Let it go. What was he holding onto? The veteran inventoried his life.

As a child, he’d had it pretty good. He’d grown up on a farm in the warmth of the South. Hospitality had been his mama’s specialty. More than once he and his cousin had come in from a full day of working the fields to the scent of fresh-baked peach pie. He didn’t want to let go of those fond memories.

He’d made the decision to go into the army when his younger brother was drafted. Both served in Nam, but his younger brother never returned. And when he arrived back on American soil, the lack of welcome and the physical and mental health issues he faced prevented him from becoming a productive member of society—despite the purple heart he’d left at his brother’s grave. He’d gladly let go of those memories … if he only could.

He’d hugged his mama and daddy and left the South for New York City, where a fellow veteran, someone who understood his disabilities, had offered him a job. He’d worked a short while, only to be let go when his PTSD manifested in unacceptable ways at work. He’d tried a couple more jobs with the same results. By then, both parents had passed, and he was alone and homeless in a city that didn’t love him back.

He choked back bitter tears, crumpled the note, and tossed it over his shoulder.

A taxi driver settled into the front seat of his cab, set the pizza box down, and the crumpled yellow note rolled to the floor. A few blocks later, he pulled over to pick up a well-dressed businessman carrying a briefcase. As the man opened the door, a gust of wind picked up the crumpled note and rolled it to the backseat floorboard.

“Where to sir?”

“Woodbury.”

The driver made eye contact with him via the rearview mirror. “That’s gonna cost ya.”

“I’m well aware.” He pulled a wad of twenties from his wool topcoat and counted out the fare. After handing it to the cab driver, he replayed the message from his lawyer. I’ll meet you at the courthouse at two o’clock. It appears the judge is going to rule in favor of your ex-wife.

“I’ve gotta make a stop at the bank. You good?”

The businessman waved off the cab driver. “Yeah. Just get me there by 1:30.”

“You got it.”

As the cab made its way from the city limits, the sun peeked from behind the clouds, and the cab warmed. The businessman slid out of his wool topcoat, unaware of the yellow note on the floor. Instead, he focused on completing the work he’d preferred to have done at the office. He pulled his laptop from his soft leather briefcase, connected to his phone’s hotspot, and set to managing others’ funds while ruing how much of his he’d be handing over to his ex.

As if she deserved a nickel of it. She’d claimed abandonment as her reason for divorcing him. The guy who’d bent over backward to give her the life she wanted. The million-dollar home outside of New York City limits, closer to her family. The nanny who cared for their kids. The catered parties so her friends could gather poolside during the summer months. The voice lessons that were a waste of time, because Broadway would hire a crow before they’d hire her. And for what? So she could divorce him and take him for half of what he had because he worked long, hard hours to afford her life of luxury? He hadn’t abandoned her. She’d chosen his money over him.

He stared out the window and watched the Hudson River go by until it was out of sight, out of mind, like he wanted his ex-wife to be. With the city behind him, he turned his focus back to his clients and worked until the driver pulled the cab up to the courthouse. The businessman gathered his topcoat and briefcase, thanked the driver, and stepped out of the cab.

After a lengthy battle in court, he surrendered half of his estate, the house, and the dogs to his wife and called an Uber to take him to a hotel for the night. He’d take the train back to the city in the morning. As he maneuvered his arm into the sleeve of his topcoat, his hand brushed against the crumpled yellow note, pushing it to the floor. He bent over and retrieved it, wondering where it had come from. For a brief moment, he thought about tossing it into the nearest trash can but found himself wondering what it said. His phone alerted him to the arrival of his Uber, and he clasped the note in his fist as he headed for the SUV.

“I know my reservation says I want to go to the hotel, but I’d like to take a particular route, if that’s alright with you.”

The female driver had no problem driving him past his ex-house. He wanted one more glance at what he’d worked so long and hard to lose. After some light banter with the driver who asked too many questions for his taste, he uncrumpled the note in his hand and read Let it go. He stifled a cynical chuckle, recrumpled the note, rolled down the window, and through gritted teeth said, “Happily.” Then he chucked the yellow paper out the window, where the wind lifted it once again.

This time, the note settled at the base of a mailbox on a street within the cul-de-sac community the cab drove through.

A stay-at-home mom of four, who was in her early thirties, had just put her children down for a nap and headed outside for a moment of peace, to bask in the sunshine, and check the mail.

Life had recently thrown her family a curveball. She’d been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, and the doctors had told her the disease would progress quickly. At most, she had six more months with her loving husband and the human beings who had filled her life with joy these past eight years.

As she pulled the mail from the box, a lump formed in her throat and tears threatened to spill over. She shook her head and half-laughed as she remembered her high school softball coach’s encouragement on the field. “There’s no crying in baseball!” Unlike Tom Hanks’s character in A League of Their Own, her coach used it to remind the girls to toughen up when life was about to take them out of the game.

But today, she couldn’t hold back the thoughts that gripped her heart and squeezed until the tears overflowed. How will Matthew manage life without me? Why will the kids have to grow up without a mom? That doesn’t seem fair, Lord. And what about my hopes and dreams? They can’t be fulfilled if I’m not here. Will I be able to watch their lives unfold from heaven?

Emotionally drained, she dropped to the ground where she stood. Tossing the mail to the side, she buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

Why me, God? Why me?

After a few moments, without an answer, she wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks, lifted her head, and noticed the crumpled yellow ball at the base of her mailbox. She reached for it, uncrumpled it, and read Let it go.

And in her spirit, in that one moment, she knew it would be okay. Not easy. But okay. All she had to do was let go, and God would take care of the rest.

The young mother scooped up her mail, stood, and made her way back inside her home. As she listened to her older middle child read a book aloud to her youngest, both of whom never seemed to tire enough to sleep during their naptimes, she pulled a magnet from the refrigerator door and placed the weathered yellow note where she would see it for the remainder of her days. And it could remind her family later that it was okay to let her go, because she would forever live in their hearts.