Tuesdays With Maria

Every Tuesday morning before work, Maria and I meet for coffee in Elements coffee shop on the ground floor of the Kane Building, in my opinion the ugliest building in Ireland.  It's saving grace is that they have a wall of windows that face due East and so, in the morning, the entire coffee shop is flooded with sunshine.    

Maria and I first met through work nine years ago.  We are the same shape and size, small and dark.    That's where the similarity ends.  Maria is deeply empathic, she cares about everyone, she knows everyone and yet is an introvert.  Quiet people puzzle me. I don’t trust people who don’t talk, their silence makes me suspicious and I feel they’re judging me.  So, in the early days, it would be fair to say I did not foresee us becoming friends.  We sit at desks five feet apart screened off by a divider.  I don’t see her but I hear her.  Being an extrovert, I love dealing with people but I have almost zero patience with bleeding hearts.  Maria however, has vast reservoirs of patience, she is innately kind and is driven to help everyone who crosses her path. 

Somehow the universe saw fit to throw us together.  On Tuesday mornings, we meet and brace ourselves for the slings and arrows that lay ahead.  I trust Maria completely. She is the most non-judgemental person I know. I rant and she listens.  Sometimes she lets off steam and I wonder why she’s making such a fuss. 

Maria is a perfect people person.  In her quiet non-intrusive way, she effortlessly remembers peoples' names, their birthdays and the names and anniversaries of their children too.    Most days she is writing a card to someone because it’s the anniversary of a milestone in their life. Walking to the carpark together at the end of the day is like a cocktail party with Maria only without the cocktail and the dress; she greets everyone by name, and they all know her by name too.   

In Elements, the staff don’t smile much.  Maria always greets the barista with a smile, “Good Morning Jordan,” and then turning to me, she told me that Jordan was from Manchester but his Mam's from Cork and he was dragged back here a few years ago.  Jordan struggles to respond in kind and says, “Ah Cork isn’t too bad.”   After Jordan was promoted to the deli counter, he was replaced by a woman who seemed equally dour.  This woman double stamps my loyalty card whenever I’m with Maria. When I noticed this, Maria laughed and said, “Amanda always double stamps mine too, don’t you Amanda?”   I remarked that Amanda was a lovely name.  Amanda gave me a 3^rd stamp before handing my card back. 

Over the years, Maria’s kindness towards others has rubbed off on me.  I have changed my telephone manner from confrontation, ridicule and disbelief to giving people the benefit of the doubt as she does.  Sometimes, listening to her talking to people who take advantage of her gentleness makes my blood boil.   Yet, it’s Maria’s desk that is covered in Thank You notes from grateful customers she has helped and nearly every gift – a bottle of wine or box of chocolates - that passes into our office has her name on it. 

As is the way with courageous people, I’ve learned from Maria that it is not always the bravest that roar.    One particular customer of mine, who I shall call Johnny, used to sign up and then almost immediately cancel his order.  He did this several times over the years.  The first time I spoke to him, he told me he was trying to sign up, but something was blocking him.  I checked his account.  I saw that he owed money from a previous order and told him that this was holding him up.

  

“No, I don’t,” he said.

“Yes, you do,” I said, “you owe it from last year.”

“But I cancelled.”

“You mustn’t have done it properly; you are still on record as being here.”

“But I always cancel.”

“Well, you didn’t do it this time.”

“But you should have known I'd cancel.  I cancel every year.” 

That irritated me:  it was my first time dealing with him and with several thousand customers, why would any reasonable person think I would remember his account.

And then in a business-like tone, he said, “Anyway, the Council will pay for me.”

“No, they won’t," I said, "you’re repeating.”

“I cancelled," he argued, "so I can’t be repeating. They will pay.”

Rather than let this pointless conversation continue, I ended the call and decided to check with Delores, my contact in the Council. Delores is tougher than the FBI.  

Delores sighed in resignation when I mentioned Johnny’s name, “Yeah go on, invoice us.”

“You’ll pay?!?”

“I don’t have the strength to be dealing with the likes of him,” and she hung up.

To get it over with, I processed the invoice immediately and put it in the post.   An hour later Johnny rang again.  He sounded triumphant.  “I cancelled last year,” he said.

“It’s ok, Johnny,” I said, “I invoiced the Council for you.”

“What did you do that for?” He sounded shocked.

“You told me to.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did," but then confused by his certainty, I started to doubt myself. 

“So,” he said gloating, “you can cancel that.”

“Johnny,” I said, “I am going to end this call now,” and despite his protests, I carefully restored the phone into its cradle.  Then picking the phone up again, I slammed it into the desk.  Springs and bits of plastic went flying through the air.  Some of them hit me in the face. I went to smash it again but Carmel, who sits behind me, wrapped her arms around my body and held me like a strait jacket.   

“Ger,” she said, “it’s only a job.”

I burst into tears.

Ann came running over, and surveying the damage said, “Let’s go for a cup of tea.”

“I don’t want tea,” I blubbered through the tears, “I want to kill someone.”

Ann ushered me from the office.  I couldn’t face anyone with my red eyes, so we sat on a bench while I let her talk me down.  After ten minutes of listening to Ann’s soothing reassurances, I reluctantly agreed to go back. I then remembered the flying plastic.  I wailed, “And I broke the phone.”  Ann said, “Don’t worry about that, we’ll get another.”  As we trudged back up the stairs, I dreaded the devastation that awaited me.      Expecting to see the corpse of my phone scattered several feet around my desk, there was nothing.  The phone looked whole and complete. I picked up the receiver and carefully inspected it.   Not even a scratch.    I then ran my hands over the surface of the desk. Not even a dent.  Ann was surprised too and said, “The phone is ok.”

Carmel smiled and said, "You didn't break the phone."

I protested, “Yes I did, I saw bits flying?!”

"So did I," said Ann.

“Yes, you did,” said Carmel, “but you hit a pen.  Look….”  She then pulled out the wastepaper basket from underneath my desk.  All three of us peered in.  Sure enough, lying at the bottom were the shattered remains of a plastic pen. Carmel explained that when I slammed the receiver down, I smashed it into the pen and the poor pen got caught in the crosshairs of my rage.   

The following year, Maria and I were in the basement of the Kane Building for the registration of new customers.  My mobile rang.  It was my manager, “Just to give you the heads up,” she said, “Johnny’s back and he’s on his way down to ye.”  My sphincter loosened and I farted with fear.  Panic flooded my body.  Two minutes later, my mobile rang again.  This time it was Helen who vets the customers at the door, “There’s a problem with this person’s registration, apparently he owes money and he’s coming to see you.”      I went into meltdown mode. “Maria," I said, "I can’t do this,” and I ran.   I hid behind the nearest pillar and fought to control my breathing.   The minutes passed. Expecting raised voices and hearing none, I dared to peek out.   I saw Maria sitting at the desk speaking to a man in his fifties with thinning hair, gold rimmed glasses, dark brown corduroy pants, a yellow shirt and a woollen sleeveless pullover.  It was my first time seeing the infamous Johnny.  I couldn’t hear what was being said but his whiny voice was unmistakable.  Maria remained seated and spoke to Johnny calmly.  If she was nervous, she didn’t show it.  After several more minutes, Johnny left.  Once I was sure he actually left the building, I crept back to my seat.

“Sorry about that.” I said in a whisper, “What’s his story?”

Maria told me Johnny could not register because he owes money. 

“But he said he cancelled.”

“Not properly,” said Maria, “and he does owe it.  He said he’s getting the grant again but what he owes, the grant doesn’t cover.  I told him that he has to pay his part first before he can register.”

“And he accepted that!?”

“Yes.”  

I looked at my friend in awe.  How did she do it?  From my observation post behind the pillar, all she did was listen.   Maria’s reputation is such that if anyone could find a way to help another she would, and in her sincerity people trust her.  Maria told Johnny kindly but firmly that his road had run out; the buck stops here.  

Then I remembered his grant.  With glee, I rang Delores.  When she answered the phone, I sang, “Guess who’s back?!?”

Delores sang back, “Guess who doesn’t care?!”

“He told us he’s getting a grant.”

“Yeah, but not from us,” laughed Delores.    Delores told me that when they saw Johnny coming through the system for the fifth time, she and her colleagues went as one to their boss and pleaded with him to do something.  This year, Johnny was told that he had to make his grant application through SUSI, the brand-new centralised grant-processing body in Dublin.  At that time, dealing with SUSI was like to trying to penetrate the Kremlin.   When I told Maria, she shook her head and said, “He won’t get it from them: they won’t put up with his caper.   “Oh, I don’t know, Maria,” I said, “he’ll wear them down like he does everyone else.” 

Maria was right; we never did see Johnny again.  Although aware of Johnny's history, Maria did not let that influence how she spoke to him that day.  The ogre, I had created in my mind, stood chastened and humble before the gentle Maria who refused to let his manner press any buttons, who did not see him as pest and did not attempt to fob him off as had all others who dealt with him before.  Maria saw a human being and treated him as an adult who takes responsibility for his decisions. Maria listened and because she did it humanely and respectfully without a hint of annoyance, he listened too.  She got through to him where others failed.  

Unlike me, Maria can keep a secret.  With my butterfly attention span I retain nothing in my head unless it directly affects me.  One particular Tuesday morning, it occurred to me that Orla, who also works in our building and sometimes joins us for coffee, was absent. 

“Where’s Orla?” I said.

“She’s sick,” said Maria.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Sinuses.”   Sinuses is something I've never experienced, and I promptly moved onto another topic.  
                 

Three Tuesdays later, I noticed I hadn’t seen Orla in some time.  I asked Maria.

“She’s sick,” said Maria.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Sinuses.”

“Still?!? For three weeks, she must be really bad.”

Another three Tuesdays went by.  I asked Maria again. 

“Where’s Orla?”

“She’s sick.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Sinuses.”

“Sinuses!?! For six weeks…...?!!  I paused.  Then the penny dropped, “Orla’s pregnant!”

A shimmer of panic crossed Maria’s brow.  I pressed her for an answer, “She is, isn’t she?”

Maria shrugged and said, “All I know is that she’s sick and it’s sinuses.”

“Come on,” I begged, “I won’t tell anyone.”   Maria wouldn’t be drawn. I stopped tormenting her. 

Six weeks later, Maria told me that she had some news; Orla was pregnant.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said. 

“She wanted to keep it a secret,” said Maria.

I was annoyed but impressed by her loyalty.    Maria’s defence of her friend’s wish for privacy was like a garden gate trying to withstand the tsunami of curiosity, taunting and speculation.

When Orla came back to work, I told her about Maria’s discretion.  Orla laughed and said, “She’s a good friend.”

On Thursday, 12^th March, Maria treated me to a breakfast in Sicilian Delights on Glasheen Road to celebrate my new job.   We didn’t know it then but that was our last working day together since the Lockdown began.    Of course, Maria knew the name of the owner, Paulo, who cooked our omelettes, that he’s from Sicily and has two small children.  I told Paulo I had been in Sicily during Italia ‘90.  He seemed underwhelmed.  Our conversation that morning mainly concerned Maria’s father who was very ill, and I urged her to find some way of taking leave without losing pay.     It’s uncanny that the universe should step in and, like most of the country at the moment, Maria was able to work from home and look after her parents.    

Last week, Maria’s father passed away.  My first instinct on hearing the news was to jump into the car and drive to her house but I knew that she would find this distressing, so I tried ringing her instead.     Later that day, a colleague and friend of Maria’s suggested that we all send her a photo of a lit candle at 6pm to show our solidarity.  Maria received loads of these photos and was deeply touched by the gesture.  

Maria rang me the day after the funeral.  She sounded relieved and happy.  She told me the funeral went better than expected.   Because her father died of natural causes, the family could wake him at home as he wanted but because of Covid-19 only immediate family were allowed attend.  I told Maria that in normal times, because of her alone, hundreds of people would have turned up to pay their respects.  She laughed and said actually having it private was lovely.  Exhausted after weeks of not being allowed to see her father, worried about him being in a nursing home with the daily news bulletins of the high death rates, she was grateful for the time just being with family

She told me that as the hearse left the house to go to the burial ground, all their neighbours came out and stood by their gates to wave him off.  That gesture moved her and when they returned home three hours later, she was amused to see the neighbours still standing at their gates chatting to each other.  The neighbours welcomed Maria and her family home again. She said, “We hadn’t seen some of them in years and it was lovely that this opened us up again.”

On Maria’s days off, I miss her quiet, soothing presence.  Even if we don’t talk, which is rare, knowing that she is there calms me.  My contribution to her well-being is when the well of her empathy has been dipped into once too often.  I can hear it in her voice.  That’s my cue to glide seductively around the divider, serenade her in a French accent while running my hands all over my fabulous body.  It makes her laugh.

Today is my 7^th Tuesday without Maria.  I miss our weekly ritual.  We do coffee remotely but it's not the same.   Nothing is anymore.