Share
A few months ago I tried something new. I ventured outside my comfort zone, kind of, and tried what’s called “Lyft shared” with Lyft. Look, I may be the last fella on the planet to use this feature, but who wants to play Russian roulette with a 45-minute airport ride? I mean, what if you got stuck with some 6’7” Swedish dude in the back seat of a Mini Cooper? But, my God, the fare was half the price. Now, move over Bjorn Bjorgensen, I’m trying to save a couple of bucks.
So, I didn’t get stuck with Bjorn. Thank God. And there I was, well, actually there we were: three cozy peas in a Kia Soul pod–the driver, me and a stressed-out, curly-headed young lady from France, who announces, within the first 90 seconds, that she doesn’t trust salesmen.
“Good for you,” I tell her, “because we’re all nothing but liars.”
And before the driver and I were even finished laughing, a joke that Frenchy didn’t quite understand, I already had two burning questions.
- Does a rideshare between two Americans and a French mademoiselle, in fact, constitute some sort of ménage à trois?
- And two, if she doesn’t trust me because I’m a sales guy, I wonder how she would feel knowing about my prison record?
Hold that thought because we’re going to test this theory.
Not your garden-variety lying salesperson.
The driver, who was awesome (shout out to Mary representin’ the 404!), and I chatted and naturally the conversation gravitated toward where we’re from, where we’re going, and how in the hell we ended up here. Frenchy was frazzled, which is ironic since she has a PhD in psychology, and in an attempt to prove I wasn’t just a lying salesperson, I mentioned that I wrote a memoir—and beamed with pride that I actually weaved in a French word that wasn’t ménage à trois into the conversation.
“Oh really? What’s it about,” she asked.
Oopsie.
Now what do I say other than get those psychology textbooks out, sweetie, because there are names for people like me.
Proudly telling my story.
Now then, fast forward to the part where I slowly but deliberately blow their ever-lovin’ minds with my insane story of the last 25 years of my life. Me, a clean-cut guy with pressed pants and some gray hairs, dropping bombs about sex, drugs and Rock n Roll, in ways that would make Hunter S. Thompson blush.
But I’ve got to tell you that this, my friends, is amazingly powerful. Riding in the backseat of Mary’s Kia, with a captivated audience that couldn’t get away if they wanted to, unabashedly, unapologetically speaking my truth. I couldn’t have done this 6 months earlier. I couldn’t even have imagined that I would ever get to the point to where I would sit somewhere with my chest out, head high and proudly talk about the things I’ve done. But there I was. Comfortable. Strong. Dignified. Me… finally.
No longer will I prejudge how people receive my story.
I mean, how presumptuous to assume I’m the first guy this week, in Mary’s Kia, headed to the Atlanta airport, sharing the age old story of boy meets girl, girl has meth, boy goes to prison, gets out of said prison and meets a better girl and creates an amazing life and lives happily ever after. In the rain, I might add. Let’s face it, you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting someone with that story, right?
But the most powerful aspect is how it was received. Mary, my sweet, enthusiastic concierge of self-forgiveness, absorbed every word with the occasional “amen” and “I know that’s right, honey.” And Frenchy, the stressed-out psychologist with her backpack and PhD, stared at me with tears in her eyes and her mouth agape. Priceless.
The unintended people in my journey.
And as we slowly pulled into the busy terminal, the final words of my story came to a close and my journey somehow seemed to culminate in this powerful epiphany of right here, right now. In that instant, I was acutely aware of the stark contrast between who I am today and who I’ve been for far too many years. On this day I was a confident man in my skin, sharing a moment with two strangers, knowing that I’m forever done living in shame. It’s over. I’m free.
And so I told them about their part in my success story, within my legacy. Because every time I’m given the opportunity to share my secret to a human being who takes it all in, I am renewed, I am forgiven, I am worthy of love . . .Inside my heart again.
The story ends with all of us hugging and exchanging something more permanent than an email or a cell phone number. It is the memory of three unsuspecting people connecting on our way out of Atlanta in a way we will never forget.
A real ménage à trois indeed.