For about a year, I made grocery deliveries all over town. One day, I was frustrated because I wasn't making enough money, and I was worried about paying the bills, and the orders were slow, which happened often, and I was about to give up, when I decided to do one more order, a ten-dollar job not too far away. The order was for diapers and Big K Cola. Cream soda, to be exact. I hit the store, stashed the goods in my trunk, and drove out on some familiar roads. Soon, I was making my way toward a wealthier part of town.
Just a few days before, I had delivered to some million-dollar homes merely a few miles away from where I was headed. Tired and nursing my injured neck, I followed the directions, but the GPS led me to a strange, gravel road marked with an ancient sign. Checking the map, I knew it was correct, so I shrugged and turned down the drive.
In my youth, I had driven down the main road countless times, and yet I had never seen this tiny gravel side street before. And what I saw next shocked me to the core. There, I came upon six, white, chipped, scarred, drooping trailers. Stacked together in a slanted row, they were half the size of a normal trailer; each one sat on top of cinder blocks. No grass, no cars, no bicycles, no toys lying around, no electric lines, no A/C units. Keep in mind that it was 90 degrees outside.
There were two doors to each trailer, and a tiny vent on each door. Other than that, no visible windows. I walked up to the first door and knocked.
"I have a delivery for you," I said.
A tiny voice mumbled, "Oh, that's probably for my neighbor. Try the other door."
In that moment, I realized that each door on either side of the minuscule trailers -- a mere six feet apart -- held one family, which meant this: not one, but two families per trailer.
Tearing up, I knocked on the second door.
An elderly fellow opened the door, looking confused.
"I have a delivery for you," I quietly said to him.
Wearing tattered clothes, he smiled and said, "Hello," showing rotted teeth. He was as thin as paper, and he wobbled a little. He held on to the door to stay standing.
I thought about how toothaches had been some of the worst pain I had ever experienced. I peeked inside. The closet-sized space was cluttered and filthy.
Then, behind me, I heard a voice.
"Oh, that's for me," a girl said.
I turned around, looking.
A girl, around seventeen, struggled to push a stroller over the gravel, moving toward the door. She called out to the thin man, "I'm sorry. I went down to the library and ordered something, Grandpa. I hope you're not mad."
He smiled and shook his head, "No."
I set down the diapers and Big K and smiled at the girl, thinking about how she’d had to walk to the library to place the order. Neither one of them held a phone.
I breathed in and looked around. Six trailers, each with two doors. Twelve families packed in closet-sized spaces. A strong wind could have knocked these buildings down. Such absolute poverty mere blocks from affluence. And there these families were, tucked away on some hidden, gravel road. So startling and bizarre. Even though I grew up in this town, I had never seen this road before. The stark bareness of the place gave me chills.
What happened next floored me.
The girl beamed, dug into the pocket of her stroller, and she held out a five-dollar bill for me, a tip. "Thank you, ma'am," she said, waving the bill.
I hesitated.
She waved the bill again, still smiling wide, and I could tell that she was proud of the gift.
So, I honored her gift, accepted it, and said, "No, thank you." Keep in mind that in a steady year of making deliveries, I only received three cash tips. One was from this girl.
As I drove away in my Corolla, I thought about the day I treated the rust speckled across the hood. In the past, I’d punched out dents and filled in chipped paint, and it had its bruises, but I took care of it as if it were a brand spanking new Audi. And I thought about how lucky I was to have a car at all, to be able to make deliveries.
Sure, I've lived in low-income housing for many years, and yes, there have been countless terrifying and awful experiences, too many to utter here, and sure, I have experienced poor living conditions that have been a devastating beast -- despairing, real, and raw. But what I saw that day was beyond that which I had ever known. Because soon, I was going home to electricity, running water, and a clean apartment, and it struck me with a force how blessed I was.
All the way home, I whispered to myself, I have everything I need. Right here, right now, I have so much. And in that moment, I promised myself that I would write for them, and for me. And I promised myself that no matter what, I'd be proud of the work I’d done, and I’d be proud of my journey and one day, I would return and anonymously leave all six trailers bigger tips than they could ever imagine, and then I would walk away beaming, like her.
C.A. MacConnell
