When David was born his umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck and his complexion was a deep and exaggerated blue. That misfortune left David with limitations, but one of them is not the ability to deliver mail.
Every day he pushes a cart around two large buildings and a total of ten floors. One fortunate employee in every suite receives both the mail, and the pleasure of David's company, twice each day.
I am one of those fortunate people.
Someone told me they remember David missing work once, but that person, like David, has worked here for a very long time. David is as much a part of the government center as our well attended cafeteria, or our cave-like absence of natural light. His simple ebullience is the compensating glow of an internal sun.
I've introduced myself to a few county employees who look mystified when I tell them I'm on Ben McAdams' staff. "McAdams, is he new?" they'll ask.
"Ben McAdams," I'll say, "the new county mayor."
Yet so far I've not met anyone who doesn't know David. In fact, the two syllables of his quite common name are enough to identify him to anyone. It's as if he is "the David," and those who share his name are simply "a David."
I have an affinity for acquiring the friendship of important and popular people. No doubt that unerring sensibility explains many of the blessings I now enjoy. So perhaps it's no surprise I found myself immediately attracted to David.
And, whatever quality makes my company attractive to such people, also had its effect on David.
From the first day on my new job we began forging a friendship. He'd pause at my desk, make small talk, and give me a pound or two from his ever-present ton of good cheer.
Then a while back he started to tell me about a surprise he wanted to share. "It's a really excellent newspaper article," he said, "I know you'll like it."
But then, the following day, he'd not have that "really excellent" newspaper article and I'd tease him, "Where's that article David? I wondered about it all night. I hardly slept."
He'd blush and tell me he was sorry, he'd forgot. I'd remind him not to forget tomorrow, and he'd agree he'd try to remember.
Then, finally, after a few weeks of going back and forth, he gave me a copy of an old yellowed article in "The Deseret News." It was about a winter version of The Special Olympics held at a local ski resort. At the top of that article was a picture of David tucked into racing posture, and coming down the hill at breakneck speed.
The gist of the article was a description of David's achievement. Despite his disability, he was an exceptional skier, by any standard, special or non-special. His performance in the slalom had won a collection of silver and gold medals.
Ten years ago David was something of a star, and for a brief period the subject of local notoriety.
I said, "Wow David, this is really something! I can't imagine winning medals like that. I've never won a medal in my life, and you've won four or five. You must be so proud. I'm jealous!"
He flashed his trademark blush and tried to assure me I must have won some medals too. "No," I said, quite candidly, "I've never won a medal in my life. They are special, David. Most people are just like me, they've never won a medal."
After that a week passed with no more mention of the article, the Special Olympics or the medals.
Then David returned to the same song I'd heard before. "I have a big surprise, George. I know you're going to like it."
And I returned to my former refrain, "Where's my surprise David, you promised. Please don't forget, bring it tomorrow."
Another week of promising and reminding passed before David finally arrived at my desk with a huge smile. "I remembered," he announced.
"What did you remember, David?"
"Here," he said, "and he reached out a hand gripping the ribbon of a silver medal."
I took it and inspected it carefully. "This is beautiful, David. I've never seen a real one up close, let alone held it in my hands."
After a proper interval of appreciation, I tried to hand it back. "No," David said, "It's for you. You should have a medal too."
"David, I can't take this."
"Yes you can, I want you to."
It couldn't have been more obvious he was intent on me keeping it. My acceptance was important to him, probably more important than the medal itself.
I tried to calculate all the options, but quickly realized my absence of alternatives. "Thank you," I said, "but I simply can't take this from you sitting here at my desk."
He looked confused for a moment, "What do you mean?"
"Shouldn't there be some kind of presentation ceremony? Like when they gave you the medal?"
"Maybe," he replied.
With that I gave my cell phone to a colleague and asked him to photograph the presentation of my first silver medal.
While I whistled the national anthem, David solemnly placed the ribbon around my neck. So, for the last few days, I've been walking around the office with a bright silver disk hanging from my neck.
Eventually, I'm sure David will take me aside and patiently explain that real champions don't wear their medals everywhere. I can imagine him saying, "There are better ways to show everyone that you're a good person."
And I can see myself agreeing with him before returning that medal to the man who deserves it.
No comments:
Post a Comment