I have always been a lover of notes. Little ones, especially, tucked into lunchboxes or found in my wallet with a sweet note on it, or tiny questioning ones passed to me in a bar. Anais Nin…? one read. I hadn’t read her yet. The note was a bit lost on me until years later, when I had, and only then did I realize the note was a come-on. And postcards. I love their brevity. My roommate in college received the best one from her dad. “Having a lovely time and getting into all sorts of trouble. Send lawyers. Love, Dad.” I have always thought that one was perfect.
I was an excellent note taker in junior high and high school. Not of any actual subject matter- I was a lazy student, but my friends and I had elaborate codes, with “codebreaker” master notes and nicknames for others so our crushes would never be found out. Unfortunately, I had used no such code in my 8th-grade math class. Our teacher seemed to turn a blind eye to these notes hucked back and forth, until the day he didn’t. “I’ll take that, Erin,” he said while walking past. With a deft flourish, he grabbed it out of my hand before I had time to hide it. This one was especially bad since my friend, and I had decided that Mr. Matthews was not human, but in fact, part werewolf. Looking at him you could see where we would get that. In my (non)defense, 13-year old’s can be assholes and are not thinking, hey, this guy might be hairy. Really, really hairy. Perhaps his picture would even be posted under the word “hairiness” in the dictionary: (the state or quality of being hairy) that kind of hair — the kind that curls out of collars and pokes out from under shirtsleeves hairy. We decided that this must mean that he was also incredibly sexy (He was not, think Bill Gates only plastered in hair) and once a month on a full moon went looking for those to ravish in his werewolf lust.

This was when notes failed me. Horribly failed me.

I’m not sure I have ever been more mortified, but it could have been the next day, when he gave the note back, with spelling corrections and commas and “this is a run-on sentence, you should think about making two sentences, one about my sexiness and then one about me ripping my clothes off”.
Ahem. At least he had a sense of humour about it. He went about his teaching, pretending nothing had ever happened, which was the route I took too, la la la, nothing to see here, no morbidly embarrassing situation to ignore for six more months, la de da.
I have ever been more careful.
Imagine my surprise, when I recently felt compelled to write another note, to a stranger in a coffee shop. I know that this is not a normal thing, but let’s say I was in an emotional frame of mind, where I tend to do rash things, usually good ones. In this state of mind, I am prone to giving away money/cherished items/whatever that person says they like in my home- I want them to have it. I’ve only been sad about this pre-menstrual generosity once, and especially glad the time I gave the hells angel my mood ring at a backwoods bar. He was so happy about it like no one had ever given him anything pretty before. But I digress.
I was sitting a coffee shop in Roberts Creek, having an early brunch. A man came in and set up his laptop. He opened it with a heavy sigh, and then made a phone call. This wasn’t a big space, and I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it was unavoidable given my proximity. There were one or two people who sat down nearby, and he was talking fairly loudly, making a business call in the middle of the chaotic café. Slowly it dawned on me that he was hiding in the open spaces, taking comfort in not being alone. He was talking to someone about a resident artist, who was moving out of a shared space. I don’t know if it was a studio or an apartment, or if it was his client or his sister, or what the deal was. I was actively trying not to listen until I just gave in and just did. And then I was glad, learned a thing or two about human behavior. The man began to speak from the artist’s point of view, how she felt unsupported, how he knows it’s a hard thing to please everybody and perhaps the communication between the two parties wasn’t always how it could have been. (He was a mediator of some sort). And the calm, sympathetic ear that came from him was nothing short of amazing. He would remark to the person on the other end of the line about how something was a good point, and then ask if they had ever considered it from her point of view, which was x, and back and forth they went. He had the utmost patience and empathy, and maybe this was his job. Or perhaps this was a family member, possibly mentally ill (something I picked up on, could be wrong) and then ended his conversation with “Mistakes are great. They’re wonderful, we learn so much from them.” He then went on to thank the person for their time and active listening. Then he pulled up his computer and began to type which is when I ripped a note from my tiny notebook and started to write. I felt compelled- like I had to write to him. I also felt somewhat safe- I think he was gay, which somehow made it ok for me to write a note to him, somehow knowing he might not jump to the conclusion that it was a come on. I could be wrong about that too, but sometimes you’re pretty sure.
My note said something like this:

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I did. And I’m really glad. You have more empathy, consideration, and patience in your little finger than most people I’ve ever met. Whoever your friend is, she is fortunate to have someone like you helping her out. It makes me very happy to know there are caring people like you in the world, who are making a difference in a person’s life.”

And then I signed it with a smiley face, like the sap that I am.

He got up to pack up his things, which meant it was do or die time. For about three seconds, I froze. I didn’t have to give him the note. I could just…think nice things, and perhaps they’d somehow get to him. But I knew that was chickening out. So I packed up my bag, and stood up, and handed him the note.
“This is for you,” I said.
“Oh.” He said, looking at me. “Thank you.”
Which was funny, because I could have been handing him anything, a come on, a snot rag, anything… and I was a total stranger. Then I did what any sensible person would do.
I ran.
Or fast-walked, and then ran when it was feasible, back to the place I was renting. I suddenly felt this colossal embarrassment, why had I done such a thing, jeez. But I knew why. He deserved a pat on the back, and maybe he’d never get it. Perhaps he didn’t realize that most people can’t possibly reign themselves in as he did. I can’t. But it’s something I think about now, something I can aspire to, to speak and talk like this stranger did, to handle myself in such a manner.

So…tis, the season for life-affirming, changing our ways in the new year and all that, no? Here’s my idea. Give someone a note. A tiny one, a big one. If it’s a mean one write it and then crumple it up and throw it away. You’ll feel slightly better for not giving it. But it has to be a note, something that can grow faded in a wallet, that can’t be electronically erased. It might just be the thing whoever on the other end truly needs. Unless, of course, you are calling them a werewolf with sexual impulse control issues. That one you might need to burn.