Well, not really in the rain. It was tucked back under the eaves out of the path of the rain, on a bench under the call box of our building, where clearly someone didn’t pick up the phone in time to buzz in the pizza delivery driver.

Halloween Night. The wind blasted squalls of rain, leaves, and costumed folk of all ages darting through the traffic all in stylish black. At the front door, the two hot boxed mystery pizzas smell wonderful. A bevy of neighbors from the building, coming and going with their candy bags and baby strollers, gather around the pizzas. Is there a name on the box? Sales slip? We text various usual suspects from various apartments. Finally we all vote to move the boxes indoors to the donation table, where at least they’ll be safe from the raccoons and cold wind. I’m just adding a note to the boxes when another tenant pops out of the elevator and claims his nearly hot prize. Everybody laughs and heads out for their festivities. I walk upstairs humming, while my brain happily rewrites Jimmy Webb’s “MacArthur Park.”*

Here’s a bill for $35 from the dental clinic. Fine. Take health account payment card, call clinic, pay by phone. Of course, there’s a pretty healthy wait time. Then the kind patient rep has to take down my data and pore through their records for my account. Then their computer freezes and has to reboot. Then the bill isn’t showing as due? For some reason? Is it ok if she puts me on hold? “Take your time,” I tell her. “I needed a Muzak break.” La la la, la la la. Okay, she’s back. What’s the card number? Oh wait, it’s a health payment card? Yes indeedy! (The card is issued by the state with pre-tax dollars that we state employees can use at this state-sponsored clinic, but I refrain from pointing that out.) Hm. She is not able to process that kind of card in that program just now. Is it ok if she transfers me to another desk? “Sure thing!” I tell her. She transfers me to another number. There’s an extended silence without the Muzak. La la la, la la la. She’s back again. That line does not seem to be answering. Would I like her to text me when that line is free? Would I prefer to call them back? “Sure, whatever. That’s fine. So long as the clinic knows I tried to pay my $35. Sounds like you are WAY busy there.” She explains that yes, they are way busy. “I get it,” I say. “I used to work there at the hospital too.” She sounds more cheerful. I did? At the hospital? What was my job? “Russian interpreter. Lively times.” We wish each other a good day, and somehow it turns into a very heartening call.

At same dental clinic I’ve been trying to reschedule a cancelled checkup, and tried calling for a few days now but just got the voicemail. So I hop on the bus, show up at the dental billing office, and hand them my insurance card. Their scanner can’t read it (?). Luckily as Plan B I also brought my checkbook, so I write them a $35 check. Now everybody is happy, and we all wave goodbye. I head upstairs to my clinic, and reschedule the appointment. The receptionist is happy to help. I happen to know that this clinic’s mission is not only training new specialty dental residents, but also helping patients with grave dental-related illnesses including procedures in the OR under general anesthesia with a code cart team at the ready. These people are high above all my admiration for their amazing work. But “Say, you’re minding the store by yourself?” I tell the receptionist, fielding patient arrivals and phone calls. “Sure am,” she says, “for the past three weeks my partner’s been out. There’s 300 voicemails waiting for me.” I hand her my annual treat for their break room: Trader Joe 100% sugar-free all-cocoa chips. “Recommended by 11 out of 10 dentists,” I tell her. “Trick or Treat!! Your leopard costume is adorable.” We exchange lavish goodbyes, and I head out the door. Suddenly there are footsteps behind me. She’s left the phone desk for a minute to give me a huge leopard-plushy hug. I hug her back.

At work I get a mystery text. “Mary, I have to ask a humble errand. Please don’t think badly of us 🙂 !” Who is this? Is this yet another unsolicited election donation request? I don’t keep any names in my phone, and I know the familiar numbers by heart, but don’t recognize this one. My address book indicates that Aha, it’s the Dad from a young couple in the next apartment building. Here’s another text. “Could you please get the kids’ clothes out of the end dryer at the laundry room near Captain Wing’s place? We have a net bag on the machine. We can’t get back home in time.” I text back. “Sure, leaving office at 5:00. Will head right over there.” At 6:00 I’m at the cottage-garden building laundry room. Oops: Of course! I’m not a tenant at this building, and don’t have a key. I’ll have to go to my place, write a note, then tape it to the door explaining whose laundry is in the end dryer. Wait, what’s happening in the window? The dryers are all stopped, and all the dryer doors are open. In the closest one, there’s a load of children’s clothes safely tucked in a tall net bag hamper on top of the machine. Good deal. I text Papa the update: some good Samaritan beat us both to it.

Back at my place, there’s a gift on the mat: a downstairs neighbor left me a 5 pound bag of organic rolled sprouted oats, and let me know that she doesn’t want payment for it. She and I have a tradition that on the weekends when I sprout and boil lentils or chickpeas, she gets a share too; why should two of us bother cooking the same thing? Then I pack up some Trader Joe pumpkin biscotti and carry them over to leave at Angelina’s door. Her downstairs neighbor pops out to flag me down: “Would you like my queen size mattress? It’s practically new.” I explain to her that in my studio room I just sleep on a yoga mat. That’s about all I have room for, but it’s really kind of her to offer.

* Just listened to “MacArthur Park” again for the first time since, like, 1968. Then to shake off the sensation of melting auditory cake icing I recalibrate my ears by turning on “Moonlight and Gold” by Gerry Rafferty.