The In-Between

When I pulled up to 460 Hamilton Ave in White Plains, there was already a car double parked out front.

And honestly? That made the decision for me.

Because there’s nowhere to park on that street. Not legally. I don’t know where people who actually work in that building park, I really don’t.

So I pulled in front of them, threw my hazards on, and hoped for the best.

Fuck it.

I ran upstairs, made a delivery, didn’t think twice about any of it until the elevator.

He was already in there when I got in.

He looked at me and asked, “Do you know what floor we came in on?”

I laughed a little, “I don’t even know”

He said, “Yeah me neither, I hit one just in case.”

We stopped. Doors opened. Peeked out.

“Nope. Not this one.”

Back in the elevator.

And somewhere in that small, forgettable moment… a conversation started that wasn’t supposed to be anything. But it did.

He told me he used to work for Party City. Twenty-five years.

And something in me just… paused.

Because twenty-five years isn’t just a job.

That’s routine.

That’s identity.

That’s who you’ve been for most of your adult life.

Then he said they went out of business. Just like that.

No transition. No easing out. No “what’s next?” plan built in.

Just… gone.

I felt that one differently because I lost my job too. Sixteen years at PetSmart. But that place still exists. Mine was an ending, his was an erasure.

Two different kinds of loss. But somehow we ended up in the exact same place.

In an elevator. Double parked outside. Delivering food.

Trying to figure out what comes after the version of you that no longer exists.

By the time we got outside, we didn’t stop talking. We walked back to our cars like we had known each other longer than two minutes.

We talked about the wear and tear, how this job slowly runs your car into the ground if you let it.

He said he feels like he’s doing oil changes every other day. I laughed but it wasn’t really funny, because mine’s overdue right now.

We talked about learning to do things ourselves oil changes, brakes, because out here, that’s survival.

We didn’t even touch gas. That’s a whole other layer.

He told me he starts earlier, around 7 a.m., his wife leaves around 6:30, so he just gets up and goes.

I told him I’m different. I need my mornings at home. I go out for lunch and dinner. I work around myself so I don’t burn out completely.

Different routines. Same reality.

This isn’t the dream. This is the bridge.

When we got back to the cars still no tickets, somehow, we shook hands.

I told him my name. He told me his. And I forgot it almost immediately. But I didn’t forget the moment.

Because what are the odds? That I take that order. That he’s already there. That we risk the same ticket. That we end up in the same elevator. That a random question turns into a real conversation.

Two people who lost completely different versions of their lives… end up standing in the same place anyway.

We said, “See you around.”

And maybe we will.

Sometimes purpose doesn’t look like a plan. Sometimes it looks like hazards on, a car you’re trying to keep running, and doing whatever you have to do until you figure out who you’re becoming next.

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