The morning when I read about the Peruvian earthquake, I thought, good, there need to be fewer Peruvians in the world. In Jersey, they are everywhere and seem to bring with them nothing good, unless you like reading headlines about dog fights and bar brawls and drug sales.
Then I got myself ready for work.
My friend JB needs a job. He's a great guy. I met him at Former Fezziwig Co. and he was one of the few people I've managed to connect with.
A couple of years ago, he moved himself and his family to a northern tundra to work at a job that greatly advanced his career, only to have been bounced a month ago.
I knew he had an interview that day, so I stopped in at St. Fatty's to do a little God-bothering.
There were two other people in the church - a woman in the front who was lolling over the pews and sitting as if she was waiting for a bus.
The other was a woman in the back, with a handkerchief in her hands. She was weeping softly, but sometimes I heard her stop and gulp a little.
I went up front, shoved a dollar in the candlebox, lit a candle, and bothered God for about five minutes.
On my way out, I passed the crying woman again. I walked into the pew where she was half-kneeling. She still had the hanky in her hand, over her face.
I touched her shoulder. "Are you okay?" I asked.
She looked up, eyes red and bleary. In barely-accented English, she said, "I'm okay, I'm okay. But my mother and husband - they're in Peru and I haven't heard from them." She started crying again.
I sat next to her for a few minutes and without knowing it, had taken her hand. With my other hand, I patted her shoulder.
She sniffed, dried her eyes. "I'm going to be okay. Really. As soon as I hear from them. I know they have to be all right."
I nodded and stood.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Becs."
"I'm Maria."
I wished her and her family well, then left to get in my car to go to work.
Ashamed of myself? You bet. Learned a lesson? Oh yeah.
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