Apr 27, 2022 5 min read

Somewhere along the way to these times when nothing seems to work, “customer service” became an oxymoron.

How many times have you listened to scratchy “hold” music, or have been asked to download an app instead of talking to a person, or have been warned that “your wait time is 35 minutes” – and then contemplated screaming? How often have you raised your voice when someone finally picked up? I’ll bet that you, like me, have skipped a refund or a return because the value of your sanity and time exceeded the price of whatever it was you lost.

While in Washington over the past week after a long absence, I’ve been especially aware of the lack of help across industries. We’ve all heard about the unfilled jobs and labor shortages. We’ve seen the shuttered storefronts and vacant restaurants. But in the nation’s capital, it seemed that the entire city was on strike.

Where are the taxis?

One day, I walked what felt like miles down Wisconsin Avenue, the main thoroughfare in Georgetown, without seeing a single cab. I wouldn’t have minded but for wearing the wrong shoes and being in a bit of a rush to get downtown. I never did find it and finally opted for an Uber ride, which isn’t nearly as interesting as a taxi ride.

I’ve always enjoyed Washington’s cab drivers, who as often as not are exceedingly polite, well-versed in politics and world affairs, and usually tuned in to NPR. Not this time. The car I managed to hail was filthy and driven by a rude fellow who did not welcome my advice about how best to get across town. (I still gave him a big tip.)

My destination was Union Station, where I hoped to secure not a train but a rental car. By the time I found the kiosks (buried deep within a parking garage I hadn’t known existed), I was nearly depleted of goodwill for my fellow humans. First, I tried Avis, where about 20 impatient travelers waited in line. The woman at the window understandably seemed no cheerier.

Moving on to the Hertz window, I was greeted by a young man who could have made me cry with nothing more than a frown. Instead, he knocked me over with a megawatt smile and virtually sang, “How are you today?”

I considered fainting. “Um, well, I’m a little frustrated, but I can be better if you have a car for me?” I said with an intonation I find so annoying in others.

Not only did he have a car, but he had my name. Apparently, in my fury the day before, I had abandoned one car company for another and made a reservation that I promptly forgot about. So, I asked his name. “Christian,” he chirped.

“That’s a beautiful name,” I said.

“Thank you,” he chirped again.

This small, utterly normal exchange provided a moment of unexpected grace that calmed my soul and re-centered me somehow. I had been feeling unmoored and a little bit anxious from all my failed attempts to secure transportation. A hammock and a margarita could have done me no better.

Christian breezed through the paperwork. Competence, too? Now, I was about to break into song. He was just doing his job, you might be thinking, but he did it with such cheer that I couldn’t help responding in kind. One smile begets another; one kind gesture invites another. Such simple civility. When did it become so rare that I’m startled by it? Was it the pandemic, or did COVID-19 merely place a headstone on the graves of common cause and community?

As I was noodling these questions, Christian grabbed my bags and walked me to my awaiting car. I thanked him and said, “It’s so nice to see someone smile.” His response blew me away.

“I smile because other people are going to have a bad day,” he said. “But I’m not going to have a bad day because I’m going to change someone’s day.” I just looked at him, wondering how he had become this person – so wise and kind. I was about to ask, but he was already turning back toward the station. I called after him: “You changed my day!” He looked over his shoulder laughing and, I could have sworn, skipped away.

I never got Christian’s last name and subsequent attempts to find him by phone left me once again listening to tinny music for longer than seemed fair. But I will always be grateful for his generosity and for reminding me that we all have the power to change another’s day. With just a little effort, we could change the country.

Kathleen Parker is a columnist for the Washington Post. Her email address is kathleenparker@washpost.com.