I didn’t know Shaggy very well. He was a yard guy at the local lumber supplier, probably in his early twenties, had long brown hair, and a thin scraggly beard that I’m certain earned him his nickname. He was always polite, and when I pulled into the yard, he was quick to jump from his seat to help me find what I needed and load me up. I still don’t know his real name, and he was one among a fleet of helpful hands at the yard who were not afraid of hauling lumber all day long; nonetheless, he stood out to me enough that I was always pleased when his was the face at my window asking what I needed today.
Yard guys drift in and out. It’s hard work loading trucks all day, and I can’t imagine it’s a job that pays particularly well. In some sense, it’s a bit of good sign when you don’t see a guy anymore. With any luck, maybe he’s moved on to better things. When Shaggy went missing from the yard, I was not surprised or concerned, just privately hopeful that it meant he had found a better paying job elsewhere.
Then, one morning, when checking my ticket out at the register, I noticed a framed picture of Shaggy on the counter with the words, “In Memory of Shaggy” scrawled delicately along the matting. The photo sat on top of a flier advertising a BBQ to raise money for his family to help cover ‘expenses’. I froze in my tracks.
“What happened to Shaggy?” This was the first time I learned his nickname, but it was so fitting that I felt completely comfortable using it.
“He was sick and died in the hospital,” responded the cashier.
“COVID?”
“No, it was something else. I don’t really know, but he was battling some stuff for a long time.”
“Man, I’m really sorry to hear that. He was always great to work with”
“Yeah man, it’s a real shame. You should come to the BBQ fundraiser next Tuesday.”
“I’ll be there.”
I was completely earnest in my condolence. In a way, I was not terribly surprised to hear that Shaggy had been battling something serious for a while. I think there is a certain bearing that is only earned by encountering adversity. It’s a quiet confidence that comes from the continual exercise of courage. Just as one who does not know where his next meal is coming from might not be too worried about that meal being pasta or salad, one who is daily fighting for existence against a relentless disease might not worry too much about facebook trends or petty one-upmanship. It was easy to overlook, but in retrospect, I think Shaggy had it. When he asked me what I needed, he listened with his whole, undistracted attention. He often humored me with that workplace banter that is more than just instruction, tale swapping, and joking, but is also a steady subcurrent of recognition, approval, and appreciation. I felt not just served up with the materials that I needed to do my job; I also felt appreciated as a person. I hope he felt appreciated by me as well.
That next Tuesday I showed up to the benefit BBQ promptly at noon to buy lunches for my whole crew. I had an extra $20 in my pocket that I intended to overpay with, to make extra sure to support Shaggy’s family. I had to drive around the block to find parking and then stand at the end of a 30 person line before I could even get to the table to order. Then, when I finally made it and was able to put in my orders, I added my extra $20 to a huge tip jar (that probably held deck screws in a previous life) stuffed with cash. I could even see Ben Franklin’s face down near the bottom mingling in with the Jacksons, Hamiltons, and Lincolns. The line was replenishing itself after me at the same rate at which it was being served, and the owner of the lumber yard was sending one of his guys off to the Supermarket to get more food to serve. I wasn’t the only one who wanted to express my appreciation for Shaggy.
A couple days later I was back in the lumber yard, getting my ticket rung up by the owner, so I mentioned the BBQ:
“Man, that was pretty cool on Tuesday; it sure seemed like a lot of folks were ready to honor Shaggy.”
He looked over my shoulder, rather vaguely into the distance. “Dude, it was so cool. Just about everyone who comes through this yard showed up and bought lunch and stuck money in that tip jar. It was one of the best things I’ve seen in a while.”
These last few years have been strange ones, but it’s moments like these that cut through and give me hope. I don’t think of Shaggy as some great world changer or influencer; he didn’t have a voice of clarity, or even any major opinions that I knew anything of. He was a scraggly guy who, in the face of unknown amounts of adversity, simply showed up and worked hard. In doing so, he moved a community of builders and business owners - guys who are always running from job to job with materials, invoices, and instructions - to stop, take a moment, and honor the quiet and humble spirit that so often goes unnoticed. But it doesn’t go unnoticed, it’s just a currency from a different realm. Every now and then that eternal currency cuts through into everyday life and reminds us that there might be something richer than the daily hustle hiding beneath the surface for those who are willing to seek it out.