I am standing in the back of a bus in San Miguel de Allende, just beginning to exit, when I notice a short, heavy-set woman behind me, her long grey hair tied in a bun and a smile that explained a thousand years of Mexican fiestas. How could I not let her pass?
So I take a step to the side and, with a downward sweep of my hand, indicate she should pass me -- that indeed, it would be my pleasure if she did. And so she does, her eyes opening wider, the many laugh lines around her dark eyes, deepening.
I have the impulse to follow, to exit next, especially since I had just given up my place in line, but the boy behind her is obviously on his way somewhere and his need to exit seems to be greater than mine and since I am already standing off to the side, I let the young muchacho do his young muchacho thing.
A man with a guitar passes me, as do two small children.
I look to my left and see a lot of people standing up and starting to make their way to the back of the bus, me now feeling like an usher, perfectly placed to make their exit just a little happier today.
A dark-skinned man with fringes on his jacket passes by, as does a woman behind him whom I imagine to be his wife. She looks tired, like there are many chores waiting for her at the end of the day -- the same chores her mother and her grandmother still perform daily as an act of worship to a Jesus whose image hangs from the rear view mirror of her husband's 1973 Chevy, along with the rosary beads and dice.
Each of these people pass me and, as they do, I notice that more people are getting on the bus -- the same number, mas o menos, as those who have just gotten off.
So I continue standing there, making way, and bowing to those who seem to be open to more than just a smile or nod. And then, it dawns on me. This is my work. This is what I was born for -- what my Buddhist friends like to refer to as "right livelihood" -- though I, in this moment, could not figure out how the universe could possibly compensate me for my service.
I didn't need to think about it for long.
Thirty minutes later, a woman with a turquoise barrette in her hair, brings me a grilled chicken in a plastic bag. Hot. Crispy. Ready to eat. And a 7-Up too, perfectly chilled.
Mitch Ditkoff is the author of the recently published, award-winning book STORYTELLING AT WORK: How Moments of Truth on the Job Reveal the Real Business of Life. The above story is excerpted from his forthcoming book, SAN MIGUEL STORIES: Life in the Slow Lane.