Sandwich

I have always been magnetically attracted to humanity.

So when I decided to volunteer at a food bank — every Tuesday, triaging donations — I expected connection. Warmth. Meaningful human interaction.

What I got was a sandwich.

And not the good kind.

I am on a team of three. The other two are retirees like myself. Well — only the title is common.

First we have the happiest little man anyone has ever met. Former school teacher. Thirty-five years. Happily married. Proud grandad. Permanently cheerful in a way that should be medically investigated.

He gets on my nerves.

How can someone be in such a good mood?

Then there’s the grumpy woman. Does not talk. Does not smile. Bosses us both around without uttering a single complete sentence.

I don’t know what she did before retirement but whatever it was — it did not spark joy.

She is despicable and I briefly did not want to volunteer anymore.

The dynamic is simple:

He talks and talks.

She frowns and frowns.

I stand in the middle wondering what I’ve done to deserve this.

She doesn’t speak to me directly. She just mumbles and directs with her chin toward whichever bin the canned goods belong in.

I have been chin-directed so many times I now know exactly where everything goes — purely to avoid the chin.

I also strategically position myself away from chirpy grandpa so he doesn’t launch into another story instead of working.

I came here for human connection.

This is what I got.

And yet.

Every Tuesday I get in my car and drive back.

Why?

Because this is humanity in its purest form.

I don’t get to choose my humans. None of us do. You get the chirpy one who won’t stop talking and the grumpy one who won’t start — and you show up anyway.

You accept without judging.

You stay without running.

You become the middle of the sandwich holding everyone together.

Because the alternative is becoming the monster.

And we already covered that arc.