DICAPRIO TAKES NO S***
I’m terrible at saying Thank You. All my life I’ve struggled to say it. I know what you’re thinking: wow, what an ungrateful and selfish human being. Robert Hyma can’t say thank you? Suppose a surgeon finished removing a tumor the size of a Jeep Cherokee headlight from his leg, would he puff up his chest, grin like a 40’s gangster, and say, “What? That’s what they pay you for, Doc! I’m outta here…”?
In another life, one in which I’m terribly cruel to other human beings (and perhaps introducing the torture of impalement), that’s exactly what I’d say. However, my real response would be just the opposite:
I would track down the surgeon, ascertain his address, type up a heartfelt letter (that probably reveals a childhood traumatic event that he had also helped clear up), and hope that – along with the many thousands of dollars I owe with my insurance co-pay – that I wish there was some other way I could show my appreciation for his having saved my life.
That’s because I have the exact opposite of a Thank You problem.
I have a “can’t say Thank You good enough” problem.
Unlike most of my adulthood issues, I know where this problem started. On Christmas Day when I was about 10 years old, my mother (or Santa, depending) gifted me what I had been asking for all summer: a CD case for my growing collection of comedy albums. I had imagined a sleek, faux-leather double-sleeved case with a rain-proof zipper, the kind you took along for long road trips just as importantly as one of those hygiene travel bags stuffed with a toothbrush, facial cleanser, and deodorant.
When I opened my present that Christmas, instead of the premium CD case of my dreams, it turned out to be a rough-fabric, camouflage, single slot CD case—just the opposite of the sleek, trendy one I had wanted.
My mother waited eagerly for my response to hear how pleased I was. “Do you like it?” she asked.
I might as well have been Leo DiCaprio from The Wolf of Wallstreet. “This?” I said, turning over the camouflage aberration in my hands. “Look, this isn’t what I wanted. I mean, I wanted a CD case – you got that part right – but what is this? Camouflage? Really?”
I gave my mother a “you know that I know that this ain’t it” look.
Except she didn’t know. In fact, she silently moved away from me, like an extra on a movie set being directed off-camera because her part in the scene was over.
Meanwhile, I thought I was objectionably correct. It was a shabby CD case. And who was it for? It was camouflage: supposing I was going to take up hunting, I imagined a herd of deer in the woods might race past my collection of CDs and would not be tempted to steal them (as we all know herds of deer are wont to do). In hindsight, this thought made much more sense since my most coveted CD at the time was Steve Martin’s “Let’s Get Small” album, which was damn near impossible to find in West Michigan at the time.
With a shrug, I watched my family finish opening their presents, loosely aware that my mother’s stare into the middle distance—a despondent look that usually accompanied shame and embarrassment.
What I didn’t notice, however, was my father’s vengeful glare from across the room. Shortly after opening presents, he pulled me aside with a swift wrench of the arm.
“Why did you say that to your mother?” he growled.
Hey, DiCaprio takes no shit, so I showed him the CD case. “Have you seen this?”
He swatted the CD case out of my hand, and it landed on a nearby armchair. “It doesn’t matter what it is; your mother gave that to you because she loves you. Now go say ‘Thank You’ and really mean it.”
He didn’t yell, just growled like the inner Grizzley bear that seldom came out whenever my sister and I did something insensitive. We never saw the bear paws, but we always saw the tracks on the ground.
I sighed. He was right. I was a jerky jerkwad. So, I sheepishly went up to my mother. “Hey, Thank You for the CD case.”
“You’re welcome,” she smiled. “I’m glad you like it.” And she gave me a hug.
That next Christmas, I said Thank You to her again for the gifts. I don’t remember what they were, but I made sure to say it regardless.
I had seen the Grizzley tracks nearby.
***
THANKS FOR THE PIZZA
23 years later and I still haven’t forgotten the lessons of saying Thank You to those who do something thoughtful. It so happens that I felt the same obligation to give another satisfying Thank You this past week, this time to the gift of a pizza party following Thursday Night Hockey.
I seldom write about this part of my life that has been with me for well over a decade now. Once a week, I play hockey with the same group of guys in something affectionally called Thursday Night Hockey. It’s a weekly gathering of the relieved; twenty of us working up a sweat on the ice and then clambering to a dank locker room to guzzle cans of beer afterwards. We gather at an ice rink, an oasis located just off the highway, with brick walls and painted black ceilings that likely hide the real killer among us: a steady trickle of asbestos falling like invisible snowflakes.
It doesn’t matter.
No one minds the late-night skate time in the middle of a workweek or traveling far to play (many coming from 20 or more minutes away). That’s because Thursday Night Hockey is about camaraderie. And despite the mindboggling averageness of our hockey skills over the past decade (yes, mine included), we gather like a tribe, celebrating that we’re together in the first place.
Of course, you would never say this out loud (you would much rather write it on a personal website and assume it is true).
Over the summer, our weekly gatherings morphed from a late-night happy hour to something that resembled an open house or campfire cookout. Where there was beer in coolers and idle conversation at the start, there was soon JBL speakers pulsing with 80s rock ballads and a Sam’s Club sized pretzel mix container being passed around. Most brought canvas chairs, others preferred to stand, which invariably created a “Sneetches on the Beaches” scenario of those who sat versus those who remained standing.
The comforts kept growing, and I wondered if the summer had lasted another two months that we might had had portable firepits, pavilion tents, assorted cheeses and meats on a charcuterie board, and maybe hire a caricature artist for an evening.
Ok, I’m exaggerating: the caricature artist would only be invited if they brought the beer.
So, for the first time in our history, we decided to celebrate the final skate of the summer with boxes of pizza.
If you’ve never woofed down pizza at 11:30 at night, there are consequences. Not only does one mentally note if a bottle of Tums is stocked at home for afterwards, but there’s also concern for how the pizza arrives.
The pizza was delivered from Dominos by a driver with questionable delivery skills. With thick-framed glasses and a beard of a man who likely dwells in the mountains, the delivery guy turned into the ice rink parking lot with his brights on, needing the light of a medium-sized star to see twenty feet ahead of the front bumper. He then stopped the car in front of our group and pulled a 36-point turn to aim his car towards the exit of the parking lot. We all watched in amazement at this five-minute-long process. Maybe this driver had a former life as a bank heist driver, sitting out front with the engine running, waiting for a trio of guys with stuffed duffle bags and ski masks to shout, “Go! Go! Go!” before stomping the gas pedal.
We all looked to one another, skeptical about how great a condition the pizza was going to be from this guy.
Luckily, after the private stunt show, the delivery driver peeled away, the pizza safely delivered on a folding table. Twenty of us flocked to paper plates, steaming slices of pizza, and another beer in tow. No one cared about the consequences of eating heavy pizza late at night; we reveled as this group knew how: talking about anything else but hockey, drinking beer, and laughter, lots of laughter.
We were all having a great time.
Until I looked down and saw the Grizzley bear tracks at my feet.
I realized I was going to have to say Thank You to the guy that provided the pizza, the organizer of our weekly gathering, Jonny.
I was one of the last to leave, mostly because I watched with envy how the others said Thank You, as though they never received a camouflage CD case at Christmastime, and have never lived with a guilty obligation to over-stress a Thank You. “Thanks again, Jonny,” they would say and walk away, not even looking back for affirmation they were heard or not.
“Oh,” I thought. “That’s easy. I can do that.”
I blew it immediately. I approached Jonny like I had two royal trumpeters finishing their introductions before I could speak—I just hovered awkwardly, waiting for an opening. I imagined my herald introducing me: “May I present to you, Sir Robert the Dumb, of Making-This-Harder-Than-This-Needs-To-Be”.
Finally, I took my opening. “Thanks again for the pizza, Jonny. That was very thoughtful, and I appreciate it.”
I heard the record skip. It was very thoughtful? AND I appreciate it? Was I talking to a girlfriend over our first Christmas together, and I was reassuring her that it was the effort that counted the most? No! I was talking to middle-aged hockey players: guys with 401Ks and bustling family lives—you know, normal people who don’t need validation for providing boxes of pizza.
“Yeah, no problem,” said Jonny.
Of course, to my Thank You impaired brain, this wasn’t enough. I felt I needed to keep getting through. Best not leave now, I figured. I should find another opportunity to fit in a joke, stick around for a while longer—just something to show an indication that I was REALLY thankful.
I said a joke.
A polite laugh from Jonny. Grizzley bear tracks all around.
Obviously, I had to keep trying harder; can’t leave after a so-so joke. Maybe I could offer to help clean up, take care of the folding table, make sure—
“Do you want to take the pizzas home?” Jonny asked suddenly. “I’m just going to throw them away. Better take them if you want.”
Relief. Exoneration. Something I could do to show appreciation. I hid my glee. “You’re sure?”
“Yup, otherwise it’s going in the trash,” he said.
I repressed a smile. “Cool, I’ll take them if no one wants them.”
No one else did (401ks, bustling family lives). I scooped up the two remaining pizza boxes with extra slices stuffed inside and headed towards my car. I didn’t want the pizzas, but by taking them I showed how thankful I was for the pizza…ok, I would eat a slice on the road, but still!
And I did it all without tracking down an address, writing a letter, or revealing a childhood trauma that was also resolved in the process.
Well…
Anyway, I drove home with pizza boxes steaming on the passenger seat, unsure of how I’d store the slices in my already crammed refrigerator at home. Oh well, I was confident I could find space for it.
Just like the camouflage CD case that I still own.
Hey, DiCaprio takes no shit.
But he does take home leftovers.
***
***
Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,
