Shit’s getting pretty real out there, folks. Amiright? I can’t recall a more polarizing cultural landscape in my life. Politics or otherwise, it seems that the harder connections, compromises, and general understanding is to achieve, the more important it becomes.

With that, it might help to proactively find ways to let people be a part of your story, while also being open to being part of theirs. Maybe that’s a place to start. Maybe that’s how we all get through this. Maybe just maybe?

Well, just in case, here’s a story for you that could be a blueprint of how we can all be a part of each others’ story — in three easy(ish) steps.

That time we went to the CSN concert

I was in high school and a bunch of us decided it would be fun to go the Crosby, Stills, & Nash show. They were playing the local shed amphitheater (called Riverport at the time) so we met at Jeff’s house, jumped in a few cars, and headed down.

We parked. Enjoyed the lot scene for a few minutes and then headed in. I recall thinking that I might have forgotten my ticket, but phew…nope, I had it. I handed it to the person at the gate and she immediately told me that I wasn’t going to be allowed in.

I remembered my ticket, but I forgot my shoes.

Repeat…I forgot my shoes. Not in the car. Not in the parking lot. At home. I’m an idiot.

In my defense, it was summer and I didn’t wear them all that much and whatever. Shut up. But crap, I didn’t know what I was going to do. My friends laughed their asses off at me (rightfully so), but then quickly realized that I wasn’t getting into the show. They immediately jumped to action.

Jeff: “Meet me around the corner and I’ll throw my shoes over the fence and then you can wear mine in!”

Me: “Yes! Great call. That will definitely work!”

^ Didn’t work.

And with that, we were out of ideas. Seriously, that was the only idea.

Lot don’t fail me now

I wandered around the parking lot in desperation, trying to get creative and think of a way to get into this damn show. Some other kids — roughly my age at the time but I didn’t know who they were — asked me if I was looking for a ticket. I said no, but I am in the market for footwear. Explaining my predicament, they laughed (rightfully so) and we talked for about 15 minutes playing the “where do you go to high school?” game to see how many people we knew in common. I recall thinking that it was weird that we didn’t know anyone in common at all. They were nice, though, and wished me luck. I said “thank you” and started walking away.

“Hey, hold up!” I heard someone yell. I turned around and it was the short, curly-haired girl from that group. “I just remembered that I have a pair of flip flops in my car! You could borrow them if you want.”

I stared at her in amazement for what was most likely an awkwardly long time, but then I took her up on it. “Really? Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. Are you sure?”

She was sure. Also, the flip flops were pink and like 4 sizes too small. I didn’t care. I was going to this damn show. She said she was working at the Karl Bissinger’s chocolate shop at the Galleria Mall on Monday and that I could return them to her then. I told her thank you about twenty more times and then ran into the show. With my new pink flip flops.

I got through the turnstiles, walked around the corner, and then took the flip flops off and put them in my pocket. They did their job. No need to rock tiny pink flip flops any longer than I had to like a creep.

I found my friends and was greeted like a conquering hero (rightfully so). I told them my story about my new friends in the parking lot and showed them what I wore in. This time, we all laughed. Hard.

The show was great. I still have the t-shirt with the lyric from Wooden Ships on it.

Hey, remember me?

It wasn’t the next day, but the day after that, when I grabbed the pink flip flops and headed to the mall to return them. I still remember that Karl Bissinger’s was on the top floor right near the escalators. I walked up there and asked for her. She turned, saw me, and immediately started cracking up laughing.

And I knew why. She absolutely, 100%, never, ever expected to see me or those flip flops again. But there I was, two days later, giving them back. I told her thank you one more time and we spoke for a few awkward minutes about how good the show was. We said our goodbyes and as I walked away, I caught her telling a co-worker her story about who I was and how our paths crossed. She was still laughing.

Being a part of someone’s story could be whittled down to three steps:

1. Communicate.

   If I didn’t stop to talk to them in the parking lot, none of this would have ever happened. Communicating doesn’t require much. You don’t need to agree on everything or even like each other. All it requires is the willingness to connect and listen to people. It’s humanity in its simplest form, and it really is awesome when even the slightest trust in that humanity comes through.

2. Allow yourself to be surprised.

   I never even asked if any of them had shoes I could borrow. If you let yourself be surprised every once in a while, I promise you that you will be.

3. Surprise them back.

   She never expected to see me again — we both knew it. I saw her generous gesture and raised her another. Now, we both have this story. I like to imagine that she tells it often around a campfire of beautiful, laughing friends all wearing ugly ski sweaters and turtlenecks. Is that weird? Yeah, it’s weird. Let’s move on…

As I continue to build Magic Room Brand, I remind myself often that stories are two-way things. It’s great when customers show love and become part of my story, but the vision of the business is to build something that can be a part of their story. Finding that common area where the interaction is part of “our” collective story is the sweet spot.

If you smile at me, I will understand
’Cause that is something
Everybody everywhere does in the same language
– Crosby, Stills, & Nash

#bewhatyoumake