Listen Free: | Apple Podcasts | Pandora | Spotify |
Aaron finds himself stuck in a suburban parking lot, overwhelmed by logistics and burnout after a long weekend of supporting his daughter's performance. But as dusk falls and a chaotic van interrupts a perfect sunset, he’s reminded of perspective, connection, and the small beauty of clean hands and second chances.
*We’re creating bonus 7MS-themed content delivered to your inbox, but only exclusively for 7MS listeners who sign up for our quarterly newsletter!
https://www.7minutestoriespod.com/newsletter
*Have a short story you'd love to hear narrated by Aaron? Submit yours for a chance to be featured on our 7 Minute Stories: Sunday Leftovers release
https://www.7minutestoriespod.com/contact
*Dive deeper into the 7MS Universe and connect with Aaron on...
*Want to join one of Aaron’s free live storytelling lectures or conversations? Follow our sister channel The Storytelling University.
https://www.youtube.com/@TheStorytellingUniversity
*Thanks to my amazing team who've made 7 Minute Stories a top storytelling podcast:
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
It's dusk. I'm looking up at the sky and it's like a miracle. If you can imagine a portrait, it was like a painting. This moment—and out of the corner of my eye, something comes into the frame that would turn this moment literally upside down. And I'll tell you about it, right after the music.
This was a Sunday evening. It was a long weekend. My daughter was in The Wizard of Oz. She was amazing—played all these different types of roles. But the venue was about 45 minutes from where we live. So, you know what I’m talking about.
If you’ve done this stuff with kids, they want you to be there a hundred hours early. You’re running around getting breakfast. To be honest with you, I’m really terrible at this stuff. Like, I do it—I show up—but I struggle with logistics. Thank God I have my wife and my family to support me through this. Because I can tell a story… but I cannot figure out a weekend when it comes to kids’ events. I am a disaster.
But I made it through. I did pretty well. Still, I was cranky. I was frustrated—not with my daughter at all—but with myself, in those quiet moments.
Because where this place was, I didn’t have enough time to go back to my house because the play would start, you know, in a couple of hours. So I’m stuck in this city.
I’m like a blue plastic bag floating in a parking lot. Literally. I spent all my time in parking lots, working on my phone, walking around my car, getting exercise, just moving from parking lot to parking lot—just for a different point of view. Some different scenery. I was doing steps in Target. I’m power walking. I’ve become that guy I always give a little side-eye to, like: What’s that guy up to in the parking lot?
That’s me. Just for an entire weekend. Too much time in the car. Too much time alone. So I was drinking tons of coffee. This probably added to the anxiety.
There were two Dunkin' Donuts in this town—one on one side, the other on the other side of the town, two blocks away. It’s like the “other side of the tracks” phenomenon.
One Dunkin' Donuts was an absolute nightmare. Always is. Coffee’s cold. Employees don’t give a shit. There’s stuff floating in your coffee—you’re like, What is going on here?
The other one, across the way—pristine. On point. Hot coffee. Wonderful cream-to-coffee ratio. They’ve got it on lock.
And so, after three performances and the play is over and I drop my daughter off, I stop for one coffee at dusk—at this really pristine Dunkin' Donuts.
And real quick—important sidebar here: Dunkin' Donuts restrooms are usually on point too. What I love about the Dunkin' Donuts restroom—you pull up, you park, you go in to your right—boom, you’re done. You do what you gotta do, you wash your hands, and you’re out.
But when you go into a Dunkin' Donuts restroom and you wash your hands, they have a soap—at least in Ohio—their distributor is a soap company called Safeguard. My God. This soap smells so great. It’s my favorite-smelling soap in the world. I look forward—I seek out Dunkin' Donuts not for the coffee, but for the Safeguard soap.
I wash my hands under the warm water. You can even hear my hands right now—I’m doing it. Then I dry my hands and I smell my hands. I smell my hands—and it smells fresh and clean. It’s like being baptized.
Okay, so again: Sunday night. I leave with coffee. Clean hands. Safeguard. Everything’s great—and it gets even better.
I’m leaning against my car. I’m clutching my hot coffee. I’ve got my flannel on. It’s 57 degrees at dusk. And I look up—and it’s literally one of the greatest sunsets I’ve ever seen in my life.
I’m sure if you’ve traveled, and you’ve been to some of those spots like the Grand Canyon, or you’ve seen a volcano, or a mountain, or the ocean—and you just stand in awe of it—that was me in this Dunkin' Donuts parking lot, with my coffee, looking up.
It’s like the creator was painting live—Bob Ross style—in the sky. And I was having this spiritual moment like I was describing at the top of the show.
And out of the corner of my eye—this giant van pulls right up into my frame. I can barely see the sky now—'cause the van is like 700 feet tall. It’s rusted out. This guy’s driving—he’s shouting into his phone. Always a guy shouting in a van. On speaker phone. No Bluetooth, no earbuds. Just screaming into the speaker of his phone. And the exhaust is coming out of the broken exhaust pipe. And he’s smoking—looked like six cigarettes at once, but it was just one hanging on his bottom lip.
I don’t know how he had the agility to keep it there, but he’s screaming and yelling. The cigarette’s not going anywhere. He’s yelling at his wife or his girlfriend. They’re going back and forth at each other—"F this, F that, where’s the money, you forgot the groceries, I got an overdraft fee." I mean, he’s miserable—and completely unaware of anybody else around him. Just doing his thing. Parked at a Dunkin' Donuts.
He’s doing this right in front of me. And I’m thinking to myself: You are an eyesore on my sunset.
How hilarious is this? In the midst of this great beauty—here comes this guy, just like a blotch on my view.
And after the long weekend that I had, I was kind of annoyed. I was pissed. I’m like—you gotta be kidding me. You gotta be kidding me.
I took a sip of coffee. I took a breath. And like usual—something occurred to me after my initial response. And that initial response is usually wrong. And then some clarity kicks in.
Three things occurred to me.
The first: whether I like it or not, that guy’s sourced from the same stuff as I am. That same stardust that makes the sun makes him. And me. And he’s not interrupting my painting. He’s part of it too.
The second thing: he doesn’t even notice the sunset. He doesn’t see it. He’s so wrapped up in his stuff—and I get that. But the truth of the matter is—that sunset’s available for him too. If he just turns his head and looks—it is equally available for him to see too.
The third thing: it just gave me some perspective on how lucky I am. I don’t know what that guy’s going through. But the whole weekend, internally, I was kind of complaining in my mind—about going back and forth, how tired I was—and all that’s true.
But—I got my daughter. She’s brilliantly talented. I got to spend time with her in the car. I got time to myself to reflect. I got time to exercise. I have time. I have a car that’s working. I’m not shouting on the phone with my wife. Even in that parking lot, in Dunkin' Donuts—I got clean hands from the Safeguard soap. I got a cup of coffee. And I’m looking up at one of the most beautiful sunsets in the world.
And whether it’s me looking up at it—or the guy in the van with the cigarette hanging from his lip—everybody deserves a good sunset. Especially when you’re having a tough day.
