I pulled up to the Enterprise Rent-A-Car on Western near Grace Tuesday morning at around 7:15. My contract said that I needed to get the car back by 7:30. Not wanting to run the risk of paying for more than the two days I budgeted for driving my niece up to music camp in Egg Harbor, I made sure I got my orange red little Kia refueled and parked back on the lot before the office opened. A slightly built, Hispanic man with receding hair line, was standing only inches in front of the glass door. He was reading and re-reading the information about hours.

“I see someone in the office, but no one has unlocked the door yet,” he reported as I walked towards the spot where he had positioned himself, no doubt to be first in line. “They should be open soon,” he added, sounding more intent on reassuring himself than anything else.

I don’t know why, but the actual thoughts that were running through my head just poured out. We were sort of in the same position.

“I just came back from Door County,” I announced. “I was driving my niece up to music camp. She plays the violin. I have a car, a Honda Civic, but it’s over fifteen years old, and I wanted her to be comfortable. It’s almost a five hour drive,” I said before getting to the biggest concern on my mind. “I wanted to make sure I got the car back early so they wouldn’t charge extra.”

The man smiled. He understood.

“All my children came to Chicago this weekend for Father’s Day. Two from San Juan, one from Virginia, and Estefania came in from LA. They made me rent a van so we could go everywhere together. They bought me a Kindle,” he added with an unabashed outpouring of enthusiasm then sighed. “It was the best Father’s Day I ever had.”

While we waited for the office to open, he told me about the first books he downloaded with his new Kindle, about how much he loves to read, especially since his retirement only six months earlier. He gushed about how much he loved his family. I found out that he was in a hurry to get through processing of his rental return. He had to get home and drive his eldest son, Braulio, to the airport for a 9:30 flight. “Don’t worry,“ I told him, “Where do you live? Humboldt Park? That’s not that far. I’ll drive you.”

When the office opened and he handed in his car key, he asked if someone from the agency could drive him home. Since they only offered transportation to an el station or bus stop, he decided to take me up on my offer. We both knew driving to O’Hare on the Kennedy during rush hour was a crapshoot, and the faster we could get him home, the better his chances would be to help his son make his flight.

We continued our conversation in my car. We talked about the current debate about making Puerto Rico a state. “What’s up with that?” I asked. “What do the people in your neighborhood think?” I told him about my trip to Door County with my fifteen year-old niece. I had been looking forward to having some bonding time with her, but she was exhausted from worrying about the competition at Birch Creek and slept practically the whole time we were together. “She knows you were there for her,” my passenger reminded me.

I decided I could tell him about my other activity in Door Country, visiting my friend Chris who was in hospice at a nursing home in Sturgeon Bay. I had spent most of the previous day with him, developing my skills at packing his wheel chair into the tiny Kia trunk and going on small excursions – to a local diner for lunch and to a sporting goods store where we got him a baseball cap so he could cheer on his beloved Brewers in style.

“He has cancer?” my new friend asked. “My son-in-law had cancer. I was with my daughter when he passed. It happened so quickly from when he was told he was sick. He was the best man you would ever want to know,” his voice waivered, recollections refreshed. “A pastor. Only fifty-two. The church arranged for grief counseling for the whole family. That was very good, I think,“ he nodded, noticing we were approaching the great metal sculpture of the Puerto Rican flag that undulates across Division Street. He pointed out his house.

He asked if he could pay me something for driving him home. It wasn’t necessary I told him. Moments after he swung the door open, before he stepped out, he turned towards me and extended his hand. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Deborah. What’s yours?” “Hector,” he said and smiled, adding his thanks.

In the ten minutes it took to get from the rent-a-car office on Western to Hector’s house, a relatively short distance, it seemed like we covered a lot of territory. We talked about love and family, politics and grief. We became fully fleshed out human beings to each other. And to think, it all started at Enterprise, waiting for the office to open.

Making friends, one stranger at a time, should be a primary enterprise of everyone. When you can sense the personhood of someone, even someone who you will never see again – it’s no small thing.