The gift of spilled coffee

Ten years ago I was leaving a hotel in Atlanta. When I got on the shuttle that would take me to the airport, I spilled coffee all over the elderly driver’s crisp white shirt. I gave him an obligatory “Sorry,” and he said, “That’s OK, don’t worry about it.” I didn’t even give it a second thought. I was too self-absorbed and hungover. I was deep in the throes of alcoholism.