Strangers

Did some people have mothers who didn't tell them, "Don't talk to strangers?"

Strangers - random people in the universe to whom I have not been formally introduced - rarely talk to me. 

I don't mean the, "Excuse me, I'm trying to get to Rochester…" type of interactions, although those happen far too often. There are a lot of lost people in this world. Apparently, I look like someone who knows directions. I don't. I have no idea how to get to Rochester. Go in a generally northwesterly direction? Why are people still asking me for directions in the age of Google Maps? How do you not know where you are? Are you freaking me out just a little bit right now with all your questions about route numbers and the explanation for your urgent need to get to the Lowe's in Rochester? Yes. Yes, you are!

Where was I? Right!

I don't mean the "Excuse me, I'm trying to get to Rochester…" type of interactions.

I mean those times when strangers engage me in an impromptu narrative regarding some incident in their life, or a brief synopsis of a particularly important decade from the autobiographical podcast they're having out loud with their inner child right there in front of you in the waiting room at VIP Auto while you're waiting for your state inspection and an oil change and cursing yourself for forgetting to bring a book you could pretend to be reading.

Thankfully, this is a rare occurrence for me, but it happens to my wife all the time. Random interactions with total strangers become something like a pop up Oprah interview, only my wife doesn't need to ask any questions about their feelings. They tell her. She nods and smiles, with an occasional tilt of the head as she actually listens, digging into the subtext, capping it off by actually saying something helpful, something insightful and reassuring. She's a good person and brings empathy to situations that cause my inner child to shiver in fear in the deepest darkest corner of my mind, sucking his thumb and clutching his blue blanket tight to his chest. 

Ah, Blue Blankey, I still miss you!

I don't know what it is about my wife that causes this to happen. Something about her presence, something other humans (and animals - she's a bit like Snow White in that regard) sense about her; something outside the visible spectrum of light, outside the range of human hearing… an aura of kindness? 

I fear that whatever it is about my wife that shines may be rubbing off on me. 

I was in the grocery store last week and as I was walking my cart down the "Italian" aisle of the store (canned and jarred sauces, dried pasta), I heard someone talking in a conversational tone of voice. It wasn't the muttering voice of someone talking to themself. It was the full throated voice of someone talking to someone else.

I tried desperately not to look, not to make eye contact. It was like a moment from a horror movie. You hear the sound. The creaking floor board. The low, gurgling growl. You know you have to look even though you know as soon as you make eye contact with the werewolf it will spring upon you and tear your throat out. Not looking probably doesn't work but why doesn't anyone ever try that? Werewolves are magical creatures. Maybe there are magical rules that prevent them from killing anything they can't look in the eye? I'm just saying it's worth a shot.

Anyway, I looked. 

There was an older man there, picking through the haphazard pile of wine bottles in the shopping cart with the bright purple, hand-written sign that shouted "Half Price!" He was slight though I didn't get the impression he was frail. Wiry. Veteran? Probably knew how to handle himself. His hair was thick, graying and didn't give the impression that he was a regular customer of Supercuts. And he was talking. To me. About a moment in his life that involved half price wine.

His was a humorous tale (I think). He claimed to have once purchased half priced wine, and that after discounts were applied at the checkout, he was actually paid a penny to purchase said half priced wine. He noted that the Captains of Capitalism subsequently had caught on to this market inefficiency and now would apply discounts first, then halve the discounted price. The days of being paid $0.01 for a liter of Rosalita's Rosé of Indeterminate Provenance were - sadly - a thing of the past.

His story struck me as being as fantastical as werewolves. 

Still, I tried to think of something my wife would've said. I didn't want to be mean or rude but I also did not want to have the werewolf tear my throat out. Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened? No, that wasn't my wife. It also seemed a bit too big for the moment. You'd have to pay me a lot more than a penny to drink rosé! No.That was certainly true but it might lead to further conversation. Or a fight about the relative merits of rosé. (There aren't any.) So, I smiled. I nodded. I pushed my cart up the aisle and did not look back.

If only he'd asked me for directions to Rochester.