I have a Sunday morning routine. I drive to a local convenience store to buy a newspaper, specifically for the Sunday crossword. Then, I buy a coffee and either 1) sit in the coffee shop to work on the crossword or 2) head home where I enjoy my coffee and my puzzle in the comfort and quiet of my home.
Sunday was no different. I got up before dawn (nothing new for me), dispensed with a few necessary tasks and headed to the garage to begin my routine. At the convenience store, where the workers are friendly and cordial, I was second in line.
The man in front of me (I’d describe him simply as “older”) was buying a breakfast sandwich, two doughnuts and a chocolate milk. I thought nothing of it. As he approached the counter, the following dialogue took place (this is nearly verbatim):
Cashier: How ya doin’ today?
Man: Not good.
Cashier: No?
Man: Nah … I don’t know when my wife’s comin’ back.
Cashier: Oh … is she gone?
Man: Yeah, severe illness in the family.
Cashier: She sick?
Man: Nah … it’s her sister.
Cashier: Oh, yeah …
Man: Yeah, then to top things off, when I started the car this mornin’, the tire light went on.
Cashier: Oh, yeah, I’ve had that happen.
Man: So now I gotta check that. But I just don’t know when she’s comin’ home today.
Cashier: Oh, she’s comin’ home today?
Man: Yeah, I just don’t know when.
By this point, a small line had formed behind me, and I could feel several customers getting impatient, even though we were only about 20 seconds into this one-act play. I noticed the cashier looking past me to the growing line, and at that point, she quickly scanned the man’s items to move things along.
Cashier: You need a bag for this?
Man: Nah. You know how we met?
Cashier: No, how?
Man: Folk dancing. Fifty-five years ago, next month.
Cashier: Wow … good for you. Here’s your change. See you next time.
Man: Yup. Gotta check that tire pressure.
Cashier: Maybe it's ‘cuz it was cold this morning. Sometimes, that makes my light go on too.
Man: (to me as he walked out) Just wish I knew when she’s comin’ home.Me: Yeah, I bet.
Man: Yup. She wouldn’t approve of me having this for breakfast. But what am I supposed to do? She’s in Green Bay with her sister and I don’t know when she’ll be back.
Me: You take good care now.
Man: (to himself) Where’s that tire pump?
Right about now, you might be asking, “Dave, why did you feel the need to replay that story?” It’s a good question. I think it’s because while I could have gotten frustrated like the other folks in line, I was entertained by it. It was like I was an audience of one at an impromptu one-act play, or a skit by an improv group.
As the conversation unwound and more information was shared, I started to make assumptions, and it generated questions in my mind about this gentleman, his relationship with his wife and also, his need to share his story with someone … anyone.
On its face, the exchange appeared humorous and comedic, but if we go deeper into the man’s words, how he kept coming back to a central theme, then diverted into talking about how he and his wife met (even the aside he made to me about her disapproving of his breakfast choices), it provides additional information, and it also creates more questions about him and his life.
He was telling us (the cashier and anyone willing to listen) a story of his life in real-time, and to me, it was delightful, funny and heartbreaking all at the same time.
As I checked out, the cashier said, “Sorry for the wait. He just needed someone to listen.” I smiled and responded, “I think you made his day.” And that made her smile. “See you next time,” she said. “Keep up the great work,” I responded.
I was glad I witnessed that conversation, not only because I loved the “performance,” but also the deeper messages woven into it. I hope he enjoyed his decadent breakfast. I hope he figured out his tire pressure issue. And most of all, I hope his wife made it back so they could enjoy Sunday dinner together.
The lesson I learned in all this? Sometimes, we just need someone to listen, even there’s a line forming at the register.
© 2024 David R. Haznaw