I do something that most of us have been warned against doing since we were toddlers: I talk to strangers.
I don’t hunt them down – that would just be weird – and I don’t bother people who are busy, but if I happen to find myself next to someone who is not otherwise engaged and is not giving off I’m-going-to-follow-you-home-and-kill-you-in-your-sleep vibes, I am liable to say something. I avoid people who advertise their political or religious beliefs on their T-shirts or hats, even if I agree with the message. A good stranger encounter should come with some assurance that you’re not going to get caught up in some long-winded conversation.
A perfect stranger conversation should be brief and make both parties feel a tiny bit better about the state of humankind.
Hastened by smart phones, self-checkout, automated ordering, touch screens and home delivery, I fear chance encounters will soon go the way of Plymouths, knobs on radios, the hyphen in email, blue light specials, privacy and a lot of federal employees.
Small talk with strangers used to be abundant. Not so very long ago, I was waiting for my car’s oil to be changed – before that, too, became a stay-in-your-car, isolating experience. There were six of us in the small waiting area. Two were young women, in their early 20s if I had to guess. They were both immersed in their phones. There was a middle-aged man who stood, scrolling, against the wall since there weren’t enough chairs to go around and his mama had raised him to leave the chairs for the women and older folks. The remaining three people were, well, older folks: two women, including me, and one man
“I hope it doesn’t take long,” said the older woman who was not me. “I’m supposed to be in Houston by 3.”
“Ugh,” said the older woman who was me. I am not a fan of the big city.
The old man – I think Jeff Bridges and Netflix have made the term acceptable – asked if she would like to borrow his gun. I don’t think he was kidding.
She declined his offer, saying she only had to make it to her daughter’s house on the north side of town. “Besides, I’ve got … dammit,” we thought she said.
Seeing our puzzled looks, she added, “Dammit is my German shepherd. It’s a long story.” We didn’t have that long.
The cashier announced my car was ready and I went to collect my keys and pay the bill. The three of us wished each other safe travels and went our separate ways, but I still remember the conversation and wonder how the dog got its name. My guess is Dammit was not always a good dog.
I used to trade small talk with the manager of a local video store. Over the course of many, too many, visits, I learned she had a son in the Navy and a daughter in high school and we got to know each other well enough to make spot-on movie recommendations. I liked her a lot more than the algorithm that figures that because I watched one disaster movie, I want to see a lot more. That’s the last thing I need.
I liked finding a kindred spirit in a grocery store checkout line when I commented on a tabloid headline on a rack near the counter. “Does anyone really care what Taylor told Travis?” I asked no one in particular. The guy in front of me, his eyes following mine to the tabloid, said he was tired of Travis and was relieved when Kansas City lost the Super Bowl. Right on, brother!
I have had a lot of satisfying small-talk exchanges with store cashiers. Right after the holidays I asked one of them if Santa had been good to him. He said he got a car battery for Christmas and, recognizing that I was probably wondering if Santa had run out of coal, assured me that that was what he really wanted. He then changed the subject and nodded to the young man bagging my groceries. “That guy is a pickleball champ,” he said. The beaming bagger made my day.
A lot of places have dispensed with cashiers and baggers in favor of self-checkout, and I’ve noticed more traffic in the grocery pickup area. They’ll never know about the dog named Dammit, the car battery or the pickleball champ. Their loss.
I cannot tell you how many times, having made the mistake of checking the news, I have left home with a face longer than a tube sock, only to get a mood boost from a brief encounter with a stranger.
I’m going to miss it.
