A Little Less Conversation

Ran some errands over lunch earlier this week. Picked up some antifreeze and motor oil for my car, then stopped by the Verizon store to buy a hands-free headset on my way back the office. This is the conversation I was lucky enough to be caught up in while I waited.

“So, I see you went to Strosnider’s.”
“…”
“That’s a good hardware store.”
“Yep”
“Whenever I need hardware I always go to Strosnider’s”
“It’s nice.”
“And they’re so helpful. Take you right to the aisle you need.”
“Good stuff.”
“I should go by there. Need to get a few supplies for Thanksgiving and the weekend.”
“Sounds like a plan, make it happen.”
“That’s a good hardware store, they’re so helpful.”
“…”

At this point I put on my iPod headphones and started facing the other direction. But even after leaving the Verizon store, I was still left with a nagging question, a nagging series of questions. Why? Why did this man have to persist in talking to me, persist in talking to me to the point where I had to be unnaturally rude to extricate myself from our unnaturally stilted excuse for repartee? What kind of person interprets a semi-queasy facial expression and soulless one-to-two word responses as a go-ahead to charge forward with more unsolicited musings about customer service in a hardware store? If this man had been able to wait in line silently without the benefit of someone to talk to before I walked in the store, why couldn’t he keep to himself after I arrived? Was the whole “don’t talk to strangers” concept I was raised on just an 80’s thing? What is the best outcome that could possibly come from our banal dialogue about supplies? Are we going to bond? Am I going to conclude our discourse with a spirited-but-manly, slightly-center-of-right-wing embrace and proclaim that he is the father I should’ve had? Seriously sir, what do you want from me? We have nothing in common except that we both use Verizon and are vaguely aware that hardware stores exist.

I don’t even know anything about hardware. I don’t know anything about software. In the interest of efficiency and being as little as I can be, I’ve made it a point not to know much of anything outside of comedy, movies, music that was made before my time, and architecture. The only reason I went to Strosnider’s was because that needy check engine light came on again, and I’m hoping against hope that if I feed the car enough fluids maybe the instrument panel will quiet down and chill out before I panic and take the car to the mechanic again, which is sure to cut into my Christmas-shopping-for-myself money.

As an aside to further prove my point on how little I know, I’m, pretty certain I put in the wrong antifreeze. Can you use RV & Marine-grade coolant on an SUV? My gut tells me that question will answer itself soon enough, when the temperature drops and my car starts spitting out pieces of radiator and hosiery along I-95.

Back to my original point, talking to strangers has been causing progressively more discomfort the older I get. If we don’t meet through work, comedy, or some properly sanctioned social setting, odds are I will use any and all countermeasures available to me to avoid ending up entangled in any extraneous exchange; up to and including pretending I just got a phone call on vibrate, feigning a minor medical emergency that may or may not involve the bathroom, and/or setting the both of us on fire.

At work, it takes me an average of three aborted trips to the bathroom before I hit a lucky schedule pocket on our floor and get the facilities to myself. Don’t have any black ops planned, something just feels strange about talking to another man while I’m holding myself. Think that should be a general rule among men; if pants are unzipped, are about to be unzipped, or have been unzipped in the last 60-90 seconds, then that’s quiet time fellas, shut your face. No whistling, no humming, certainly no groaning, no 80’s a cappella bathroom jams, and under NO circumstances are you to make a leading comment about the weather, how it’s almost Friday, or the status of the Redskins.

I go to extraordinary, Crusade-level lengths to avoid talking to people on planes; that might be my misanthropic masterpiece. I take my window-seat, armed with a thick but non-interesting looking book, a fully charged iPod, a well-honed penchant for socially-induced narcolepsy, and the most unpredictable, spiritually troubling facial expression my young-ish skull can muster. The trick is to look super eager at everybody coming down the aisle, so that YOU look like the deviant who can’t keep his mouth shut. This will trick whoever into retreating into THEIR shell; they’ll be so afraid you’re going to be the crazy who won’t shut up they’ll likely leave you alone the whole flight. Don’t try that trick with old people though. Most of them lived through World War II, the aftermaths of the Kennedy and Dr. King assassinations, the turmoil of Vietnam, and all five seasons of “Blossom”, so nothing you can do is likely to scare them. When in doubt, no matter who sits next to me, I’m not above staring out the window like a five year-old for seven hours straight, talking about Jesus, attempting a mid-flight Jake-the-Snake style DDT, and/or setting the both of us on fire.

“…Golly, I sure hope that wasn’t the air marshal…”

Happy Holidays, it was nice not talking to you.