The grocery store griever

Today was a good lesson in remembering that you never know what someone is going through in his or her life at any given time.

This morning I had an interaction with an older gentleman named Bob at my local Kroger grocery store. I’ve encountered him on a few occasions over the years, often when I’m trying to quickly grab groceries on a rare weekday morning that both kids are at school. Weekday mornings are a popular time to go to the store for parents who stay home and retirees; it’s often a pretty quick, quiet shopping experience.

I’m guessing Bob is in his late 70s or early 80s, and due to my darn Midwestern sensibility of smiling at strangers I pass in the aisles and saying good morning, I’ve been a target of his conversations more than once. It always happens in the deli/bakery area, it seems, and Bob begins his conversations in the same type of way.

Today, he looked at my hands on the grocery cart, said something to me about how I have all of my fingers, and then did the missing thumb trick that appears to be popular with older men of a certain era. I still remember my dad’s uncle doing the same trick, and how much it blew my mind to learn the secret.

I politely laughed and tried to take my gaze toward whatever I was looking to buy in that deli area. Today, it was pita chips. From there, he asked as he always has if I’m from the area. I said yes. He went on to say, as he has before, that he bets I’m from the area along a certain road where all of the people with money live. It’s always a strange comment and weird assumption, but I tried to stay polite as he told me what neighborhood he lives in. He’s told me this before.

It’s always at this point that I look around for a life raft, some other shiny object person to grab his attention so I can slip out of his tractor beam, or try to appear to have a sense of urgency to move along the aisle.

He moved on to talking about his grandkids and great grandkids, and I knew this routine. “Some of the names of kids these days, I tell ya! Are you from the United States?” he asked me. “Yes,” I replied. In my head I prayed he wouldn’t start saying something racist. “Because I don’t care if someone’s from here or not, but… some of the names people give their kids these days!” At some point, he dropped in a comment about that guy in charge with the funny hairdo (Trump). “That Donny… he’s doing a good job.” The sweet, innocent way Bob said it made it sound like he was talking about one of his grandkids in the first grade.

Again, I tried to keep one foot out of the conversation, because why get into a politics conversation with Bob when he’s feeling like the guy with the funny hairdo is doing just fine?

Bob talked even more about his kids, grandkids, and great grandkids and their funny names, noting that they weren’t related by blood because they weren’t his children. This was a new detail I hadn’t heard about before.

Then he shared something even more personal. His wife Betty died in December. The quiver in his voice was palpable. “Would you like to see a picture?” he asked as he pulled out his wallet to show me anyway. He pulled out a photo of Betty. “We’ll be together again. I can’t wait to join her.” He pointed toward the ceiling. “She’s up there.”

I told Bob that I was so sorry. He said their anniversary was in late January. “Do you know how many years we were married? Are married… we’re still married even though she’s gone. Fifty-two years.” I told Bob I was so sorry.

Bob had tears in his eyes. He started to talk about his health problems and joked that his friends tell him his problems are with his head. Sometimes he slipped back into his standup routine about his (great?) grandkids’ names, which include Maddox and Sebastian, and how he can’t spell or pronounce them half the time. “My name’s Bob. My wife’s name is Betty.” Normal names, he said.

I wasn’t sure how to wrap things up. I said that it was wonderful they had so many years together. His voice quivered as he said how much he missed her. “I can’t wait to join her,” he said again.

I told him to take care. “God bless you,” he said.

“My name’s Stefanie. It was nice to meet you, Bob,” I said.

“Stefanie. See that’s a nice name!” he said.