all the time. Nearly every Saturday, or when
he got off work at the Stop and Shop, he
would drop by. Mike, with the same name
as my manager at the toy store.
The same tall, skinny man with his chestnut
hair and moustache, always talking.
He couldn't stop those conversations.
It didn't matter who it was, myself, my
co-workers, little children, greying adults,
himself...
He couldn't stop those conversations.
He was always scared of us...girls. When he'd
give out his hand for a farewell shake I'd hear
him mumble. He shook a girls hand, wow.
Wow, he shook a girls hand.
That's what made people afraid at my store. It
wasn't the conversations with you, it was the ones
you were excluded from.
On the rare occasions when he wasn't speaking,
either listening to you speak or deep in thought,
you could see the language flowing on
the other side of his eyes.
There was a haze of babble and I wondered
if he ever really heard any of us at all.
Rocking slightly back and forth he'd ask about
obscure things.
Did I like music from the sixties? He liked music
from the sixties. The seventies too? Motown?
Wow, I've grown up. I used to come to the
supermarket with my mother right? He remembered
me. I've grown up. He's going to be thirty-five
in 2007, THIRTY-FIVE, that's old. That's not too old.
Yes it is.
So the conversations continued.
Mike always asked me if I'd care, or miss him
when he moved away.
Was he really moving away? He might be...would
I miss him?
Of course I would. I never thought he was really
going to move in with his mother in Newton
until the week he didn't come into the store at all.
No Mike.
Better off that way, or so my managers thought.
He used to make the other customers quiet
with all those conversations.
He couldn't stop those conversations. Maybe
that's why I was never afraid of him.
