strangers in a small town

You see them at the grocery store. People you once knew. The school principal you interviewed when you worked at the local paper. A neighbor from your first apartment in town. The mother of your daughter’s best friend from third grade. The college professor you played racquetball with four years ago. You’ve had coffee with them, but no longer remember where or when. They look older, have grey hair, lost weight, put on weight. You look different, too, thicker around the middle, rimless glasses. You’ve forgotten the names of their spouses, their kids. You can’t remember if she was the one who had a messy divorce or if he liked to smoke pot. All you know is you were once on a first name basis and now you head down the closest aisle when you spot them, pretending to be absorbed in your shopping list. Little by little, by some unspoken arrangement, you’ve agreed to unknow each other, to become strangers again.

Then there’s Chuck. The cart coraller, his flourescent orange vest askew. He says hello every time, calls you Kyle even though that’s not your name. You once bumped into Chuck in the gym when you were a member. Ever since he asks what you bench, how far you run, how many sit-ups you can do. But the first thing he always tells you is how much weight he’s lost, usually an extraordinary amount even though he looks pretty much the same. “Hey, Kyle, I lost 128 pounds.” He has a goatee and tinted glasses and couple of homemade tattoos on his forearm. He shuffles when he walks and has a faraway look in his eyes. This is all you know about Chuck. “Wow, 128 pounds. That’s amazing, Chuck. You should write a book.” He smiles and shuffles off toward the carts. Five minutes later, he’s back. “Hey, Kyle, you really think people would buy a book like that?” You look at him a moment, and smile, “I sure do, Chuck, I sure do.”