Trey Smith
Last night I was up visiting with my friend Paul (who owns the local Mini Mart). It was about 45 minutes before closing time and customers were sparse. An older man -- well, older than me! -- came in and neither Paul nor I recognized him. He didn't look like one of the regulars.
It quickly became apparent that was NOT a regular. He had a shopping list, but couldn't seem to find the items on his list. "Don't you sell ice cream?" he asked. Paul pointed out to him where the ice cream freezer is, but the guy had trouble locating it. Same thing with the milk.
When he asked about pancake syrup, Paul started to answer, but I waved him off. I got up off my stool and went out into the store to lead this fellow to the exact location of the syrup. "Thanks," he said, "that's just what I wanted!"
In no time at all, he started telling me about his wife of 38 years. She has an inoperable form of cancer and the drugs aren't working too well anymore. Both realize that she will most likely die within the year.
After he left, Paul asked me how I knew this guy was hurting. Surprisingly, I told him I hadn't a clue. "So, how did the two of you get to talking about his wife?" Paul wanted to know. And the answer is simply that the fellow just started talking to me about his woes.
For the life of me, I have never been able to figure this out. I lack the ability to read people accurately -- a common autistic trait -- but other people seem to know intuitively that I am someone they can talk to. I can be in the middle of a crowded store (often freaking out at being in the presence of too many people) and a person who is troubled or a bit psychotic will walk past almost everyone else and right up to me and start talking as if we are the best of friends!
They somehow know I won't shoo them away. They somehow know I have a sympathetic ear. It's almost like I wear a sign that reads: I'm a former social worker. It's weird and uncanny.
I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I don't dress like a normal adult. I suppose it's not very often that most people encounter a mid 50ish man in striped overalls and neon colored socks and high tops with a Malcolm X-like goatee and a shaved head. Maybe I look like an aging hippie who dispenses love and peace.
I just strikes me as odd that I can't read others, but lots of those others read me like an open book.
Because you are not "reading" the other person, that is, "judging" or "assessing" them, you are giving off subtle clues that you can be trusted. I don't mean this in any negative way whatsoever, but it may be the way people can talk to their dog or cat...a unconditionally unjudgmental open ear. Your attire may suggest a kind of "otherness". He's probably spent too much time recently in hospitals and oncologists' offices...too many professionals playng roles in proper clothing. And you simply helped him...if only his life were as simple as finding the pancake syrup.
ReplyDeleteThis is a sweet story, really.