(Originally
published 7/13/17)
It was
already ninety degrees—with the heat index approaching one hundred—at ten
o’clock this morning. Scorcher of a day or not, I, just like the postman, had
to make my appointed rounds. In fact, I was headed to a post office, but
not the one closest to me. This trivial tidbit of information would be of
monumental interest to a man I bumped into en route.
On a
stifling hot and humid morn, the last thing I wanted was an encounter with a
close-talker—a person who gets in your face during ordinary conversation. (Seinfeld
brought the close-talker phenomenon to light in “The Raincoats” episode.) To
compound my misfortune, I not only found myself chatting with a close talker,
but one with halitosis as well. I should mention that he is likewise a long
talker. The man in question is fond of holding court and supplying
listeners with lengthy back stories—laborious minutia—to events with punchlines
that are not particularly interesting. My close talker has a habit, too, of
punctuating his conversations with the word “anyway.” It is his way of alerting
you: “Are you ready for the big finish?” Fashion your seat belts, there is
always another “anyway” and another one after that.
Anyway,
this close talker ambushed me as I walked past his building earlier this
morning. He informed me that a friend was supposed to pick him up at 9:30. But
it was closer to 10:30 when we met. He is a man in his eighties and not a cell
phone user, so he might still be waiting there now.
Maybe he got the day
wrong. Do not get me wrong: The close talker is a well-meaning fellow. He
has been a friend of the family since the dawn of time. However, he can be a
very irritating individual, especially when you meet him in a chance encounter.
When fate intervenes. I feel obligated to talk with him. But I believe that I
have earned the right to avoid the man if I can. Typically, I reconnoiter while
in his neck of the woods and, if I see him coming my way, take the requisite
steps—sometimes retreating entirely or even walking into traffic—to make a
clean getaway.
The close talker
and I chatted for a while. He was absolutely fascinated that I walked to the
tiny post office several blocks from his building entrance, when a larger
facility was nearer my front door. I explained to him the simple reason: There
is usually no waiting in the little post office during the morning hours, while
the bigger joint is invariably a zoo. Although I cannot explain why, my
reasoning was of supreme interest to the close talker. He, nevertheless, did
most of the talking. As I kept backing away from his
too-close-for-comfort-conversing, we physically moved in something of a large
circle—like Earth’s revolution around the Sun, only in a smaller space and
shorter time. Everything you wanted to know about Type 2 diabetes but were
afraid to ask. Well, I learned it today from the close talker, who has been
diagnosed with it.
(Photos
from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
