Skylar Skylar Skylar

REOCCURRING STRANGERS

As I go about my day, there is certain set of faces I expect to see. When one off these faces goes off the grid, I might even wonder what could have happened. Most of the time, I don’t know who these people are, nonetheless we have developed long and intimate relationships over the course of hundreds of elevator rides, coffee lines, and bench presses.

Like any, these relationships are dynamic, occasionally stressful, potentially pleasant, and come with strict - though unspoken - rules that both parties implicitly agree to follow.

The most important rule is that you never say hello under any circumstances. If you break this rule, you risk the catastrophe of an endless series of awkward hellos. However, there are outlets for acknowledgment, including fleeting eye contact, the half smile, the head nod, or the fist bump if you are particularly fond of your reoccurring stranger.

There is a guy at my gym who I have seen nearly every day for a year now. Along the way, we have decided to acknowledge each other’s existence. While we have never introduced ourselves, or even spoken, when we pass, on, and only on, our first pass, we fist bump. As near as I can tell, it is a pleasant interaction for both of us and neither of us have ever bothered nor appear to want to take our relationship any further.

The beginnings of our fist bumping started when he was super setting legs. I was waiting for the leg press, unclear if he was coming back to the machine. I pointed to his towel, eyebrow cocked, shoulders curious. He gave me a thumbs up, strutted over, grabbed his towel and offered a fist bump. I smiled and returned one. Since then, we have developed a ritual.

There is something oddly endearing about it. Neither of us care about each other as fleshed-out characters but we have a mutual respect for each other as members of the same species. There is no pretense to try and get to know each other further, both choosing to avoid the excruciating pain of banal chit chat. But once a day, as we connect and exchange a little bit of energy, something ancestrally, deeply human happens. A pre-verbal kindness resonates between us. In evolutionary terms, I imagine it says, “I have strength to spare for you, species member.”

The exchange between us is as enjoyable as it is brief, but that is because we are both committed to rule 1, never say hello. When you overextend yourself to these reoccurring strangers, weariness comes quick. Suddenly even a fist bump would be exhausting.

Take the case of the nightshift clerks at Walgreens.

Nearly every night around 1am I realize there is something I need from Walgreens. (If you were dating me you would either think I have a lot of lovely, charming quirks or a lot of annoying habits that might make you consider breaking up with me; among the items in this disjunction are my nightly trips to Walgreens.) Whether it’s deodorant, dish soap, Smartwater, nasal spray, dental floss, almonds, or Advil the quixotic lure of this 24-hour pantry calls my name through my bedroom window.

While a 1am trip to the Walgreens on the corner sounds simple enough, its a complicated maze of interactions, nearly all of which are unpleasant. Lets break it apart in sequence.

To get to Walgreens I have to leave my building. This means I have to see the nightshift door person. She’s an overweight hispanic girl with a toothy grin who always gets the door for me and says hello. She breaks rule 1. I do not. While this might seem rude, there is too much at stake to develop a talking relationship with the nightshift door person. There is an endless array of possible states she could see me in, so setting a precedent is too risky. She gets a semi-smirk and a nod.

Outside and on my way, I briskly walk the two blocks. The coast is clear. As I approach, I realize the panhandler is outside. This always has the effect of surprising and upsetting me. Jingle-Jangle, jingle-jangle, “Do you have any change to spare?”

I’m wearing my headphones, music is sometimes playing. If it is not, I pretend not to hear. I think to myself, “I would rather light my money on fire than give it to you.” as I fake a slight smile and look the other way.

Inside, things are looking up. To my right is security, he “knows” me now. I put my hood down. He nods. I nod. Our eyes both crinkle every so slightly. It makes me feel like one of the “good customers” that come at this time of night.

I proceed to the “beauty” section. I stop and look at the makeup. It’s all such cheap shit but I kind of like it anyway. I think, “I need to go to Sephora. Too bad they aren’t open 24 hours.” I wonder why they don’t make clear mascara for men and proceed to go find whatever it is I came here for. Tonight’s menu items are PAM cooking spray and Clean and Clear face wash.

As I wander the aisles, eyes-wide at the sheer convenience, I see her. She’s always here. A raggedy, heavy set woman with dangling skin and a gristly bob. With her untucked shirt and crooked glasses, she works the “beauty section.” She sees my Clean and Clear and attempts to be helpful. “Do you want to check out here? Now?”

The first few times this happened I was shocked. “Um…” I said, shaking my head and pointing to the other side of the store where they keep my PAM. She got the message, but not the hint. Whenever she sees me, “Do you want to check out here? Now?” I wonder if she’s like that with everyone. Maybe I’m just special. Some times I think I see her eyes light up when she sees me over the Celine Dion perfume she’s straightening.

While I’ll never get the minutes back from our conversation about how this was not a new Old Spice product, just new packaging, I’ve come to appreciate my bristly beauty maven. She’s proven exceedingly useful during peak times, when the proper queue is 15 minutes long. Yes, now I do want to check out here. Now.

But she’s not the real horror of the night. As I wind my way through the store, collecting single-serving trinkets, a pack of “Nice” deluxe nuts, another Smartwater (they are on sale again), I head to the main line, our maven now out of sight, likely hidden, busy and toiling, behind the large boxes of Q-tips they have yet to stock.

I see the nightshift clerk. He sees me. His barren, dead face doesn’t move. He just stares at me as I approach. Dread washes over me. There are very few people I don’t know, actively dislike, and loathe to come into contact with as much as this man. He makes Kanye West look cheery. We’ve been interacting ever since the hot Latino with bouncing curls got moved to the dayshift in pharmacy.

Now it’s the two of us. Every night at 1am. A show down. I put my items down. He inspects them. Then looks up at me. A pause. I already know what he is going to say.

“Do you have a Walgreens card?”

“I’ll put my number in.”

I always put my number in.

“Go ahead.”

He starts to scan each item, randomly selecting each one. Picking it up and tossing it back down, he refuses to sort them to even “scanned” and “non-scanned” piles. My blood pressure ticks up a notch as he almost picks up the Listerine again.

“The Muscle Milk are 2 for $8,” I say.

“Price check!” he yells.

Maybe its the adrenaline that’s firing at this point, but I can never keep track of the price checkers. They always seem like a new person to me. We walk over to the Muscle Milk, my heart is pounding I’m so annoyed. I point to the sticker.

He yells back, to the cashier, “Yeah, 2 for $8!”

I walk back to the counter. I’m visibly annoyed at this point. He just looks at me, now stoically chewing on a piece of gum. I can tell he does this on purpose.

“You wanna bag?”

“Ughhyes.” I say, as I think to myself “How the fuck do you expect me to carry all this shit home.”

THWAP, just to let me know he does not want to give me a bag.

I insert my card, chip first to machine as he thoughtlessly bags my items. I take a moment to appreciate how well I’ve adjusted the chip readers, the former bane of my existence.

He puts my bag on the counter. I wait until his hand is clear. I take my goods excitedly, hurriedly. I nod again at the security guard as I leave. He nods back. I jet past the panhandler, sure to toss a few “Nice” pistachios in my mouth (just to let him know I got some food) and make a mad dash back to my apartment, where I whiz past the door person. Unlike the excess of her opening the door on my exit, I appreciate the usefulness of her doing it on reentry. I’m glad to see her this time. I offer a genuine smile and head up the elevator.

As I ride the elevator to my apartment, I realize again that while we only have a few real friends in our life, most of whom we see too infrequently, there are thousands of micro-interactions and hundreds of reoccurring strangers who impact our day-to-day life. While these extras in our life don’t drive the plot, they certainly fill the set.

Coming into contact with them is an unavoidable part of being alive in the world today. Interacting with them can be a friendly as a fist bump or a tense as the THWAP of a Walgreens bag. So, while I stand by rule 1, never say hello, I’m reminded of the another rule when it comes to dealing with strangers: always smile (or at least nod, kind of pleasantly).

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