Strangers share funny things with one another. Juicy tidbits or entire meaty monologues of personal information that otherwise might remain buried deep in the middle earth of oneself, away from the familiar eyes of those who know the everyday you. Those who might look away if they were privy to portions of that private information being dispensed like Pez candy to the stranger seated at your right or left on the airplane headed to Vegas, in the subway hurtling toward uptown, at the line into the classic rock reunion concert, or side-by-side at that long-distance Walk-A-Thon to raise money for injured police dogs. Or, worse, those who might broadcast the seed of your revelations across the inquisitive fallow fields of your workplace, church, or neighborhood.
Now, I must make a disclaimer of sorts here and state that this particular oddity of human nature doesn’t necessarily apply to me. Since early adolescence, I’ve been telling my story and begging answers to the stories of others, friend and stranger alike. While I’m not inappropriate in the telling or its content, I’m aware, especially as the wisdom of the ages chooses to lightly sprinkle me with a dusting of advanced perspective every ten years or so, that some people would rather not be told anything. Nothing. At all. They do not appreciate sharing time. While those of a certain generation are generally accustomed to a practiced chit-chat which says much, but reveals little, out of social nicety, a great many more are simply uncomfortable with knowing too much about others or too much about themselves. There’s a subconscious fear that some tiny crack, unbeknownst to them, might be infiltrated by the exchange of words and thereby create a further difficulty in maintaining the status quo. I try to respect that though it is obviously not my philosophy.
It becomes easier to gauge the water temperature with each dip in the community pool of reciprocal conversation. The man who immediately inserts his earbuds, pushing each one purposefully and with great force not required for such small objects, and taps on the music library of his smart phone, has all the words and sounds he requires right at his fingertips. Thank you, very much! The woman who pulls her sweater tightly around her middle while running her bookmark down the pages of the latest summer beach-read, lips moving silently with each line, feet tucked smartly beneath her seat, is an island of silence unto herself. There’s an entire library of body language, eye contact, verbal cues, and, often, just plain old gut feelings. Ironically enough, these withdrawn ones often tell something about themselves without ever saying a single revelatory word.
For the record, I don’t discount those who simply crave a bit of solitude in the form of a nap, gossip magazines, etc. That’s an entirely separate genre of strangers. I’ve been that person on multiple occasions. But, I’d interrupt the respite in the blink of an eye if I sensed an opportunity for fascinating mutual discourse with a perfectly respectable, or maybe not so much, individual. I may never see them again. The chances are actually stacked quite against it. Therefore, it is unique in a world where much is same old, same old.
While my reasons for opening up to those not in my personal universe for very long are pretty straightforward – curiosity, friendliness, connection – the motives vary among the masses. I’m thinking the guy sitting in the aisle seat of the row in front of me needs to impress. He hopes to sound experienced and a touch worldly. He’ll be wandering the gaudy streets of the Vegas Strip in less than an hour with the two younger (mid- to late-twenties to his late-forties) attractive blondes to his left who sound as if they are co-workers along on a work-related conventions of some sort. They now know, along with me and several other in-flight strangers, that he’s probably done just about everything under the sun and then some in comparison to his less experienced vodka-sipping co-horts. Have they seen “The Hangover?” They haven’t?! Oh, well they certainly should; it’s pretty true to life. Chuckle chuckle. I imagine that up and down the aisle, from window to window, several shared scenarios are unfolding across the lap belts. Perhaps a mother whose son told her only last week that he thinks he doesn’t like girls. Maybe a husband who inadvertently discovered his wife’s ongoing infidelity via a misdirected e-mail. Even a kid unsure what to do with what he saw pass between students in the school bathroom on Monday. And, scads of information far less scintillating or scandalous. Assuredly downright boring in a majority of instances. But still . . . people who want to chat it up and people willing to listen.
______________________
Well, I’ve landed in the land of “The Hangover.” Glad I’m here long enough only to purchase Starbucks, post a blog, and hand-select 48 pieces of Ethel’s Chocolates finest offerings. There’s a charming funny man who wishes to escort me back home from the Nashville airport. My bland multi-grain bagel egg sandwich was beyond bland. I picked at it for a time before tossing it in the trash bin. For me to throw MORE than half of it away, it’s gotta be bad. Avoid the bagel shop in the Las Vegas C terminal. Save your dollars! Maybe there’s still time to buy a buttery pretzel for the 3 ½ hour flight yet ahead of me.
Ciao for now.
No comments:
Post a Comment