Strangers in a Small Town:
A piece on the ever-shifting nature of common ground
By Caleb Daniloff

You see them at the grocery store. People you once knew. A neighbor from your first apartment. Town officials you interviewed when you worked at the local paper. The professor you played racquetball with four years ago. They look older, have grey hair, lost weight, put on weight. You’ve forgotten the names of their spouses, their kids. 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 un-know each other, to become strangers again.

Then there’s Hank. The cart coraller. He says hello every time, calls you Kyle even though that’s not your name. You once bumped into Hank at the gym. And ever since he always tells you 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 homemade tattoos and a faraway look in his eyes. This is all you know about Hank. “Wow, 128 pounds. That’s amazing, Hank. You should write a book.” He grins and shuffles off to 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, Hank, I sure do.”

CD
4.15.07

(photo by Mark Vogelzang)