I never talk to strangers because it’s uncomfortable.
But on Thursday, when the town was socked in by a fog like I’d never seen here before, I found myself standing outside smoking one last cigarette before going into the courthouse for arraignments.
Some 19-year-old kid in a beany cap was standing out there too, puffing on a smoke and staring out into the fog.
For some reason I said, “This fog is nutty, huh?”
“What,” he asked.
“The fog. It’s crazy, isn’t it?” I replied.
I got lost in my own head for a moment wondering why I used the word nutty, only to have the thought interrupted.
“Fuck yeah, this fog is weird.”
It startled me for a moment.
Now, anyone who fucking knows me, knows that I use that word liberally. Matter of fact, my favorite bumper sticker reads, “Fuck you, you fucking fuck.” But for some reason, it really didn’t seem appropriate at this moment.
Trying to turn the conversation around, I said, “They say its going to be in the high 60s today.”
You had to be there to appreciate how unbelievable that forecast would be, since as I talked, steam came out of my mouth.
“Yeah right,” the kid scoffed, “They never get that shit right. One time they said it was going to be in the 70s and it was like goddamn 33 degrees out.”
I prayed to a passing bird to take me with it.
“Gotta see my P.O.today,” he offered snapping his cigarette into his mouth and walking over to me.
“Oh, you have to go to court?” I replied.
“Nah, just gotta check in,” he said.
“You mean alternative sentencing?” I asked.
He nodded yes.
In my book, alternative sentencing isn’t really a P.O. P.O. stands for parole officer — people on parole are people who were once in prison. A probation officer keeps track of people who get probation instead of prison. Though one may feel tougher saying P.O. it’s really bullshit to refer to your probation officer as your P.O.
“What did you do to get on probation,” I asked.
“Battery with a deadly weapon,” he said, with an upnod of his head.
\We stood there quietly for a moment.
“Who’d you assault,” I asked.
“My brother in law for hitting my sister,” he said.
I nodded, because everyone agrees a brother is allowed to beat up the guy who hits his sister.
The kid went on, “Yeah, I told him when he moved in, if he hits my sister I’d stab him.”
I chuckled and asked through a curled lip, “You didn’t stab him, did you?”
“Yeah I did,” he scoffed.”And I told him if I went to jail I would kill him.”
“Did you kill him,” I asked.
“Nah. We’re friends again.”
I started to dig through my purse, but there was too much crap in there to really dig without taking stuff out. And the truth was, I didn’t really need anything, I just wanted out of the conversation.
Finally, I butted out my cigarette and started to walk inside.
“Nice talking you,” he said, as I walked through the automatics doors into the courthouse.
“Take it easy,” I replied.
I think you might have revealed the reason you are adverse to talking to strangers — people who stab people don’t mix well at cocktail parties (present company excluded — and you know what I’m talking about), unless they are serving meth and barbwire tattoos.
Maybe, just maybe, since you are a newspaper reporter, you should practice. It might help your chops.
Just friendly advice from your mentor and editor.
P.S. Don’t use the word fuck too much. It might tangle the message: i.e, “Can I have a fuckin’ Grand Slam Breakfast?” or “Thanks for the fuckin’ mother’s day card,” or “I really think I deserve the fuckin’ raise because of my hard work and dedication. “