My beef jerky bestie

I am an observer. Though I seldom give myself permission, I could easily spend the better part of a day watching the world go by. I’m keen on creepy crawlies and have wondered if I was an etymologist in a former life - that or an insect. But, in my current form, I am slightly better equipped at noticing the nuances of human interaction than that, say, of a colony of ants. Thankfully, there are women like Corrie Moreau who rock that skill, so I can learn vicariously from them.   

Photo by Greg Tavares

Some might relate such behavior to navel-gazing, and so be it. In its original sense, the term referred to omphaloskepsis, the practice of staring at one’s belly button as a point of focus for meditation. In its own way, what I do is a form of deep contemplation.

I’m not out here acting like the ancient Greeks, thank goodness. For one thing, my neck hurts just thinking about that drooping pose. And, I have to wonder if they were apt to lose their focus, staring down like that at, well, everything. The point is, I realize that the absence of actual research or genuine meditation means my fascinations might seem a bootless errand. Be that as it may, if I keep it up I am far more likely to be wearing a big, goofy grin when the time comes to check-out. And, that’s not nothing.

So, we find ourselves at Walmart.

I didn’t want to go. A store like that brings out the worst in me and, to all appearances, everyone else as well. But, I had another reason to be on that side of town and time was too limited to go anywhere else. I went in hoping for the best.

I was contemplating raisins: the feed-the-masses containers and the lunchbox containers, name brand and store brand containers, yogurt- and chocolate-coated varieties, green- and red-grape varieties. There were no organic raisins, which I probably should have anticipated, and that’s what I wanted.

He was guided into the same aisle as me with the help of a gangly employee who gestured apathetically at the display of beef jerky to my left before making a prompt exit. For a long moment, I stared at the products in front of me, waiting for a spontaneous manifestation of my dream raisins or for a sudden willingness to settle on something else. I got neither, so my attention drifted to the guy next to me who had taken up a position similar to my own: hands on hips, eyes scanning the options.

I waded in. “I’m not finding what I need either.”

“I wanted something bigger,” he replied. “They’re all so small.”

“They’re ten bucks apiece as it is,” I chuckled. “I guess nobody wants to shell out thirty dollars for beef jerky.”

I’d describe him as sturdy guy, maybe just shy of six feet tall with medium-brown skin and an approachable countenance. He smiled, and we shared another pleasantry or two before he walked away, empty-handed.

I gave up on raisins and stepped down the aisle to select two jars of unsalted, dry-roasted peanuts (the only kind without added nonsense in the ingredient list, in case you care) and a small, not-inexpensive bag of macadamia nuts that I planned to take to a gathering of friends later that evening. Mister wanted-something-bigger reappeared and laughed when he saw me again.

“I’m back,” he grinned as he slid two bags of jerky off their display hooks.

I was ready to move on, so I left him with a parting comment. “On the bright side, you get to pick more flavors this way.”

He voiced agreement and flashed a bright smile.

I made my way to the dairy section where I encountered him a third time. He was with two older children, maybe six- and eight-years-old, and an adult woman with an infant in a front carrier. Though there’s no way to know for sure, I assumed they were a family based on the ease with which they interacted. But, the lack of tension between them might have actually signaled the opposite.

I reached in the refrigerated case for a tub of sour cream as the woman waved the older child over and pointed at something on the bottom shelf. I remember the days of hauling around 15 or 20 pounds of wobble-headed cuteness on my chest and completely understood her need for assistance. Coming in from behind, my beef jerky bestie edged his way toward the rest of us with a simultaneous yelp of delight.

“Oh! Oh. My. God. Yes! Ohhh, YES!” he cheered.

“What’d you find?” I asked, amused.

“Buffalo dip!” he crooned, his voice deeper and huskier than it had been before.

I pushed my cart along, dodging kids and turning my head back to share one more thought.

“That’s going to be amazing on a piece of beef jerky!”

He beamed, pointed at me enthusiastically, and let go an “Aaaaaaay!”

Day made. No pithy metaphors. No social science conclusions. Just joy, plain and simple.

~Elizabeth