More Than Small Talk

“Where have you been?”

I’m not sure I’d heard that question since I was about 14, and when it was posed to me again recently, I didn’t realize it was directed at me.

He said it as he came around the corner into the locker room, hitting the word “you” with emphasis. I had just arrived at the gym and was stowing my duffel bag, et. al., when I heard it.

I looked up, and seeing no one else in the vicinity, I realized he was talking to me. Before I could respond (or even get my bearings), he spoke again. “You’re usually here with us early birds.”

That second comment put me smack in the middle of my comfort zone. While I’m not a friend to small talk (preferring real conversations to stuff like “How you doin’? Been busy?” or “Kids good? How’s Joanie?”), I realize that certain situations call for it, and immediately, I realized this was one of those times.

Let me explain. I believe the best use of throwaway small-talk lines is as an extended greeting, a “hit-and-run” comment or two that says, “Hey, I see you and I just wanted to say hi … with a little extra.”

I’d played the supporting role in scenes like this hundreds––maybe thousands––of times in my life with people (mostly men) born in the generation before me … people like my dad.

And Dad was a master of the craft. For him (and I may be overstating this), it was a survival tactic. He was what my sister, Diane, called “gruff.” Not in a mad or grumpy way; it was just his demeanor. He didn’t use many words, and he was uncomfortable with “closeness,” both physical and emotion. (We won’t get into the many “whys” of that last part.)

So, growing up, my “conversations” with Dad were of the two- to three-sentence variety. That was fine with me because I knew that’s “who Dad was” and getting anything more would make him uncomfortable. With that said, let’s return to the main plot.

“Uh, yeah,” I started, trying to think of something to match his tone. “The day doesn’t wait for us, does it?” (Not my best effort, but I figured it would suffice in this situation.)

“Never has, never will,” he said, and I immediately knew he was a master of this conversational genre, just like Dad. “I’m 79, and that clock just keeps tickin’ faster.”

Then, with nothing further to share (likely by design), he hefted his duffel bag, sighed and started trudging toward the exit. From my experience in the genre, I knew I was expected––obligated––to offer final closure to the encounter. (It’s just the way these things work, trust me. My dad taught me well.)

“Enjoy the day,” I said, adding, “I’ll try to be on time tomorrow,” closing the circle he’d opened not 20 second earlier. He chuckled and waved as he plodded toward the door without looking back.

And that was it. I don’t know this guy, and I know I’d never talked to him before. But I’ve seen him at the gym, among the hundreds of others (both “early birds” and late arrivers) over the course of several years. He was a familiar face but not a familiar person (like my dad).

But that day, he decided (or his subconscious decided for him) that we had shared this experience as “early birds” long enough that he wanted to let me know I was a familiar and approachable person; someone worthy of a "moment." Someone he probably wouldn’t ever let into his inner circle, but one he’d like in his outer “orbit.” And I was honored to be invited.

He wasn’t looking for a friend (nor was my dad most of the time). He didn’t want to stand there for 20 minutes and talk about the issues of the day or show me photos of his grandkids. He simply wanted to acknowledge our connection, and our commonality. And what better way to do that than by waiting until that commonality had been upended (i.e., I was “late” that day)?

It was his way of creating community, and hopefully, a new moment to enjoy in the future. Because now, the two of us have shared an experience beyond simply working out at the same time each day, and that means the universe will expect us (and why not?) to acknowledge one another every time our paths cross from this day forward.

Two early birds, a generation apart, sharing a brief moment every once in a while.

As I went through my workout, that moment stayed with me. Later, I realized that all those moments with my dad happened for a reason, preparing me for when I ran into people like him who just needed a shared moment every now and again … on their terms, with people of various ages and types.

I can’t wait to get back to the gym so I can see this gentleman and wave or say hi. Or maybe even to return his quippy comment from our first encounter with something like, “I punched in on time today!”

I’m sure he’ll give me a wave and chuckle. And hope it will brighten his day, like I hope it did for my dad all those times we had our “moments.”

© 2026 David R. Haznaw