Nice Talkin' To You

While I love to be around people, I was never one to engage strangers on the street, or to go out of my way to greet or meet new people. Then, about five years ago, I decided I should make a change. I decided to be friendlier. Don’t get me wrong, I’m generally a friendly person (I think I am anyway; I guess you’d have to ask those who know me for the real answer), but I was never the guy  to “start something” with a person I didn’t know. I’d maybe say “hi” or nod and smile, but beyond that, I didn’t want any additional involvement because I was always afraid it would end up in small talk, and I’m not big having meaningless conversations based around things like, “Some weather we’re having, huh?” or “How’ve you been … busy?” or “Can you believe the traffic today?”

That said, in recent years, I’ve taken a much more active approach to being cordial to those I run across on a daily basis. And it’s paid dividends. I feel better, and I hope that by presenting others with a smile, a “Good morning” or by doing a small, kind gesture for no reason makes them feel better as well.

One of the first instances of this “new me” was a few years back, and I’m reposting this piece because I like the fact that, had I not made a conscious decision to change something about myself, I wouldn’t have had the experience I did. I hope you enjoy it. And if you read it the first time all those years ago, I hope you enjoy it again.

*****

I arrived early, as I often do, for an all-too-rare “date” with Mark, Kathy and Diane (my brother and two sisters). After emailing for months about how “we should get together more often; just the four of us,” it was finally happening.

It was nothing out of the ordinary, just dinner at a place we’d been before, followed by a couple hours of catching up, reminiscing, commiserating, and a lot of laughing.

As the first to arrive (about 15 minutes ahead of the others), I decided to wait at the bar, enjoy a beer and watch a few minutes of college basketball and golf, which were being shown on respective TVs overhead.

The bartender was friendly, and she and I exchanged pleasantries. In her 70s (if I had to guess), I presumed she was an “institution” at this place because she knew most of the folks by name and immediately pegged me as an outsider, giving me that, “You’re not from around here” look as I sat down.

“You with the wedding party?” she asked.

“No, just meeting my brother and sisters for dinner.”

“That’s nice. Not too busy right now. Should be able to get seated right away.”

She walked away, and moments later, brought me my beer and some pretzels, letting me know that if I needed anything, I should just “flag her down.” I nodded and smiled as she turned and walked to the other end of the bar.

I sat quietly for a moment (a rarity for me), sipping my beer and watching the two TVs, for once simply minding my own business. It was nice.

Not two sips in, I felt him approach on my right flank. It was another patron, and I couldn’t help but notice that he occupied the space next to me at the bar, a bar I should mention that I had all to myself just seconds prior. It was a long bar, offering lots of opportunities to sit alone, like I was at that moment. But he chose to sit right next to me.

Immediately, I wondered why he had decided to occupy that space – my space – when he had an entire rail to lean against. After a slow, silent (I think) sigh, I did my best to ignore him, continuing to watch the TVs, as he greeted the bartender.

“Brandy … with a touch of soda,” he said in a voice that was oddly familiar.

The bartender obliged, issuing the same courtesy she bestowed on me as she brought his drink and pretzels: “If ya’ need anything, just flag me down.” (When she said it to me, I felt like she meant it; now I realized it was just standard operating procedure for her.)

I typically don’t like these situations, specifically those where someone I don’t know enters my space, and where I know small talk is likely to ensue. (I’m not a “small talk” guy.)

This felt like one of those situations.

At first, I held my ground, as he rattled his drink, sighed and made a comment under his breath about the basketball game. I ignored him and took a sip of my beer. But I couldn’t get his voice, or more to the point, the way he spoke, out of my head.

It reminded me of my dad, whom we lost in late 2000. And as I sat there, I thought about what I might do if that was my dad standing next to me. Would I ignore him? Of course not.

So, I broke from my own standard operating procedure and decided to engage him. (After all, it would only be a few minutes before the others arrived, so how painful could it be, right?)

Without turning, I presented my opener: “That rain’ll chill you to the bone, won’t it?” (I decided to lean right in with the small talk … “If you can’t be ‘em …” and all that.)

He countered: “At least it ain’t snow.”

He took a drink (I could hear the ice jingling in his glass), and I turned. As he put down his glass, I noticed his hands. He worked a lot of years with those hands. Then, I saw his face.

He looked healthy, but his eyes were tired, like he had seen and experienced things that had aged him on the inside. (Vietnam? The death of a child or a sibling? Inner demons? Maybe just a long life working outside, always hoping to get and stay “ahead.”)

“How’s the prime rib here?” I asked.  And even though I had no interest in prime rib, I knew this question would be a slam-dunk because prime rib is always a Saturday special at a place like this. And if it was, I knew this guy would have experience with it. I was right on both counts.

“It’s excellent,” he said with just a touch of drama in voice. “I get it every time we’re passin’ through.”

It was uncanny. Everything about him, every time he spoke or even gestured, he reminded me of my dad. Mind you, he didn’t look like Dad. He was bigger, and stockier, with a tan that  I learned he got in Florida while on vacation with his family, a family that was finishing up an early dinner before they made the trip back home.

But there was something, just something, about him.

Maybe it was that he was at a bar on a Saturday afternoon (just like Dad would have been), or maybe I just wanted him to remind me of Dad. Nonetheless, there we were, alone at the bar, strangers, just talking as we waited for our respective parties.

I never got his name, and never introduced myself, yet within five minutes, I learned the following about him:

• He and his wife treated their daughter and her kids to vacation in Destin (the aforementioned “Florida” trip), and they came here to eat because “there’s nothing in the fridge at home, since we’ve been traveling for the past 10 days.”

  
  

• While he doesn’t frequent this restaurant, he and his wife eat here whenever they’re in the area (several times a year).

  
  

• His daughter has health problems (he didn’t expand; I didn’t ask), and he and his wife help her take care of their grandkids, ages 15 and 7.

  
  

• He’s retired (never got around to what he did for a living), and now he and his wife live on a five-acre hobby farm about 40 miles north of where we sat.

  
  

• The farm was his wife’s dream, and he was happy they could make it a reality in retirement. (“I grew up on a farm, and I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna die on one too. Life’s funny that way, isn’t it?” he said with a sarcastic laugh.)

  
  

• They own three goats, two alpacas, six chickens and a peacock. And if he ever misses the “old days,” he says he goes to the neighbor’s farm to help milk their cows.

It was a lot of information in a short amount of time, and I was enjoying the conversation and the company. (I think he was too.) I was glad I decided to open up and engage him. I liked asking him questions, and I think he liked telling me things about himself in a low-pressure, anonymous way.

But most of all, I liked that I got to see a bit of my dad—and myself, and what I wanted to become--that day.

And as this stranger – this new, fleeting “friend” of mind – finished is brandy and soda, he patted me on the shoulder and walked off with a sincere, “It was nice talkin’ to you.” I smiled as I watched him walk out with his arms around his grandchildren.

I didn’t have the prime rib that night, but I trust it’s good there. I know because I asked the right guy.

© David R. Haznaw 2026