R and J in the USA

We were in a Love’s gas station store checking out and as the clerk rang up our things, we noticed a gentleman with his elbows propped up on the shelves to her side, leaning on them in a way that indicated he had been there for a bit already and planned to be there for more than a minute more. It was clear from his stance, this was his hang out spot, one that he knew well. He knew just where to place his leaning so as not to knock anything over, but to get the support that he needed. His face looked worn, but spirited. It was clear he was there to chat with the clerk – not her, specifically, but her as someone whose ear he could bend with his stories of the day, knowing that, by contractual obligation to her employer, she had no choice but to be his audience. He was friendly and harmless, unless you consider continuous chatting harmful, which some folks might.

He wore a worn and dirtied trucker’s cap and was long and thin with a slight bend to his shoulders that spoke more about what he did than the label on his button up denim coveralls did. Unfortunately, our memories of what the embroidered letters on his shirt read are too fuzzy to recall his exact name, nor the name of his business, but we remember that the business was some kind of mechanical repair and that the business was his.

He seemed hungry for a chance to talk. 

Our chat began with the pleasantries of your “Hi, how do you do”s, but quickly rolled into stories eager and ready to pour out of him, like water rising up to the edge of a levee, pushing on it with the sheer pressure of years of build up. He was holding back out of politeness, but only a little.

We wanted to hear his stories that he seemed eager to tell. When we showed interest in what he had to say, you could see a subtle look come over his face that seemed to be a mix of surprise and subdued but unmistakable enthusiasm when he realized he had an interested audience. He adjusted his posture ever so slightly from the checkout clerk towards us, like a fisherman that felt a tug on their line pivoting just so to put the right counter pressure in the direction of that pull in order to reel in his new catch. Even though we noticed that his shift more towards us indicated the potential beginnings of some long-windedness, our enthusiasm and interest was genuine, so we didn’t flinch in the least. We gave no signs of struggle as he reeled us right into the stories of his life. 

Between his thick southern accent and the fact that time and circumstance had robbed his mouth almost completely of teeth, we both struggled to understand the words he said. But we wanted to understand. We could tell he had lived and had stories worth listening to. Sometimes, when he would speak, we would just nod and smile, either because that was the appropriate response, or because we were both in the middle of trying to evaluate the sounds we just heard in order to try and extrapolate from them what he might have just said. When we did understand, we made sure to engage and respond. 

We learned he was originally from this area and had made his way to Fort Meyers and, from there, up north somewhere, where he had gotten a taste of northern snow and cold. 

At one point he told us how he had not received an education. We don’t remember if he said it was simply a high school education he hadn’t received or if it was any education at all. What we do recall is that there was pride in his proclamation, pride that he’d managed to do all right for himself regardless, pride that he’d managed to see much of the country as a trucker and, at 75, was still making ends meet and providing value through his skills and sweat of his brow. It was a neat look to see. He didn’t seem, at least on the surface to us, to be a man of regrets or bitterness. It was a nice reminder that, all that matters in what you accomplish, no matter how big or small, is how you feel about it for yourself. This gentleman seemed to be evidence that being proud of what you do and the journey you took towards doing it can bring more fulfillment than any amount of dollars or fancy degrees can guarantee. Those can be great too, but pride in the value of oneself and one’s work in this world, no matter what it is, is worth all of that and more. 

As he continued along with his stories like the movement of water that had found a way around the levee where it could freely flow, he casually mentioned how he had stolen a school bus in Fort Meyers, Florida when he was 16 and drove it all the way up north and all around. 

At a certain point after many minutes and stories, we both realized this was a situation that his interest to have a captive audience would long outlast our attentiveness and antsiness to get back to the van. We weren’t the only ones that noticed. The checkout clerk was clearly used to this scenario.

”Let these poor people get back to their vehicles. They don’t want to hear you going on and on.” She insisted defensively, and with a cheeky smile, on our behalf. 

We had been interested and we didn’t regret a minute of listening to his stories, but, she was not wrong that we were ready to get back to our van. We took the opening she gave us and thanked him for his stories and made our way out of the store. 

When we left the store, Julie turned to Ryan and said,

”We just received a confession of a 59-year-old unsolved crime.”

”Yes we did.” Ryan agreed.

“That guy just told us he stole a school bus.” Julie exclaimed as if it was news to herself.

”Yes he did,” Ryan concurred, “and drove it a quarter of the way across the country.”

We weren’t that interested to try and bring this man to any kind of legal justice. At 75 years old, that wild 16 year old kid was clearly long gone, except for maybe that slight twinkle in the eye that lit up when he told us the story and the fact that he had gotten away with it. We googled to find out that the statute of limitations for grand theft auto in Florida is 5 years. There is still a school bus missing from somewhere in Fort Meyers, Florida, and we met the man that seems to have no regrets about it.