I pull into the Lowe’s parking lot at the same time as the car in the space next to mine. The driver is in his 80s, I’d say, and there is more of his dog, some kind of thingapoo, draped outside the car than in. The man pulls in gingerly so the dog doesn’t fall out.
“Come say hello to this guy,” he urges me, window to window. His eyes sparkle with extroverted warmth. He makes no apologies for how he moves through the world.
I walk to his car and give the dog a good scratch. “Hi, buddy,” I say to the dog, whose friendliness matches his owner’s.
“I like your hair,” says the man.
“Oh! Oh, well. It’s just coming back from chemo. It’s not really on purpose.”
“Well, it looks great on you. It’s a good look. You should keep it like that.”
“Well. Thank you.” I rumple what there is of my hair self-consciously.
“What kind of cancer?”
Am I really having this conversation in the Lowe’s parking lot with a guy I’ve never seen before? “Breast.”
He looks angry, on my behalf. “Oh, shit. My first wife had breast cancer. They found this thing in there and it just burned through her like wildfire. She died an awful death. Just awful.” He winces with the memory.
Gee.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That must have been so hard,“ I remember to say, amidst gruesome, imagined pictures of my own demise.
“Yeah, well. But you doing good?”
“Yep,” I say, suddenly very grateful to have the dog there to focus on. I scratch his head like I mean business.
“Well, good, good.” There is a pause. He looks at my chest.
He gestures toward it with his chin and lips. “You gonna pump those up with something?”
“Nah,” I hear myself say. “I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, okay.” He is nodding thoughtfully. “That’s good. Don’t want to put any more foreign material in there, right?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Scratch, scratch.
He is still studying my chest, like a neighbor examines a friend’s weedy back yard. Is it worth reseeding, or do we let it go?
“Well, I think you’re doing the right thing.” He nods. There is only friendly concern, but he expresses it with authority. A farmer assessing a bit of weevil damage. An electrician letting me know it’s okay to leave some old wiring in place. A builder assuring me that I can leave the old shed be.
Suddenly it seems suitable that I am in a hardware parking lot.
“Thanks,” I say. I can’t think of how else to respond.
When I come back out from the store, I am both relieved and disappointed that his car is gone. I have an allergic reaction to the dog for the next hour.
