Curly

On this particular day, it was his obvious impatience with the pace of the line was what first drew my attention to the old man in front of me at Wal-Mart. His leathered and wrinkled skin put him at about 80 years old, by my humble estimation. I began to smile as I watched him bob and weave back and forth around the small soda case between checkout stands, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to take up residence in the neighboring line. It was amusing to watch him act out the very conversation I was having with myself: the line I was in was four deep, with each would-be consumer carrying at least 20 items in their cart, the other line only had two customers. What kept me planted firmly in place was the fact that the cashier in our line was much faster than the one in the shorter line. It seemed that the old man thought so too.

As he settled in to wait out the customers in front of him, he turned slightly to size me up. His eyes were a blue-tinted gray, like the shallow still water of an ebb in a mountain creek. I smiled at his smartly checkered shirt and wrangler jeans. His pants hung on him. I imagined that he likely had been a size or two larger some twenty years ago, but something told me that he was never going to stop buying his jeans in that too-large size, no matter how slender he was now. So engrained was his attire that I couldn’t even picture him without the well-worn boots on his feet, and the Stetson on his head.

I smiled at him, and he turned away, startled that I’d noticed him looking me over. I had a hard time suppressing a giggle as I looked down at his handcrafted belt, the name “Curly” tooled into its hide. I tried to recall the old joke about cowboys and their names on their belts, but I couldn’t remember the punch line. As my eyes wandered back up to the old man’s head, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. His coarse gray hair was stock straight, nary a curl in sight.

The curiosity and the questions began to mount as I spied the few items in Curly’s cart. A jar of strawberry jam, toothpaste, a room deodorizer, fruit rolls, a block of gouda cheese, crackers, and three vanilla candles in glass jars lay neatly along the bottom of the cart. Curly wore no wedding ring, and had the picture of a six year-old princess in pink taffeta prominently gracing the front of his wallet.

Why is your name Curly?

I thought of speaking the words, but was stopped short by his hard jawline, and the fact that before I could utter them, Curly was swaggering out of the store with his odd assortment of items.

As I finally gathered my purchases and headed out the door, I was twice startled; first to realize that I had exited the store from the door opposite to where I had parked, and second, to see Curly pushing his shopping cart down an aisle of the parking lot, searching ardently over the top of the row of cars, presumably for his own ride.

I strode over to Curly, who looked at me and said nothing as he switched off a ringing cell phone in his pocket. I quipped, “Maybe Wal-Mart should offer GPS in the parking lot.”

A thin smile drew across Curly’s face as he said, “Back in my day, I could just call my ride, and he’d a-come a-trottin’.”

I smiled back at him as I wondered whether he had been roping with Jesus or Moses in his day.

Two rows later, we finally found his 90’s model Ford F-250. “Thank you for your assistance, young lady.”

I smiled as I assured him it was my pleasure, and laughed to myself as it occurred to me how relative age is. Many days I feel old. But heck, up against an 80 year-old, I guess I am still just wet behind the ears.