A Man of Very Few Words

A young man joined a monastery, agreeing to the rules as he did. The monks had taken vows of silence but every five years, they were allowed to say two words to the head monk. When his first five years were up, the new recruit said, “Bed hard.” After 10 years, he entered the head monk’s office and said, “Food bad.” On his visit after 15 years, he said, “Bedroom cold.” At that point, an annoyed head monk strongly advised the young man to leave the monastery and he said to him, “You’ve done nothing but complain since you got here.”

Not exactly the same, but I have dealt with a clerk at a local store for thirty years. And every time I have approached the counter, he has looked directly at me and said, “Can I help you?”

This exchange took place again on Saturday and I am going to suggest that this was the hundreth time this fellow has looked at me blankly and said, “Can I help you?” He always looks at me as though he has never seen me before.

I don’t expect a song and dance or a parade or fireworks when I approach the counter, but I also don’t expect to have to deal with a robot. I know the day is coming when that is exactly what I will be doing, but for now, a little personality would suit this old guy just fine.

The only explanation I can think of for this is that the man is shy.

But, we are making progress. On Saturday, to the question “Can I help you,” I answered that I had phoned in an order for two items.
Off went my thirty-year total stranger and he was gone awhile.
When he returned, he handed me my purchases and said, “Couldn’t see them for looking at them.”

I wonder what clever thing my newfound friend will have to say thirty years from now when I enter his store looking for parts for my wheelchair.

©2020 Jim Hagarty

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.