What happens when you talk, really talk with Strangers?

Although my casual exchanges with librarians, waiters, hotel receptionists, or museum staff, shuttle drivers, may feel random, I believe otherwise. Every conversation opens a door. Invites reflection. Raises a question. 

Bob the librarian told me he liked my I still read books button when I approached him for a favor. “Could you watch my box of books while I pull my car around to load up?” I asked.

Why guard a box of books in a library? My box contained three-volume sets of new, expensive encyclopedias, which were my responsibility to return to the bookstore. He agreed. I lugged the sagging box from the meeting room to the circulation desk.   

“Watch!” he called, pointing to the box, whose bottom had come apart without me realizing it. He looked for a sturdier box, and when he didn’t find one, offered to carry the books for me.

We talked as he followed me to my car parked in the back lot. He carried the heavy box with a straight back and a smile. Before the library, Bob considered himself the consummate businessman—he loved the energy that came from making deals. He spent long lunches closing deals, signing contracts, and celebrating with drinks. He called himself a functioning alcoholic — someone who manages working, parenting, and living their life without showing stereotypical outward signs of addiction.

It’s like a game of hide and seek that goes on too long when finally, the one hiding shows themselves and end the game. Or the seeker gives up searching and calls, “Olley, Olley, in free,” declaring a truce or a new round.

I listened and then shared a family story—with a stranger. A first for me. I stood there, in my memory.

He said, “I can tell you’re a worrier.”

I can confirm I know how to worry. But I strive to follow the Serenity Prayer — accepting the things I cannot change, having the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Today, Bob’s a recovering alcoholic. He told me his family checks on him, especially concerned after relaying bad news. “I don’t want a drink after hearing sad news. I crave a drink after hearing good news,” he explained.   

We shook hands. He walked back to the library, his refuge. As I drove home, I knew I’d walked through another door of understanding.  

(The librarian's name was changed at the writer's discretion.)