I finally made my choice between the several 20-items-or-less lines, calculating that the young, slender checker would be quicker than the older, weary looking woman running the register to her left.  And, as usual, within seconds, Young-and-Slender stopped dead to call for a price check.

      It was Christmas Eve day at Wal-Mart.  The parallel checkout lines were close together, and several people had already filled in behind me.  Turning my cart around would be awkward.   

      So, summoning some gratefully arrived seasonal good cheer and patience, I began scanning various magazine covers featuring apparent celebrities I’d never heard of and Taylor Swift, of whom I just had—and impressively so—in a segment on Sixty Minutes; quite a remarkable young woman. 

      As expected, nobody responded to Young-and-Slender’s price check request, and while our line remained December frozen, customers to our right and left crept forward at mission food line pace, but moving nonetheless.  

      As I, in my way, contemplated the nature of things—holiday traditions and sentiment, celebrity culture, mass shootings, games of fiscal-cliff chicken, Wal-Mart seediness (as well as my own), and the ineffable Mystery from which this and the ten thousand things emanate … well, not exactly emanate … but…oh well, it is ineffable, after all, a male voice behind me said:

      “Stay over there on that side. I’m over here.”

      I turned and saw a pale, light-haired, clean-shaven man, taller than my own six feet, wearing a tasseled Santa hat, red fleece jacket, and a pale scarf, tucked in and wrapped closely around his neck.  He was speaking to an older bearded man, whose head was just peering over the separating rack of magazines, gum, candy and impulse attracting gee-gaws. 

      Then, because I had turned, he said to me, “I’m kinda hiding something from the kids.”

      From inside his jacket he pulled two cobalt-blue tee shirts, unfolding one so I could read the phrase printed on its front in bold black letters: “I’m Just Here To Be Annoying.”

      “For my kids,” he said, his eyes crinkling. “It’s just about right.” 

      “Yeah,” I said, “although having them did seem like a good idea at the time, right?”

      “Oh, yeah! … I guess … I, myself, was a mistake,” he said. “My parents went on their honeymoon to Hawaii with a brand-new box of rubbers, used them, and nine months later, here I was.”

      “Ahhhhh,” I said. “But I bet you were welcome. They woulda still been in romantic love.” 

      “Oh, yeah,” he said, “but then my Dad died not too long after that.”

      “Oh … ah … um … tough! You were only a toddler?”

      “Yeah, well … I guess I was six … He was killed going hunting in Wyoming. Another hunter ran him off the road over a cliff.”

      “Wow! Uh … uh … uh … was he on foot or in a car?”

      “He was in my uncle’s pickup. My uncle was driving. He was in the middle, another guy was by the window, and two guys were riding in the back, in the bed.

      “When they went over, the two guys in the bed flew out immediately and were killed falling down the cliff. The guy on the right was thrown from the cab on the way down, and he was killed. My dad died in the hospital two days later.

      “My uncle was the only one who lived, because he had the steering wheel to hold on to, so he didn’t get the shit pounded out of him being thrown all over the cab … .”

      After quite a long pause, he said, “I’m disabled, now, myself.”

      “... Wow! … uh … uh … uh, after your dad died, did you get a step-dad?”

      “Yeah! … Unfortunately! He was a drunk. And a mean one, too! Owned a bar and liquor store. He used to come in, in the morning, grab a pint of whiskey and drink half of it right down. He drank about a quart and a half a day.”

      “Ahhh … um … ”

      The line had begun moving, but I no longer cared. I was in the habit of writing something each Christmas—a  story or poem—and hadn’t yet done so this year. This one was writing itself. I amused myself thinking, Yup! for one for the ages!

      We had reached the end of the separating shelves. Two children, in tow of the older bearded man, were peering around the shelf end, talking to my conversation partner, smiling, calling him “Dad.”

       “There they are,” he said.

      One was blonde, fair skinned, wearing glasses—about age nine, I guessed. The second was taller and older, maybe 11, with dark brown skin and black hair—maybe Asian or Hispanic, I thought. 

      “Yeah, there they are. We live up in Nebraska—in  Gordon, up near the South Dakota line … Yeah … I’m divorced … and loving my life … NOW, that is! I’m 52, I don’t need that other stuff. Just a single Dad raising these kids. Adopted the one.”

      “Oh, yeah. Is he Asian or—”

      “—No, no!—that’s my grandson, Juan. His mother is half-Cherokee.  The other one is the adopted.” He nodded his head at the bespectacled blonde boy.

      “Ah, so … Well, … Ah, ‘Gordon’,” I said. “Is it flat up there?”

      “Well, yeah … well, not really. They call it ‘The Sand Hills’. Ever been there?”

      “If I have, it’s been a long time. I’d like to see it, though.”

      “There’s great bass fishing up there.”

      We both fell quiet. Some time passed, until now with only one customer ahead of me, he broke the silence.

      “Yeah. I’m disabled. A real heavy scaffold fell on me. Almost killed me.”

      “Were you on the job?”

      “Yeah. Mason. The scaffold was loaded with concrete blocks. It came down at me, and I put my hand up—like you do when something is flying at you—and it almost tore my shoulder off. Broke my neck, my back in four places, busted my ribs and legs … I just recently had my fourth operation.”

      Now I noticed that what I had perceived as a pale, closely wrapped scarf was, in fact, a medical neck collar. 

      He continued, “Didn’t know why I lived … but I really do know … Those kids. Raisin’ ‘em up. That’s why I’m living … It’s great. Great raisin’ ‘em up in Gordon. We’re down here at their grandmother’s for the holidays.” 

      At that point my stuff was on the belt and Young-and-Slender was efficiently scanning and bagging them. I swiped my credit card, scribbled my signature, then turned back to him. Before I could speak, he said, “Nice talking to you. My name is Michael,” and he held out his hand.

      I smiled. “Mine, too—‘Michael’,” I said, grasping his hand. “I once read that ‘Michael’ means, ‘Who Is Like God,’ but that doesn’t fit in my case.   Maybe in yours, though.”

      “Happy holidays,” he said, “real nice talking to you.”

      “Yeah, for sure!” I said. “Merry Christmas!”