The first time I encountered Bill was on a morning walk in late August. He just waved at me and said, "Nice day for a walk." It was indeed a very pleasant day, and I was about to add that it didn't get much better than this, but he had already moved on.
Bill soon joined the ranks of the four or five "regulars" I came across every morning when I was out exercising. What set Bill apart from the rest of the crowd was the fact that he never uttered more than a single sentence. No matter how hard I tried at first to engage him in a little small talk, he simply smiled and continued on his way. One sentence only. No more, no less.
I had fallen into the habit of making up my own private nicknames for the people I met during those walks. In addition to Bill, there was Swiss Miss (she bore an uncanny resemblance to tennis pro Martina Hingis), who always seemed to be leaning forward as if she were struggling against a powerful wind. Poodle Lady, another regular, was usually accompanied by an obnoxious white dog named Pierre, and I frequently made a big circle around them whenever I spotted them from a distance. And then there was Power Walker, whose walking style — long strides, arms pumping away furiously — always gave me the impression that he was in training for an upcoming Olympic-style event.
People are also reading…
Unlike Bill — whose real name I didn't know, either — all these other people had at one point or other shared a few personal tidbits with me, and I had done the same in return. I knew that Swiss Miss walked exactly five miles each day, that Poodle Lady liked to shop at Kmart, and that Power Walker had recently retired from the Air Force. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Bill, on the other hand, remained a mystery.
The first few weeks I didn't think much about his brief greetings, figuring that one of these days I would engage him in a little bit of conversation and find out more about him.
That day, however, never arrived.
What I discovered instead was his uncanny ability to say hello in a hundred different ways, without ever using the same phrase twice.
"I came across a rattler yesterday the size of my arm" is a rather startling way to greet someone, and I was slightly taken aback at first. Equally confusing was his way of continuing on with a particular thought the following day, as if no time had elapsed in between. It took me awhile to catch on to the fact that Wednesday's "We ought to have speed bumps installed around here" was a direct follow-up to Tuesday's "Why does everyone around here drive like a maniac?" Rhetorical questions such as "Hot enough for you today?" would be followed by a little self-deprecating humor later in the week, as in "These old legs just don't work the way they used to."
I was so amazed at his ability to come up with a new phrase every time we met that I started writing down these little jewels as soon as I got home. It didn't take me long to fill several pages of my spiral notebook with his one-liners, which could range from an innocent "Feels like winter today" to mini-comments on the political scene, such as "Glad this whole election business is finally over."
Weeks went by, and the pressure began to mount — on me, not Bill. While he seemed in great form and not in the least bit concerned about anything, I began to worry about how much longer he would be able to keep this up. Surely something would give soon. There are only so many words in the English language, only so many possible greetings an ordinary person could come up with.
But Bill continued to defy all odds.
To give him a break, I started walking every other day, which immediately prompted comments such as "I missed you yesterday," or "Hope you weren't sick the other day."
And so it continued. Bill kept on finding new ways to greet me, and I kept on filling page after page in my notebook.
One day in early December, Bill didn't show up.
January followed, and still no Bill.
Once I admitted the thought that I might never see him again, I was overcome with a peculiar feeling of loss. It wasn't so much that he was gone, only that I never had a chance to really get to know him. Bill, I realized, had become an unusual sort of friend, and all I had left of him was a notebook full of phrases. What other surprises might a man capable of saying hello in a hundred different ways hold in store? I may never find out.
Expectations
A personal perspective on chance encounters
