It was a tug somewhere near her throat and traveling down to her heart. It wasn’t always there – only sometimes. Like Valentine’s Day. Like today. Oh, she had friends; and they were the good kind; the kind she knew she could trust with her mistakes and dreams and everyday thoughts. But they had boyfriends or husbands. They knew what a lonely Valentine’s Day was, but their experience had become fuzzy with time and change of circumstance. They knew, but they had forgotten.

Maybe she’d watch an old movie? Or read a book.

After thirty minutes, she stopped and tilted her head. Had she heard something? Maybe it was a squirrel or raccoon. There had been four, maybe five squirrels all winter long nosing around by the bushes. And she’d caught sight of a couple of raccoons rummaging through the garbage three nights ago.

There it was again! Heart beating faster, she grabbed an old baseball bat she kept under her couch and tiptoed to the door.

“Augh!”

“Oh!”

He turned toward her as she threw open her door, bat held high.

“I’m sorry to have scared you.” He motioned to the street. “Car trouble. I was just searching for a connection for my phone.”

“Yea, it’s not great.”

She squinted. He seemed familiar somehow.

“Hey! Were you at the thing last week?”

It clicked. He had been one of the guests at a friends 30th birthday celebration.

“You’re going to be late,” she ventured.

“I was just on my way home from the grocery store.” His chuckle ended in a sigh. “I won’t be late for anything tonight.”

“I have wifi inside.”

Relief spread across his face.

“Let me grab something from my car.” He sprinted to the curb and came back with some cookies.

“I was going to watch an old movie and bought a Valentine’s treat to go with it.”

“I’ll put on some coffee.”

And suddenly Valentine’s Day lost its tug.

.

I was there on the dot of 6:00 and Chloe invited me in. The meal was some of the best Italian I’d tasted in – well – ever. By the time I’d enjoyed a second helping and gelato to top it off, Chloe had coaxed from me most of the important parts and some of the boring parts of my life story, including the suffering I endured from a theory book at every piano lesson until I was 16. When I told her I thought of G7 as having to do with more politics than music, we both laughed.

But it was when we retired to her living room for a spicy herbal tea, that I learned something about her.

“You’ve been following me out of the grocery store.”

I couldn’t deny it. “My curiosity got the better of me,” I admitted. “You don’t shop groceries like other people. And then when you didn’t go home with them, well . . .”

Chloe nodded.

“I don’t suppose you remember when I moved here. You’re too young.” She sighed. “I’ve lived all over the world. I was a chef. Studied at the . . . Culinary Institute of America . . .” She gave me a sharp look, though I had no idea why. Upon my look of innocence, she continued, “and was good enough to work anywhere I chose.”

“I don’t doubt it. Tonight’s dinner was amazing!”

“I spent a little time at Apicius,” she remarked. “Now that was an interesting experience,” she added under her breath.

When I began to ask why, she interrupted. “So I entertain myself now by challenging myself with varied ingredients to come up with something of note.”

Her explanation seemed off to me, somehow. While we’d dined, I had caught a glimpse in her pantry which deserved a standing ovation and showed she didn’t really need the items she bought at the little grocery.

“But you don’t go home.”

“No, no I don’t. I suppose you want to know why.”

I nodded vigorously.

“I like to remind myself of various times in my life, and I’ve found that place is an important part of that.”

I could see how that would be true. I, myself, was transported back to various times in my life just by driving through certain towns.

“I don’t suppose you can jet back to Italy every week,” I offered.

Chloe laughed longer than I thought my comment deserved.

She ignored it, though, as she continued. “One time I was holed up in a small auto shop for longer than I wished. But looking back, I recall the reasons for it as well as some surprisingly satisfying hours there.”

“But why were you . . .”

Chloe continued. “The church, of course, is a place of solace for me. Always has been. I prefer them empty. It’s quiet and Jesus sits with you if you want.”

“What does he like to eat?”

Chloe smiled. “I spent a year in a basement apartment in New York. It was a dump, but comfortable enough for me.”

“More comfortable than an auto repair shop?”

“Haha. Yes.”

“But I would think you made enough money to live in better surroundings.”

“It depends on what you think of as better surroundings.”

I left Chloe’s that evening having been given answers, but none that satisfactorily answered my questions.

I gave them up – my questions. It was clear she didn’t care to divulge much, though she was very good at getting me to chatter like a songbird. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I’d tried; tried to find out about Chloe’s peculiarities and found little to fill in the blanks. What she said near the end of my visit, though, stuck with me like a song that would play over and over in my mind.

“When you get to be my age, you value experience over money and knowledge over things.”

“What about people?” I asked. “Family? Friends?”

Chloe pondered for a few minutes so we sat in silence.

“Some are treasures, others, trash. But I do believe that all the times and places and, yes, people who slip in and out of your life meet you as one person and say goodbye to you as someone who became a little different because of the encounter.”

Different because of the encounter. I mulled over that final comment as I took inventory the next day. And the next week I thought about preferring experience and knowledge, times and places over things that seemed to me at the time to be more valuable while I unloaded coffee to the shelves.

I didn’t see Chloe for awhile after that. I asked around and heard  from a boy she’d hired to keep her up yard that she’d jetted to some other country. Which one? He thought maybe Peru. He seemed surprised someone like Chloe would venture further than the corner grocery.

“Oh, she ventures,” I defended her.

He looked like he didn’t believe me. I probably wouldn’t have either but for my experiences; like sitting outside on a misty evening just past midnight or eating amazing gelato with her in her very ordinary-looking house. It occurred to me that whatever I’d sought in following her, I’d found without realizing it. No, I didn’t find out much about Chloe, but I did discover a bit of her essence: Experiences not sought, but not forgotten; A little knowledge; And a time in my life when my usual expectations of people changed because of a grocery cart and a woman named Chloe.

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Having gotten to bed far later than usual and having gained the suspicion of a cold from spending more of the evening outside than planned, and in a misty rain at that, I hesitated following Chloe the next time she bought groceries. But how could I not? You question that? Well maybe you’re the type that can ignore things that seem out of the ordinary, and to that I say, enjoy the tsunami you didn’t see coming. However, I needed the peace of settling the question of Chloe’s strangely varied grocery items. I mean c’mon. Who buys all things wasabi, then takes a 180 degree turn the next week to an entire cart of bland?

So the next time she walked out of the store, I clocked out (easy to do since I work plenty of overtime) and followed her again. And again she did not return home. She went to a small white church that had sat empty for as long as I could remember. Again she jiggled the door handle just so and let herself in. Again she turned on a light. And again I sat outside into the night, this time in between some bushes nearby.

And so it went. One week it was what appeared to be a small apartment in the basement of an old building (she had to descend outside stairs before she did the jiggle of the door handle thing). I had never noticed its existence until that evening. Another week it was what I supposed to be a garden of sorts enclosed by a stone wall, and still another, the back door of a public library after it was closed for the day. A run-down playground. A boat house. My effort to discover the why of her grocery peculiarities gave no satisfaction at all, but rather led to more questions, and I began to lose sleep.

I decided I was going about things the wrong way and spent a few days at my computer trying to find information about Chloe (there was none except her home address) and about each place she spent an evening (nothing of note).

“You’ve been looking rather peaked lately.”

Chloe’s voice startled me. I was squatting, putting boxes of cereal on an endcap. I scrunched my eyes and made an effort to look at her like I was composing a police report in my head. It was unsuccessful.

“If you’re interested, I’d like to invite you to my house for supper tonight?”

It seemed an odd invitation since we knew each other only by sight. I glanced into her cart. Pasta, fruit, sausage, french bread, and salad fixings sealed the deal. There was no reason to decline, of course. I nodded my head.

“You know where I live?” she asked with the hint of a smile.

I nodded again.

“See you at 6:00.”

to be continued . . .

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There’s no accounting for taste. I mulled over this truth as I pulled out another box of macaroni and cheese to put on the shelf of the little grocery store I worked at.

Due to its size, I recognized regular customers. There were, of course, some who dropped in irregularly, but I am not speaking of those. At least not yet; and I hope none of them will figure into my tale, but who knows.

No, the customer of whom I speak is a small woman in what I guess is her 70’s who caught my attention oh, maybe a few months ago; and it was due to her grocery choices. You know how people habitually buy the same kinds of things every time they shop? Bananas, bread, and milk, for example. Some people are drawn to boxed meals you can just dump in a pan and heat with very little effort. Others have a fond relationship with the cereal aisle. Or canned goods. Or rice. Not many shop for fish unless it’s in a little round can. For the most part, maybe without conscious intention, customers put the same things in their carts week after week, year after year.

But this lady – her name is Chloe – buys strikingly  different selections every single time. I asked her about it once, and she scrunched her eyes and looked at me like she was composing a police report in her head. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken notice, not that it should matter, right? But I get it. Who wants their grocery cart scrutinized? Not me and not Chloe either.

It pestered me, though. Why? I’ve no idea. Why should I care what someone buys at the grocery store? It’s just that it was unusual enough that it piqued my curiosity. Did she have guests with varied preferences over to her house once a week? Was she one of those who can’t bear routine? Was it simply that she shopped whatever was on sale? That at least made sense. Except she didn’t; shop only sale items, that is. Yes, I admit I was nosy enough to notice.

I was beginning to lose focus on things that actually mattered, so I decided to take matters into my own hands, find an answer to her unusual practice, and put it all to rest. No one would have to know, and I would be able to read a book without re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

This next confession should stay between us because it makes me look suspicious enough that Chloe’s composing a police report in her head probably wouldn’t seem unreasonable to her or to you. Please, please don’t judge and, as a favor, I won’t scrutinize your peculiarities.

I followed her home. Oh she didn’t notice. I stayed far enough back and hid behind trees – that sort of thing – that she couldn’t have suspected anyone behind her. The thing is, she didn’t go home. This town is small enough that I had a general idea of where she lived. No, I didn’t look it up. I just knew because when you live in a small town there are some things you just know. Don’t ask me to explain it.

She took a completely different route and stopped at an abandoned auto repair place. What. She jiggled the doorknob just right, turned on a light, and let herself in. It began to mist, but curiosity kept me crouched behind an old oil drum for the rest of the evening. I must have dozed, because when I opened my eyes around midnight, the light was off, my clothes were soaked, and she was gone.

to be continued . . .

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There’s a certain scent in hardware stores – not the perfumy enticement of a department store cosmetic counter, but rather a scent of sort of solid security suggesting all will be well. Likewise, Fleet Farm Supply. Fleet Farm offers more, though.

When I was a young boy, I’d head straight for the toy aisles at Christmas where I found the toy tractors and farm implements emblazoned in their catalogues. In springtime, I’d make a beeline for the cheeping sounds of chicks kept in a large trough under warming lights at the back of the store. As a young man, I found satisfactory clothes there and, when I was on my own, I bought the kind of food and drink a person can actually enjoy. Tools? For home and auto, just like an insurance commercial. Hunting and fishing supplies capped my needs. In fact, I’ve often thought everything I’ve ever needed can be found at the Fleet Farm.

Then one day tested that claim.

I’d been moseying through the aisles, stopping too long at fishing lures and probably not long enough at propane. It was because I was gazing at the new fishing lure in my hand, that I ran smack into a customer at the endcap. She nearly fell, but I caught her; and we stood there for a split second locking eyes and sizing each other up. It was uncomfortable and a little exciting at the same time. I’m not sure she felt the same way.

Ten minutes later, I checked out: fishing lure, trail mix, and Dr. Pepper. I’d just tossed my treasure into the backseat, when a voice addressed me. I bumped my head on the ceiling of my car, and, rubbing my head, straightened before I shut the door.

Why were you following me?

It was the customer I’d bumped into earlier.

Following you? I wasn’t following you.

She motioned in the air. And yet, here you are.

Maybe you were following me!

And maybe you are interested in birdfeeders, but I don’t think so.

It’s true. I’m not interested in bird feeders. Never have been.

I glanced at my watch.

It’s lunchtime. Join me?

It’s been twelve years. We have three kids, four dogs, go to church on Sundays, and keep each other content. And I just picked up another bird feeder at Fleet Farm.

**************

I started this story two months ago. And then my mom’s death stopped many of life’s activities, as it should. Maybe I’ll address it sometime. But I wanted to finish what I started. It’s not as long as it might have been. But I am becoming accustomed to accepting that things aren’t always, or even usually, as we might wish them.

*********************

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I traveled ahead and then left as I was sure I should. At what I guessed was hour two, I stopped for a bottle of apple Snapple (it really is the best flavor) and sipped it in my truck as I considered my options. I didn’t care to return home since I’d invested time and gas at this point. Was I headed the right direction? I was so sure. Maybe I should say I had been so sure. The problem with being sure – very sure – is that unless the Good Lord, Himself, has told you, there’s a remote possibility you could be wrong, emphasis on remote. I hate to even admit it. I’m sure you can understand.

The sun was definitely high in the sky and trekking downward. Pulling into a gas station, I swallowed my pride, and inquired, then walked out the door to the sound of laughter a little too loud for my taste.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up spending the night in my truck under the stars, having turned myself completely around and reaching my destination after it closed. Fortunately, there was another auction nearby the following day, and I didn’t care to return home and risk a late arrival not to mention wear and tear on my truck. It was the first time I’d ever parked in the first space in a parking lot.

By the time I woke up and found a row of porta-potties, a few food trucks had begun to arrive. I have to say, my favorite thing about auctions, or anything else for that matter, is the food. I nourished myself with a bag of mini donuts and cup of coffee.

I was kind of glad I missed my intended auction and ended up at this one instead. It was a rowdy bunch and I met some interesting people, one who expressed interest in my truck. I know. Right?

As the day wore on, I was routinely outbid and came up empty. I figured I’d try one more time before I left, though by now the bids were for boxes of things unknown – kind of like a grab bag at a candy store. I got one! Actually two, since the woman taking my money shoved a second one at me for free. I think she was worn out. I paid the princely sum of $15.00 and took them to my truck to see if there was anything of value. They held some pictures taken around the 1920’s I guessed, an old set of encyclopedias, an interesting variety of electronics, and a few things I thought maybe I could sell on FBMP.

My friend arrived Monday to return my laptop. I invited her in and, after hearing about her research paper, I dug around in one of the auction boxes.

“Ah! Here it is,” I said, handing her a laptop. It was a Dell.

“I checked it out. It seems to be in good condition. Anyway, since I have one, I thought maybe you could use it.”

She nearly squeezed the breath out of me, and her expressions of thanks were nearly as rowdy as the auction had been. I started craving mini donuts.

I’m sitting here now, tapping the end table with the card the guy who was interested in my truck gave me. He wrote his phone number on it. Should I call him? I’m leaning toward what I’m sure should be yes. Maybe.

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“No, no. It’s fine,” I said shoving my laptop into her hands.

“Are you sure? I can go to the library,” answered my friend.

“And we know how dependable those computers can be,” I replied, recalling the last time she’d done so and lost half of the research paper she had been working on leading to her being docked a grade for lateness.

“Go.” I insisted.

She went. That was two days ago. Her paper was due on Monday and I assumed she would get it back to me by then. Yes, I know what they say about assuming things, but she’s my friend.

Why doesn’t she have her own laptop? I don’t know. I figure being poor can do that to you. Because she is; not the kind of poor that qualifies for free stuff, but the kind of poor that is enough to make life inconvenient and slightly uncomfortable.

I was up early Saturday morning, plan in my head and truck keys in my hand. It was north – actually northeast – and I knew that if I traveled ahead and then left, I would reach the place within an hour. Maybe two. Maybe three. (Okay, so estimations have never been my forte, and let’s admit some vehicles are more dependable than others which, of course, makes a difference in times of arrival.) But of the direction and distance? I was sure of it.

So certain was I that I left without my watch, the band being uncomfortable, and a compass, because who uses a compass besides the military and orienteering buffs? (Oh yes. I had one. I displayed it on a small round end table along with an Adelaide Hurricane lamp and an old copy of A Message to Garcia. It was a gift I valued because of the giver, but never used.)

You’re thinking I should just GPS it on my phone. Of course you are. I agree, but I had dropped my phone in the community pool the day before while I was trying to find the link for my suit that a new acquaintance admired and asked for, and it was currently spending the day in a package of uncooked rice. (I have to admit my swimming suit is amazing.) No, I couldn’t map quest it on my laptop, which, as you’ll recall was in the possession of my friend.

Some people collect old pickups. Let’s just say they wouldn’t want mine. I started it and set out.

By hour two I was beginning to feel slightly unsettled. Feeling undone would come later.

to be continued . . .

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I spent the better part of an hour nosing around by the meter. I even opened the boxes I had moved for the meter readers, examining every single item which I removed piece by piece. It was a good thing I’d changed out of my pajamas and had a decent pair of shoes on or I would have lost a toenail over a large set of old Star Trek DVDs that slipped from my grasp as I unloaded it. I found nothing in the boxes, but the intermittent beeping continued.

Time slipped away and I would have to figure things out later. I had the luxury of a remote job, but that didn’t mean I could ignore my computer all morning.

The beeping couldn’t be heard on the main floor, and as I mulled it over while frying a small steak and broiling cut-up potatoes sprinkled liberally with seasoning salt, I realized that I probably wouldn’t have noticed it without the visit from Remer Electric’s annoying meter readers because I wouldn’t have been in the basement in the first place. I wouldn’t have noticed it this time, either, but for the boxes I had hurriedly carried down there a couple of weeks ago.

I’d done a little research over my lunch break and discovered the probable source of the beeping, though I could hardly believe it. So after supper, I went outside and squatted to examine the side of my house. There it was: a patched hole in the wall where my meter was installed. Someone had attached the wires (barely covered by shallow trench I should have noticed) from their own home to my circuits!

I marched over to the neighbor closest to that side of my house – he had moved in last August to my recollection – who, after a stuttering denial, admitted he had planned to only temporarily borrow some electricity when he first moved in, but that time had gotten away from him. How convenient.

“Electricity shouldn’t cost anything, anyway,” he continued, “You’re probably unaware of this, but an inventor named . . .”

“Tesla. Nikola Tesla. Yes, I know.”

My neighbor’s eyes lit up.

“No no no no,” I interrupted his excuse. “Tesla is dead . . .”

“As far as you know . . .”

Heaven help me. I had a nerd of the highest order next door. I hurried to get us back on track before he wandered into a wormhole.

“Someone, in fact, is paying for it regardless, and that someone is me. And I have enough keeping up with my bills without paying for yours, too!”

“Only the electricity.”

“Change it back to your house and change it by morning, or I’m reporting you.”

He held up his hand. “Has it occurred to you the sound from your meter could align your entrainment?” In explanation, he added, “I’m a neurologist.”

“I don’t care if you’re a circus clown! Besides, you’ve no need to borrow anything from me with what your paycheck must be.”

“It started out as temporary, remember? I had no intention of stealing anything from you. Please. Let’s discuss this like two reasonable adults.”

Nothing seemed reasonable at the moment: not smart meters, not pesky meter readers tromping through my house, and not sneaky neighbors.

He opened his door wider and motioned me in. Why did I go in? It was an automatic response.

A person should check automatic responses in herself every once in awhile, I realized, as I sipped on an excellent cup of tea and enjoyed a macaron.

It was midnight by the time I returned to my house. My neighbor had turned out to be knowledgeable in more than neurology. Before this, I hadn’t noticed him much. I thought he was an accountant. We ended up having an intriguing discussion bordering on nerdiness of the highest order. It would’ve been embarrassing had anyone listened in. Which they didn’t. That I knew of.

My neighbor must have stayed up into the wee hours because when I woke up and checked, the beeping was gone and the shallow trench had been dug up and covered over again.

It’s been six months. Six months of the pesky meter readers interrupting my first cup of coffee once a month. Six months of lower electric bills. And six months of talking over the fence, shared dinners, and a surprising comradery with my neighbor. And I’ve decided that free and convenient in some things isn’t so bad after all.

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“You can’t come here every week!” I said in my most politely agitated voice. The look on the face of the two service people told me they didn’t hear my effort at polite. I tried to sympathize. But seriously? How often did a meter need to be read?

Thinking to myself that everything with the word smart in it was probably smart in favor of someone other than me, I had elected to forego the free and convenient smart meter that would tell the electric company what they needed to know in favor of one that wasn’t smart (according to them). They, of course, needed to install it inside my house. And not being terribly fond of strangers knocking at my door at 7:30 in the morning while I was still in my pajamas trying to enjoy my first cup of coffee, I found their visits less than welcome; and they found them less than welcoming. At least we had something in common. This was the third visit in five weeks, and I was beginning to wonder if Remer Electric had a secret ground game to irritate its uncooperative customers into compliance with their preferences. They were clearly unaware of my ground game of living life on my own terms. Some people might call that crabby. I call it the why am I paying for something that Tesla said should be free in the first place POV. I doubted the meter reader had read anything about Nikola Tesla, but who was I to judge? Everyone knows public utilities are for everyone’s well-being.

After they left I went down to my basement to move back into place the few boxes that had been in the way of them reading the meter. A high pitch followed by a couple of chirpy beeps caught my attention and I stopped long enough to try to determine where it was coming from. The meter? I don’t know much about electric meters, but I’ve lived long enough to know it was unusual for them to make that sort of sound. A quiet hum maybe, but a high-pitched whine? I pulled the boxes away again and examined it. I wasn’t altogether convinced it was the meter. But it was something – what? Attached? Behind?

The problem was going to need another cup of coffee, I reasoned, and I jogged upstairs to fill my cup and get dressed. If I had only known what was ahead, I might’ve done something  more calming, like watching a Star Trek marathon.

to be continued . . .

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