HE HAD unusually large ears that stood out like satellite dishes alongside his heavily grooved face. He wore a hearing aid nevertheless and a white, blood-stained apron. Three days a week, he worked at the chicken counter, slicing fryers, hacking bones and tossing out giblets.
I started to go the local farmers’ market more than 20 years ago and most Wednesdays I would buy six pounds of chicken bones, as well as other things, at the stand where Bill worked. I made broth with the bones.
Bill and I had instant rapport. I would look for him every week and we usually talked before and after he filled my order, a routine that seems archaic in an age of supermarkets and high-speed commerce but is still possible in some isolated corners of America where retail has not been thoroughly air-brushed and conglomeratized.
It is always smart for a merchant to show interest in his regular customers. But Bill did not own the place. So when I say he always asked how I was with genuine and disarming interest, I should add that this was not salesmanship. It may have been part flirtation, but Bill was not capable of salesmanship. He had a transcendent relationship with the drumsticks and turkey necks before him. They were a help with the bills, but they were also the means by which he achieved the more important business of catching up with the customers.
I know other women enjoyed chatting with him at the counter too and also lit up when they saw him, but I liked to think there was some element of exclusivity in our friendship. Although he was well into his seventies when we first met and had worked as a truck driver for many years, a way of life that would seem to preclude much in the way of common interests between us, he was one of the most charming men I have ever known. (more…)