The Doctor at the Supermarket

He got in line behind me with just one item in each hand and although my cart had only a few purchases, he had fewer; so I told him he could get in front of me. In a most beautiful rich baritone voice, he declined, thanking me. He was youngish—quite young to me—though from the front view he looked completely and handsomely bald, with good suntan, white knit top and tan shorts. It was noon. Perhaps he was headed for a tennis match and dropped into WinCo for a bite to eat on the run.

As he talked and moved his head around, I noticed the colorful beanie on the back of his head, the Jewish yarmulke, or kippah. It looked as if embroidered with bright color, but my research indicates painted-on designs. He didn’t show me the side of his head long enough to examine the cap as I wished to. But something about him—his sense of humor I decided later—led me to think a conversation would ensue. We had already smiled at each other about the ridiculous remarks of people ahead of us in line.

Other than that impersonal opening, I spoke first, but said nothing about the conversation piece on his head. I also didn’t say, “Pardon me, but . . .” for we had already been communicating with each other. I just blurted out, "Are you in television?"

"No, why do you ask?" This was all very light banter from the start.

"You have the perfect voice for it, or for anything, of course. That voice could get you careers anywhere."

"I'm a doctor."

My curiosity grew by giant leaps. “I have to ask, in what field?”

“Sleep disorders.”

I laughed, hardly believing how close I stood to a doctor who might hold secrets for my cure. "I'd be your best guinea pig."

"Everyone tells me that. But I work for the government, at the VA. "

"Well, I'm a veteran." We both laughed then.

"These days, we have reached the place where we take only the needy."

He could tell by my groceries I wasn't needy: two personal-sized watermelons, chocolate cake, mangos, four loaves of bread, cans of party nuts, and a huge package of fresh salmon.

"The fortune I pay each month for health insurance proves I'm not needy," I said.

We had moved up only about twelve inches in the line, not close enough to the counter for me to start laying out my stuff. He mentioned WinCo did not have an Express Line, and then said all WinCo lines are express.

"I was a doctor in the Israeli Army before I came here." How fascinating that he chose to talk about himself, just what I wanted to hear.

"Then are you a naturalized citizen here?"

He hesitated a moment, wondering how to say it, I suppose. "My mother was [or is?] an American and she met my dad in Israel." He didn't need to be naturalized.

"And you're multilingual."

He nodded yes. I don’t often meet a multilingual person, and wished the people ahead of us had more groceries to spend time with. But I was at the counter now and we had waited so long, I told him again to go ahead of me. This time he did, for he really did seem to be in a hurry, perhaps for that tennis game. I got busy unloading my groceries onto the counter and in a sense forgot about him, until I heard that beautiful voice say, "Thanks again. Have a great day."

I knew he spoke to me, and I looked up and saw him wave. I waved back.

What had happened in that short interlude amounted to almost nothing. Yet the man, young enough to be my son, made my day. It seemed an international communication transpired, but perhaps not that so much as just a cultural conversation for someone who seldom meets that these days and longs for it. I got the whole episode into my computer, lest I forget.