“Just fine. How bout you?” I reply.

“Good as could be expected” he says.

The man is skinny and aged, staring at me through glasses with thick, scratched lenses. He is wearing a hat, blue jeans, and a cut-off purple t-shirt. A smile splits his face, revealing teeth that look like they have been put to a grinding stone. The size and color of small corn kernels. A 40 is set on the counter. And from the man’s swagger and the wreak of his breath, I assume that it is his. Rightly so.

“You get to go swimmin’ much this summer?”

I think that this is an odd question and it makes me suspicious of where this is headed. So, equipped with my ever present skepticism, I decide to answer him truthfully.

“Not much, I don’t know why really, just not much”

“Ahhh” he says while nodding his head.

There is a pause as the man turns around and looks to see if it is his turn to checkout. It is not, but there is more counter space available as the line of our fellow patrons and their goods diminish. Noticing that my hands are full, he slides his bottle of alcohol forward. Grabing a plastic separator and placing it on the counter.

“Go ahead and put your stuff up here bud…” he says

I place my milk, salad, cookies, and chicken where he indicates. Once I have everything deposited I think to myself.

I wonder what this drunk wants?

“So what do you do?” he asks.

“I work for the school district.”

“Oh yeah, where?”

“The Bend La-Pine School District” I say trying to clarify.

“No man” He shakes his head. “Where are you at? What do you do for them?”

“Oh” I say in understanding “I work in technology. Servers, enterprise systems, databases, that sort of thing.”

He nods and smiles, as if this communication is what he needs. Sensing that it is my turn to press the conversation forward I ask.

“How about you?”

“Oh me?” he looks around awkwardly “Man, I am laid off.”

I gulp, feeling sorry that I asked. Hoping that I may have something to offer and that I some how know what he is going through, I say.

“Yeah, I know what that is like. At the end of 2000, I was laid off for about 12 months during the crash of the Tech bubble. It was tough.”

The man nods again. But his eyes are cast down on the ground. Then bringing his hands up, he shows me our difference.

“I have been a machinist for 27 years. But now I can’t get hired because of these”

At first I cannot tell what I am looking at. Is it palm? Is it the back of his hand? Because on his left, there is only thumb and index. And on his right there sits only three. The middle, the ring, and the pinky fingers. Eyes wide, I suddenly register that in fact, I have no clue what this man is going through or where he has been. The difference in our lives is now so evidently vast, that the sudden revelation of his amputated digits seems to sever our conversation. His and mine.

It is then the cashier calls to him, giving indication that he is next. He smiles at her and I notice that he uses the name that is on the tag pinned to her vest. I feel that this is an abnormally kind thing to do. To recognize those who serve. Acknowledge that they exist. Most people don’t. And seeing him do this makes me smile.

He hands his cash forward. The cashier counts and mentions that he is 65 cents short. So the man digs deep into his jean pocket, metal clinking, and pulls out a fist full of coins. He offers the heap to her, sitting in his hand. And she kindly recognizes his difficulty. Picking through the coins to sum the required total. Taking the receipt from her, the man turns and says to me.

“Thanks for talking to me bud. Have a great summer” while swinging his hand around in what I perceive to be a disabled man’s wave.

“You too” I say, as I watch him leave.

It is not until he exits the building that I realize what I have missed. The man was not waving at me, he was extending his ruined appendage, wanting only one simple thing in return. A handshake. The most basic of formalities.

Regretfully, I understand that what had just transpired was a pleasant interaction involving two people. And that I had foolishly overlooked the grand finale. He was not wanting money, or for someone to buy him beer. The friendly man was looking for a few spoken words, and another person’s touch on his ugly, deformed flesh.

And I wish that I could rewind the clock a bit, and shake the man’s hand.