Talking to Strangers...a Brief Encounter

As a child my mother warned, “Son, avoid talking to strangers.” Today, her advice is a distant whisper in my ears.

It’s a typical September day. The sweltering summer lingers, and so does the island’s tourist hangover. Heat monkeys dance on the blistering asphalt streets. Nothing moves fast.

Me? I sit next to the AC in a village diner, staring at the insipid lunch of chicken salad. It’s just another ‘average’ day, like summer anywhere in the South. Average, that is, until they walk in.

The couple saunters in: elegant, confident, intriguing. Heads turn, conversation ceases. Forks drop audibly onto plates. Strangers, possibly French. Bon jour is more refined than “Hiya doin.”

They sit next to me at a small table. My curiosity asks, “Who are they?” Actors? Artists? He’s a sharp dresser, expensive threads, a little over the top. The double-breasted blue blazer, yellow ascot and beret are not standard island issue.

But oh his companion. She commands all the attention. She’s tall, tan and tempting. The sheen on her shoulder-length blond hair is angelic. It sparkles like her enormous diamond bracelet. She wears white, pencil-thin Dior jeans, spiked Pradas and a blazing red Versace tee. Its gold letters shout:

Women Who Behave Rarely Make History

The message mutes my mother’s warning.

I forget the chicken salad and quickly slide my chair over. “Hello, may I join you?”

Before “No” can be uttered, I introduce myself, with a big grin. Smiles work wonders. Faint heart never won fair lady.

They’re fluent in English with an aristocratic, French flair. They’re deficit in southern idioms, so we dispense with the customary discussion about the weather and football.

Being pushy, I ask, “What brings you to the island?” They exchange a short dialogue between themselves, apparently concluding I’m harmless, but ignoring the question.

Conversation stays light, laughing through lunch and swapping travel stories. Curious diners come and go. Women bristle with envy. Men fixate on the tee’s message, their eyeballs taking them on a trip their bodies can’t handle. Clearly, this couple can destroy marriages.

Feeling empowered, my inquisitiveness becomes more direct. Their responses seem genuine, spoken with measured, but furtive glances between themselves. I ask the question again.

“Secret mission,” he answers. I ask for clues. She answers summarily, “Let’s just say a yacht, a beach and a movie.”

I push my luck, “Where?” She answers, “Cumberland Island. Why do you ask so many questions?” I tell her I’m a curious Georgia boy. “Are all Georgia boys curious?” she asks. I tell her we’re a shy breed, an obvious lie.

The Georgia boy comment must have spooked them. Suddenly but the ambient air turns chilly. I ask, “What’s the movie’s theme?” She hesitates, “Frankly, it’s really none of your business. Americans are all alike, brash.” He adds with formality, “The French are more circumspect with strangers.”

I answer, “Look, you’re in the south. We’re friendly people.” She says, “I think too friendly.” I ask if her mother warned about talking to strangers. She ignores me.

The chicken salad loses its appeal. I volunteer to be their tour guide. “Why you?” she asks. I remind them that the movie, Deliverance, was filmed in Georgia. He says, “I saw that movie. Are there really people like that in Georgia?” I tell him yes, but my fingers are crossed.

Then I turn the tables. “Are there really people like Humbert Humbert in France?” She answers, “Yes, but they’re mostly of Italian descent.” I tell her ours are probably transplants from Arkansas. We laugh at the hyperbole.

The dialogue is running thin. I ask to join them for the day. She replies, “Not a chance.” I pick up the check.

We walk out together. The humid sunlight melts the chill between us. We exchange hugs and au revoir. The brief encounter ends. They stroll off. I stand there dejected.

Then, in a backward glance, she turns, smiles and winks, again showing the message on the tee. “Dinner tonight aboard the Christina?” she asks. “Then we’ll tell you the rest of the story. Until then?”

I smile, “Until then.”

I go home, dial up my mother in heaven, reminding her that women who behave rarely make history. Talking to strangers is where a serendipitous world of possibilities exists.


Bud Hearn
July 25, 2016
All Rights Reserved