Crazy Fish Guy

So there I was Wednesday night, navigating the aisles of the supermarket. It was my night to cook and I had a hankering for some seafood. I had already picked up a bag of frozen broccoli florets and had only one more stop before check-out time. I turned the corner, spied who was working the seafood counter, and then muttered under my breath: “Damn! Crazy Fish Guy!”

For more than a year now I’ve been plagued by the good-natured and friendly overtures of Crazy Fish Guy. He took notice of me the winter before last when he observed that, even on the coldest days, I would show up to the store wearing my bike outfit — so it all began one day with him asking how I could stand cycling in such frigid weather and me explaining that I’m probably warmer than everyone else. That might have been the last thing I said for about 15 minutes, for right after that Crazy Fish Guy talked and talked and talked, and when he was done with that he talked some more. He had a mumbly, slurry way of speaking, and it required great mental effort on my part to follow what he was saying, which was uninteresting, disconnected, and seemingly without resolution. I prayed for another customer to show up to place an order, anything to distract him so I could make a quick exit. I had no such luck, and Crazy Fish Guy rattled on and on. And since then, whenever I stray near his department while he’s on duty, he finds a way to buttonhole me and won’t let me go.

Crazy Fish Guy’s age is hard to pinpoint, but I would guess late-thirties, early-forties. He has a slightly “special needs” way about him, something about his constant stare when he talks to you, his imperfect enunciation, and how he does everything at super-slow-mo speed. His body looks putty-soft and boneless, as if he hasn’t done a lick of exercise in 20 years; I’ve never shaken his hand, but I can imagine squeezing its flaccid fleshiness like you would a child’s squishy toy. But I’ll say this about him: he’s not shy.

Last Wednesday, after I placed my order for a pound and a half of the salmon filet, he asked, “Did I do something to piss you off?”

“I don’t think so,” I said with a smile, assuming my patented “light-bantering mode.”

“I waved at you the other day and you looked right at me but didn’t say anything.”

“Gave you the cold shoulder, eh?” I said, still in my light-bantering style.

“So what was up with that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even remember it,” I lied, knowing full well that on Monday I walked by his department on the way to the produce section acting as if I didn’t notice him, seemingly too engaged in my quest to select just the right green pepper and cucumber. However, I doubt I looked his way, because the plan was to avoid eye contact with him at all costs.

“You didn’t notice me waving?”

I shrugged. “I don’t notice anything. That’s the thing about me.”

That was enough to satisfy him, and then, for the next 10 minutes, I heard all about his 10-year-old daughter’s behavioral problems at school and how he sees a counselor once a week. On and on and on. Blah, blah, blah. Then he said he couldn’t talk to his wife. Then I heard the store cut back on his hours. Then he told me his vacation plans. Then he informed me of an Internet business he wants to try.

Look, I’m willing to give someone three, four, maybe five minutes tops of my time, but after that I think I have a right to extricate myself and go about my business. Does that make me a bad man? Will I go to hell for that?

Question du jour: how do you get out of these situations?