My Pikes Peak Diary: Day One

This is a big trip for me and my sister. We are visiting Pikes Peak to see my dad. And it’s going to be big.

The first thing you should know about my sister Sarah and me is that we like people. It’s just who we are. She and I are both what you’d call extreme “people people.” My father was a people person. And we definitely got his genes.

Like him, we love meeting strangers, talking, laughing, and forming lifelong friendships with random individuals in public who are edging away from us slowly as we continue conversing with the backs of their heads.

It’s what we do. Sarah is even more of a people person than I am. She is outgoing, friendly, and extremely talkative. She has not paused to take a breath since 1994.

My sister takes the art of peopling to the next level and is capable of making friends with anyone, even non-people entities. I know of at least one occasion wherein my sister made close personal friends with a municipal fire hydrant by trying to feed it dog treats. After the incident, she upgraded her prescription glasses.

 

Sarah has an extremely amiable personality. I cannot take her to a supermarket without spending several hours waiting for her to finish various spontaneous conversations in the produce department, dairy department, canned vegetable aisle, bulk dried goods department, clearance displays, vitamin section, and women’s restrooms, where I sometimes stand in the bathroom hallway and hear echoes of her conversations drifting past the water fountains.

Most of these random supermarket conversations are centered around extremely womanly issues, and feature no place for a man to insert his thoughts.

Take me. I have been a man for almost as long as I can remember. I do not know how to contribute to a feminine conversation such as the one my sister is having right now in the orange-juice section with a woman named Lana, with the main thrust of this conversation being the importance of enemas before childbirth.

So I just stand idly by, holding my sister’s purse, waiting for the two ladies to notice and include me in the discussion. Although I truly do not know what I would add to such a discourse except to smile and say, “I feel like I know you so much better now, Lana.

 

”But the fact is, I am no better than my sister when it comes to starting randomized conversations with total strangers. This morning, for instance, I made fast friends with several TSA agents as I was being ushered past security checkpoints by officers, shoeless and clutching the waistband of my trousers, shuffling beneath metal detectors and getting frisked.

“My name’s Sean,” I said to the woman agent frisking me. “What’s yours?”

“Take your belt off, please, sir.”

“How about buying me dinner first?”

 

 

And moments after my sister’s plane touched down in Colorado, for example, my sister found me in a deep dialogue with a young Budget rental-car employee named Armani.

Armani and I were discussing the pros and cons of being a dental assistant. Granted, I’ve never been a dental assistant, and I have no insight into the world of professional dental assistantry. But that doesn’t keep me from learning about it.

Because that’s the thing about being a conversationalist. You must be a good listener. I would say that at least 85 percent of being a skilled conversationalist is listening; 11 percent is being a good talker; and the remaining 32 percent is being bad at math.

Armani tells me she was a longtime dental assistant who now works at Budget, and sometimes misses the dental field, but working with Budget has good benefits. She likes working at Budget, but sometimes sitting outside and waiting for customers in the sweltering Denver heat gets uncomfortable. Armani has three kids. A boy and two girls. I do not know whether she believes in pre-childbirth enemas, but I’m sure my sister will ask her.

 

Before Armani and I part ways, I give her a hug and I wish her well on her life journey.

“So what brings you to Colorado?” she asks.

“I’m here to visit my dad.”

“That’s cool. Where does he live?”

“He doesn’t.” Then I point to the sky. “His ashes are in this state,” I add.

Armani nods like she understands.

“Good luck with your trip,” she says, giving me a big hug. “Hope you find whatever you’re looking for.”

My sister and I leave the rental car place with our luggage in tow. The enormity of what we’re doing is just now settling on us as we drive past the purple Rockies at sunset, on our way to Manitou Springs. We are going to run to the top of Pikes Peak to visit my dad’s remains.

 

We stop for coffee at Starbucks somewhere outside Colorado Springs. We walk inside. I use the restroom while Sarah approaches the counter and orders our coffees.

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, I notice a long line formed behind Sarah, bottlenecked. Customers are impatiently awaiting their turns while my sister and the cashier are talking about the finer points of (why not?) baby shoes.

I find a seat in the back of the store. A grumbling customer ahead of me says to his wife, “The girl at the front of the line won’t stop talking.”

I smile at the man.

“You’re right,” I say. “And wouldn’t her dad be proud.”

It’s going to be a great trip.