The Greeter

Kenny spent the first half of his life not talking, and has since spent the last few years making up for it. 

Kenny is to Morgan Street as Mr. Leon is to Wal-Mart.  Kenny will talk to anyone, anytime, about anything.  If you’ve ever walked past our house, you might have already encountered him. 

“Hey!  Hey!  Hi!” or

“Be careful of my bike!” (You know, the one laying on its side in the front lawn, wheels spinning?)

He can often be seen riding a fresh groove on the sidewalk in front of our house or pushing trains, cars, and trucks through intricate dirt trails.  If no one happens to be nearby, he will talk to himself. 

Last weekend, when we went to Five Guys, he sat down at the counter next to a pretty teenage girl on her lunch break.  He gave her his entire order right down to the napkin.  She had to go back to work just so she could take her break. 

He talks to bike riders, pedestrians, sane people, crazy people, police officers, and criminals.  If you have a pulse and you make eye contact, I can’t save you. 

And sometimes he’ll talk to you even if you don’t talk back.  He once caused a mass exodus from Kohl’s intimate apparel department when he bellowed out, “Boobies!” 

Not one of his better opening lines.

Kenny is a greeter.  I love that there’s nothing shy about him.  What I don’t understand is where his social streak comes from.  He's stemmed from a socially retarded gene pool.  Where I will go out of my way NOT to mingle, Kenny will insert himself.  I am my own best friend and the world is Kenny’s.

I’m having a hard time remembering the silent Kenny.  Up until age three, he was a grunter—a boy without words.  He had his very own early intervention staff come to our house for weekly play dates aspiring to pry a syllable or two from his tightly clenched tongue. 

Today every moment is punctuated by some random phrase.

“Mommy!  I love you!”

“Mommy!  You’re my best friend!”

“Mommy!  Uhhhh.  Mommy!”

Once, in an attempt to find a moment or two of silence, I locked myself in my bedroom and just sat quietly on the bed.  Within moments, I heard his not-so-graceful gait on the stairs and his knock on the door.

“Mommy?” 

Silence.

“Mommy?!”

Deep sigh.

“Mommy, it’s me, Kenny.  Kenny with a K!”

He’s just never quiet.  And mostly, that’s okay.  I think there’s a real future for him.  Just watch out all you introverted people.  Kenny with K may be coming to a Wal-Mart near you.  I guarantee it will be a conversation to remember.