I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
October 24, 2013
Crouched down behind the ‘Freshly Baked Bread’ sign, I was mentally steeling myself to make a run for the hot dog buns when I heard a familiar voice.
“I just loved that post you wrote about parents pushing their kids to succeed!”
It was my friend, Betsy. I looked up at her and tried to smile.
“Thanks!” I whispered loudly, before turning back to peer around the sign.
“I mean, I feel the same way!” she went on. “Why are we pushing our kids so hard? Why do we feel the need to be so competitive with each other? We just need to stop and enjoy the time we have to spend with our children!”
Ordinarily, I would have moved my cart to the side and had a meaningful discussion with Betsy right then and there. After all, the Stop-and-Chat is a big part of the neighborhood supermarket experience, enough that I’ve learned to add a ten minute Stop-and-Chat cushion to the amount of time I allot for grocery shopping. But today? Today was different.
Betsy was totally blowing my cover.
“Yeah, Betsy, yeah,” I muttered. “Hey, it was good to see you.” Betsy gave me a confused look as I bent low over the bars of my shopping cart and darted toward the buns. I’d have to explain later- Right now, I was on a mission.
A mission to avoid Bob the Baker.
Bob the Baker is a particularly friendly new supermarket employee. To be fair, I’m there quite a lot- Now that the kids are in school, I like to shop frequently in short bursts rather than make one backbreaking weekly trip, so I’m on a first-name basis with most of the longtime employees there. But Bob has taken things to a whole new level. The moment he spots me in his department, he scurries over to see me.
“Mrs. Ferrier!” he booms. “How’s Dennis?”
Now this is a common question. Dennis is a TV reporter here in Nashville, and consequently most of the people who work at the supermarket simply think of me as ‘Dennis Ferrier’s wife.’ Which is completely fine, unless…
“Did you tell Dennis that Boo Boo said hello?” Bob asked me recently as he trailed me through the organic food aisles.
“Uh… Boo Boo?” I asked.
“He knows me as Boo Boo,” Bob said. “That’s what they used to call me on the baseball team. I made all-state in high school, didja know that?”
“I did not know that,” I said.
“Yup,” he said, tucking his thumbs in his baker pants. “All-State, 1978. I played shortstop. Dennis knows all about it. I brought him a picture, showed it to him the last time he was in.”
“Well that’s great, Bob,” I said, putting a carton of boxed milk in my cart. “Just great.”
Bob generally follows me while I shop, talking a mile a minute, until I get to the meat department. Apparently, that marks a line that Bob the Baker is not allowed to cross.
“Bye now, Mrs. Ferrier!” he calls as I head for the steaks. “Don’t forget! Tell Dennis Boo Boo says hello!”
“I won’t forget,” I call back over my shoulder. “See ya later.”
“Boy, Bob the Baker sure does love you,” I told Dennis that evening. “Every time I’m in there, he wants me to give you a message from Boo Boo.”
Dennis laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “He corners me when I come in and talks my ear off. The other day, I had an actual question about what was in the Broccoli Salad and he paused and said, ‘I don’t know, I just got here,’ and then he kept on talking! He never even answered my question!”
Over the last few months, I’ve gotten used to my encounters with Bob– but recently, he took things to another level.
“Mrs. Ferrier!” he called out last week when he saw me. “Hold on! I’ve got something to show you!” From behind the counter, he brought out an autographed picture of a local band.
“The bass player’s mother comes in here all the time,” he chuckled. “I asked her for an autographed picture and she brought this to me.” Beaming with pride, he held out the photo for my inspection.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s great.”
“Signed to me and everything,” he said, grinning. “Hey, you know, I bet Dennis could get me one of these, too.”
‘Oh yeah,” I said. “He could bring an autographed picture in for you, no problem.”
“Would you ask him to do that for me?” Bob asked.
“Sure. I’ll get him to sign one of his photos for you,” I said. Bob gave me a strange look.
“I don’t want an autographed picture of Dennis!” he said indignantly. “I want one of Rudy!” Rudy is the sports anchor at my husband’s station. I bit my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
“Okay,” I said. “Well, I will be sure and let Dennis know that!” Oh I’d let Dennis know, all right.
“And make sure it’s signed like this one is,” Bob said, pointing to the scrawl across the photo he held in his hands. I squinted down at it.
“To Bob.. the Bladder?” I read.
“The Baker!” he sputtered. “Not the Bladder! I’m Bob the Baker!”
“Well, it’s hard to read!” I protested. “That guy’s handwriting is awful!” Clearly, it was time for me to move on. I said goodbye and crossed my own personal finish line into the meat department. That was the end of that.
Or so I thought.
A few nights later, my neighbor and I were talking outside while our kids played.
“Hey, do you know the baker at the supermarket?” she asked out of the blue.
“Bob the Baker?” I asked quickly. She laughed.
“Yeah, I was talking to him yesterday.” She paused. “Your name came up.”
“Oh really?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “He had brought out this autographed picture of some band. Then he showed me a bunch of plastic frames he’d bought at the Dollar Tree. He said he was going to line the bakery counter with them and fill every one with an autographed photo. And then he told me, ‘Dennis Ferrier’s wife comes in here all the time and we like to talk.'”
“What?!” I interrupted. “Did he know you were my neighbor?”
“Ohhh, no,” she said. “I didn’t say a word. But he acted like the two of you were old buddies.”
I tried to laugh it off, but I’ll be honest with you– This news kind of changed the Bob situation for me and it’s hard to say why– I’m guessing you can understand, though, if you put yourself in my shoes. Knowing that your baker is telling stories about you to random supermarket customers?
It just feels a little weird.
And that, my friends, is how I found myself hiding like a five-year-old behind the ‘Freshly Baked Bread’ sign yesterday. When Betsy spotted me, the coast was clear. Bob was nowhere in sight and I was able to scoot in, get my hot dog buns, and scoot back out without a Bobversation. A few minutes later, though, I realized I had forgotten cookies for Punky’s class party. They needed to at least look homemade, and so there was no way around it.
I would have to go back to the bakery.
Reluctantly, I turned my cart around, and as I got closer to the bakery I could make out Bob standing behind the counter. I kept behind the food displays as I approached, ready to duck behind my cart at any moment. Bob was busy with something, but every few seconds, his eyes swept the bakery department like a laser beam. I ditched my cart in a nearby aisle, knowing I’d be nimbler without it, and crouched down behind the croissants, ready to make a break for the cookie shelves. As Bob’s eyes made another sweep, I cursed under my breath and ducked down quickly. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Then I spotted the old couple.
An elderly man and woman were standing right beside the cookie shelves, arguing about something. The next time Bob looked down, I skittered across the floor and got behind them.
“The flyer said Hawaiian Bread is on sale this week,” the woman said, “but I can’t tell whether it’s buns or rolls.”
“Well, I don’t like the Hawaiian Bread,” her husband replied, “and I don’t care how cheap it is.”
“There’s Hawaiian Sandwich Bread now too, you know,” the wife said crankily.
Neither one took any notice of me as I cowered behind them. Tentatively, I reached an arm around the woman, trying to grab for a box of cookies while still using the couple as camouflage. I stretched as far as I could, but it was no use. I just couldn’t get quite close enough. I’d have to actually step out from behind them into plain view to get a box, and then Bob would surely see me. I hesitated for a moment, then, defeated, I slunk away, and headed back toward my cart. Punky’s class would have to be satisfied with damn Nutter Butters.
That’s where the matter stands now.
I guess it’s a good thing I’ve sworn off carbs.
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Wow. Awkward.
Stop by the baking aisle and get white chocolate candy bark. You can dip the nutter butters in it, use tiny black mini M&Ms for eyes and voila. Ghosts. Tis the season, y’know. Bob the Baker is scary.
Okay, now what do I do about croissants?
I would never be able to set a boundary with that guy and would totally have to change grocery stores. Of course, if Bob is talking about you to other people, that might be your chance to spread some interesting (fictional?) tidbits about yourself. 😉
Ha! I have thought of changing groceries, but you know, I WAS THERE FIRST. Dang it.
You were there first, but just like that, it is now tainted. I think you need to swap for a while!
Bob the CREEPER. Do they sell restraining orders at the supermarket?
There is a sacker at one of the grocery stores here who always makes it a point to come to my line and tell me how “nice” I look today. Doesn’t matter if I’m dressed for work or making a last minute morning run in my sweats and ball cap, there he is, “You look so nice today!” Ugh. And now he knows my license plate number. Great. I avoid that market when at all possible.
Could you maybe mention it to the store manager? Hopefully the manager could tell Bob to quit socializing and following customers around without even mentioning you specifically. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have other “buddies” too!
I’m sure he has LOTS of buddies!
Bob is not a baker — I know exactly who you’re talking about, and I just got the whole spiel with the autographed picture of the band last week!
you don’t think Bob would ever google you, do you? ’cause if he found this post, talk about awkward…
It sounds like Bob has a social disorder, a form of autism. I’m no psychiatrist and since my son has high functioning autism it’s kind of my go to diagnosis, but the conversations you describe certainly seem to carry the markings. It sounds like he’s perseverating and not reading your social cues and not recognizing boundaries. If so, he can’t read your facial expression, body language or tone of voice. You’d need to tell him with actual words, “Bob, I need to go now and can’t talk anymore. Thanks.” Where that might be abrupt or offensive to many people, to an autistic person, it’s the only way they know they need to do something different and often it doesn’t hurt their feelings at all. It seems normal to them that a person would say exactly what they are thinking. Talk to him directly and politely like you would to a young child and don’t expect him to instinctively know that you want him to leave you alone and let you shop.
There’s a cashier at the self-checkout line who is especially chatty – she came over this week, took a package out of my bag of scanned items, and started discussing the ingredients. If I wanted to have a discussion with the Harris-Teeter staff, I WOULDN’T HAVE CHOSEN THE SELF-CHECKOUT LINE!