Often in the past, I’ve voiced my opinion that we all have more in common than not. I also hear that thought commonly expressed by others. But so powerful are the forces trying to pry us apart, to tribalize us for their own greed and/or evil purpose, that I’d come to think that this is more of a hope than a fact.
Truth is, I don’t have much truck with the stereotypical Trump voter, i.e. people who I look at and immediately “know” their political persuasion. Most of my association is with those who agree with my leanings. And with those who don’t, I try to avoid broaching the topic of how horrible I feel about our current situation.
The exception is in a pub I still occasionally visit. More than a decade ago, when I was commuting to work by train, I began stopping there for a beer on my way home. In suit and tie, something of a fish out of water, I was initially ignored by the band of regulars. One fateful day at the bar I happened to be right next to a big, very loud brute when he made a political statement I simply could not ignore. We really got into it, to the amusement of all. Short story: It didn’t come to blows and we continued our disagreement in civilized fashion during succeeding visits. Over time we actually became friends, and that helped my becoming an honorary regular, a life-long appellation.
While I still have some political conversations with that bunch, I’m always heavily outnumbered. But, there’s no real animus. Early last year, another regular, a usually-quiet Ethiopian immigrant who was a math teacher there, surprised me with his vociferous enthusiasm for Trump and his immigration policies. He felt that he’d gone through a years-long process of entering legally, working menial jobs, and enduring a separation from his family before achieving citizenship and bringing them over. He didn’t think it was fair to have opened the flood gates, so he voted for Trump. Recently, in the current ICE-age rendition of those policies, he pulled me aside to whisper, “I think I made a mistake.”
Which brings me, at last, to the gas pump. At a recent fill, I noticed the person on the other side of the island. He was white, mid-to-late 20’s, quite good looking and neatly attired. Boom! It’s ruby-red Lancaster County, PA. He’s young. It’s one of those garage-kept, big-ass pick-up trucks. I know who he voted for! My stereotyping was in overdrive.
Generally, I don’t speak to people on the other side of the pumps, but this guy wanted to chat.
“How’s it going?”
“Same shit, different day,” which is my normal way of ending unwanted conversations before they start.
But he was not dissuaded, “Gas is only “$2.89 up in Brickerville,” a town about six miles to the north. The gas we were pumping was $3.09.
He’d got me with that one, as I’ve often been accused of spending more in driving to and from barely cheaper pumps than I actually save.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re not putting in four gallons like I am,” nodding toward my wife’s hybrid Rav4. “Why aren’t YOU in Brickerville?”
He laughed. “I don’t think I could have made it!”
I laughed. And that was pretty much the end of the dialog, save for a couple of “Take it easy’s.”
But as I drove away, I had that feeling I’d had so long ago when I’d finally been anointed in that pub. There’s comfort in “shooting the shit” with guys, feigning macho, telling “war stories,” and generally pissing and moaning about everything out of one’s direct control. It’s therapeutic. And in the highly-charged state of our interpersonal interactions, that kind of experience has pretty much been lost.
In my heart I knew that lily-white pick-up guy would stop to help without a thought if he’d see me struggling alongside the road with a flat tire; and he’d stop for my Ethiopian friend. I’d bet, after our brief chat, he knew I’d stop to help him, too.
Those incidents, those returns to the natural order of male interaction, have renewed my faith in our commonality– and given me a little insight into my own contribution to its loss.
©2026, David B Bucher
SoEast 