He’s an older man who almost always wears khaki pants and light-colored dress shirts with white buttons down the front. His lips are thin, as is his hair. When he smiles, his face glows with mirth. When he doesn’t, he looks continually bored and/or unimpressed.

In his former life, he was a bartender. These days, he’s a pharmacist. He’s been dispensing drugs and information about drugs for almost as long as I’ve been alive.

Though his pharmacological expertise is impressive, this is not necessarily the primary reason why resident physicians consult with him. (Or, more accurately, this is not the primary reason why I consult with him.) He’s really good with patients. Though not taciturn, he doesn’t say that much… and when he does talk, he often reveals insightful commentary about human behavior and interactions.

He has wisdom.

We recently talked about presence.

“Someone once criticized me for not having presence,” he said. “I said, ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t like that response.”

I chuckled. This pharmacist is well known for suddenly (and silently!) appearing when needed. He often doesn’t answer pages. He just shows up. Sometimes, it’s a bit disconcerting. I think he likes that.

I paused, considering his comment. Indeed, he easily disappears in a group, though when he speaks, he commands respect. People readily shut up and listen.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” I began. “You do have presence. You just know how to turn it on and off as needed. Some people lack that skill.” My mind conjured up memories of people who blustered through a tender moment that was never theirs, anyway… and people who shrivelled underneath the spotlight, though the attention was well-deserved.

He raised his eyebrows, considering my remark. “Yes, this is true,” he replied. “Using presence appropriately is a skill.”

We were standing in the cafeteria line. He had taken a cup of coffee—half caffeinated, half decaffeinated, no cream or sugar—and what looked like a block of coffee cake. As I had not taken anything, I silently excused myself out of the queue and stepped behind a large, cylindrical post in the foyer, next to the condiments and plastic utensils.

After he had purchased his items, he strolled towards the foyer. His face was again wearing that bored/unimpressed mask, though when his eyes alighted upon me, he suddenly began to laugh. His shoulders quivered with amusement.

“Why are you laughing?” I warmly asked, smiling.

“I knew that you were behind one of the posts,” he explained. “But when I looked up and couldn’t see you, I wondered. Why I think this is so amusing, I’m not sure.” He continued to chuckle.

Still smiling, I said nothing. We walked out of the cafeteria and disappeared into the hallway.