I Am Verbosaurus Rex

At exactly 8:00 a.m.—as reliably as a Swiss watch with a Costco membership—I entered my Torrance Trader Joe’s, continuing a ritual that has endured since 2005. Fifteen minutes in, I found myself in the pasta sauce aisle beside two sisters in their sixties, both with jet-black hair and the alert posture of women who have seen things. Then it came: a disturbance from the frozen food aisle.

At first, I told myself it was the usual retail banter—clerks sparring, voices raised in mock aggression, the choreography of workplace camaraderie. That illusion lasted about three seconds. The tone sharpened. The volume climbed. This was no jovial joust. This was a kerfuffle in its purest, most unrefined form—the kind of word baseball announcers used when fists replaced fastballs.

The dialogue, once decipherable, repeated itself with the stubborn clarity of a broken record:
“Stop coughing on the food.”
“Mind your own business.”

Again.
“Stop coughing on the food.”
“Mind your own business.”

The sisters and I exchanged a look of shared alarm—the silent agreement that this was not the sort of morning theater one expects while contemplating marinara. Around us, employees formed small, murmuring clusters, like villagers sensing a storm that rarely visits their town.

I never saw the alleged cougher—the phantom menace—but I did see his accuser. He entered our aisle still simmering, muttering fragments of outrage like a man replaying his own highlight reel. He was a bodybuilder in his late twenties, performing that unmistakable gait: the lat-spread strut, shoulders flared as if perpetually stepping onstage. He carried a bag in each hand like ceremonial weights. Gray sweatpants. Turquoise T-shirt emblazoned with the word “Strong,” as if to remove all ambiguity.

The shirt was soaked through, suggesting a recent campaign at the nearby UFC gym. He had not yet exited warrior mode. His face attempted a look of righteous fury, but it flickered—betrayed by the faintest hint of self-awareness. The room was not applauding. It was recoiling. The performance of dominance had misfired, and in its place lingered something less heroic: the spectacle of a man who had mistaken volume for authority and muscle for gravitas.

For a moment, I caught a trace of chagrin in his expression, like a balloon losing air in slow motion. Still, he clung to a hardened stare, perhaps hoping to salvage dignity from the wreckage.

As for me, I became invisible. I adopted the ancient survival tactic of the grocery store: benign neutrality. Eyes forward. No recognition. No acknowledgment. The last thing I needed was to be drafted into this man’s private war.

At checkout, as the affable clerk scanned my items with the serenity of someone blissfully unaware of the morning’s drama, I felt the urge to recount the scene. It had all the ingredients of a fine anecdote—conflict, absurdity, a man yelling about respiratory etiquette in the frozen aisle. But I hesitated. The bodybuilder might still be somewhere in the store, prowling, listening, ready to defend his honor against anyone who dared narrate it.

Perhaps next week, I’ll tell the story. Though by then, in a place like Trader Joe’s, the tale will have already spread—whispered from aisle to aisle, passed between cashiers, and filed away as one of those rare moments when civility briefly cracked, and the frozen peas bore witness.

My opportunity to tell the story would be wasted because it would be old gossip by then. 

I walked out of Trader Joe’s pushing ten canvas sacks of groceries and a quiet resentment: I was not the man who got to tell the story of the raging bodybuilder. That distinction had slipped through my fingers, and the loss exposed something less flattering than disappointment. It exposed me as a gasbag—a man who doesn’t merely enter a room but attempts to annex it, to colonize the airspace with stories, gossip, and one-man comedy routines delivered with the full-body enthusiasm of a failed vaudevillian.

I don’t just want to tell a story. I want to stage it. I want gestures, timing, voice modulation—the whole theatrical apparatus. I want to leave scorch marks on the memory of my audience, to become, if only for a moment, the most vivid thing that has ever happened to them. Not a storyteller, but an event. Not a man, but a headline.

Which is to say: I am Verbosaurus Rex. I am a  conversational apex predator that survives by devouring silence and leaving behind a trail of exhausted listeners. I do not speak so much as expand, inflating every passing thought into a full-bodied monologue with the confidence of a man who believes the room has been waiting all day for my commentary. Questions are merely launchpads, pauses are tactical errors, and other people’s sentences are polite suggestions to be overrun. The Verbosaur, such as myself, does not intend harm; I simply cannot imagine a world in which less of me would be an improvement.

And that impulse, when examined in sober light, looks less like charisma and more like hunger. Primitive man told stories around the fire to make sense of the world and to warn others about the tiger in the tall grass. I, on the other hand, seem to be reenacting Barnum & Bailey in the produce aisle, hoping that if I juggle enough words and land enough laughs, I might briefly convince myself that I matter.

As a Verbosaur, I resemble the great, haunted figure of Larry Sanders—the talk show host who, after basking in the glow of studio applause, goes home to watch himself on television, scanning his own performance for proof that he was enough, and finding, with grim consistency, that he was not.