But what did the salamander ever do?

I'm a generally amiable person.
I rather pride myself on being able to talk to anyone about anything at anytime.

In fact, I volunteered for several years at the crisis centre in my community; I like to think that experience gives me a little bit of an edge when talking to people.

Several hours a day I used to spend listening to complete strangers reveal themselves to me over the anonymity of the phone line; they sought help and solace and occasionally (oddly) recipes for mashed potatoes.

Nonetheless.
I do on occasion find it incredibly difficult to talk to some people.

So, here's a fine example of a conversation that I was completely unprepared for.

I work infrequently with a woman of indeterminate age (though I believe her to be in her 40's), who shared with me some of the most disturbing things as I tarried away in my cubicle the other day.

"Yeah, so my mom was named really good. Her name is 'Rita E-- GLADYS B---', cus her ASS is sure GLAD whenever there's a Tom Dick or Harry around. Get it? GLAD ASS. She was whatya call the 'town pump'."

I'm sure my eyes widened considerably at the announcement, because she proceeded happily. "Oh yeah. I caught her and the Fuller Brush man goin' at it in the car out by the shed when I was 12. Yup, then I went in and told my little sister so she went out and watched. Boy, did I ever get a beating for that one!"

"Fuller Brush man...oh." I squeaked out.

"Oh yeah. But it got really good when my Dad came home smellin' of some one else's perfume...and it sure in hell wasn't mom's, 'cus she didn't were none. And covered in lipstick. And that was Christmas."

"That's too bad. What a sad Christmas for you." I looked around cautiously, wondering who else was being regaled with these tales.

"Yeah. 'course, I always got the shit beat outta me. Both mom and dad, all they ever had was fists for me. Sometimes my older brother would try and pull them off, but that's only so's he could get a couple ones in there." She stopped for a breath ~or perhaps it was for dramatic pause?
"I guess the worst was being locked in the root cellar for 10 days around that Christmas. See, they didn't want me around to have presents or nothin' so they locked me down there."

I had to presume that 'they' meant her entire family.

"All I had down there was some salamanders to watch explode."

The questioning look on my face goaded her on.

"Well, 'cus salamanders don't have any salt in them so you sprinkle them with salt and they kind of explode."

"You were killing things to pass the time?" I queried, not very kindly I will admit.

"What else was I gonna do? There weren't nothin' else to do down there."

For once I was completely at a loss for words.
Flabbergasted might be a worthy descriptor to use in this instance.

But how does one respond to such statements?
Do you engage in a long probing conversation to plumb the depths of the dysfunction? Ask searching questions to determine to extent of her trauma?

Not possible!
This was my (and her) place of employment!

Then, as quickly as she came in the room and 'shared' herself, she left again.

And I still don't know what to say! *















*Besides of course..."Why me!?!"

I don't mean to sound callous...her life sounds so sad.
But I think I'm safe in saying that I don't believe her difficult/abusive childhood needs to be shouted across an office space to a relative stranger.

No matter HOW congenial I appear!