I first saw him half-way down the baking aisle. I was rushing back from checking the display case the meat department has up in the front of the store, making sure the sirloin filets which are on sale were still in good shape. He was standing by the sugar, as if he were looking for something. I was in a hurry. A big hurry.
My last customer had been a doozy, of the scene-making variety, the kind that leaves you somewhat doubtful as to the value of humanity in general. There had been a quite a run of doozies tonight. Believe me, I could write a book. And it’s Monday.
Mondays are one of our three weekly “truck nights,” when huge deliveries arrive right around 5:00 and must be stocked on shelves. My boss is in the practice of scheduling one person to do the work of two or three. The fewer people you have doing more work, selling more stuff, the better the department’s bottom line. I appreciate the significance of the math here, but customer service, which I enjoy providing, inevitably suffers; never mind morale. And God help you if the “Mystery Shopper,” enlisted by the company to spy out and report back whether you are doing your job correctly, shows up on a truck night during the rush, while you’re trying to assist umpteen shoppers, cut custom meat orders, break packages, fend questions, wait on folks wanting seafood, escort customers to items they can’t find, and straighten and stock the meat case with the new shipment, because you’ll get a failing grade and hear about it later. Long story short, I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off and not getting even close to enough done.
But he looked a bit bewildered.
“Can I help you find something, sir?” “No, thank you, I finally found it,” and he looked down at the five-pound sack of sugar in his little green hand basket. Next to the sugar were three navel oranges. It looked like he had selected nice ones. So I smiled and wished him a good evening and rushed to my next overdue chore.
I saw him again a few minutes later. He was back near the meat department now, green basket clutched in his hand. He was well into his 90’s and reminded me of my father. Helpless, old men always do. His hair was snow-white and his skin was thin, easily bruised, and marked with age. Hearing aides were in his ears. His clothes were old-fashioned and clean. He walked slowly, with great effort, staring up with uncertainty at the signs which somewhat cryptically indicate the offerings of each aisle. Clearly, he couldn’t find what he was looking for.
Relief showed on his face as I approached him for the second time and he smiled. He looked down at the folded slip of paper trembling in his palsied hand. At the top of it was a picture of Albert Einstein. The shaky handwriting was that of a very old woman; his wife, no doubt. I made out, “raisins (two kinds), cookies…” I didn't see sugar written there, but everything else on his list was near my department at the rear of the store. The items seemed a bit frivolous for a solitary old man to have to find in this big store, at this time of night. I felt sorry for him. “I can’t find the raisins,” he said. “I need cookies, too, but I think I know where those are,” and he motioned to the correct aisle.
I could see customers backing up at the seafood counter but he would never find the raisins if I didn’t take him to them. Seafood and the Mystery Shopper could wait.
He walked very slowly, which was as fast as he could. As we walked, we chatted. “Did you get sent to the store with a shopping list tonight, sir?” He smiled. “Yes.” Standing in front of the raisins I asked if he needed anything else. He said he would need condiments, too, but that he could find them. Condiments are on the aisle with the sugar. Poor thing, he’d have to walk back to where he’d already been. Each step is so precious for the aged and weak. I thought of Dad bent with age and pain, hobbling along on his walker the last day I saw him alive. “Well, you let me know if you need any more help finding anything. I’ll be right over there.”
I left him looking at the large selection of raisins and ran to serve the woman waiting at the seafood counter. I could see him from where I stood and watched him while I weighed up her shrimp. She demanded that each of the 30 or 40 shrimp she wanted be hand-selected. She pointed at individual shrimp as I dug through the 15 or so pounds in the case to please her. If I picked out the wrong one, she shook her head with disdain and motioned again, ordering me in broken English to put it down, pointing again at whichever particular one she wanted, each of which looked suspiciously like the one she had just dismissed as inferior.
He took a long time selecting his raisins. She took a long time selecting the shrimp. When I looked up again he was gone.
A bit later, there he was again, emerging from the cookie aisle, perpendicular to my meat case. Once more, he was staring down into his little basket. “How are you doing, sir, did you find what you needed?” “No,” he said, “you don’t have white raisins. She said white raisins.” I knew she meant the pale, golden raisins. I like those, too. “I’ll get them for you. You wait right here so you don’t have to walk all that way and I’ll be right back.”
Returning with her raisins, I looked down into his basket. It now contained oranges, Fig Newtons, and raisins (two kinds) – everything on his list - plus the sugar. “What about condiments, sir, didn’t you say you needed condiments?” “No, I don’t need any condiments. This is all I need.” He looked so tired. I gently teased him that if he was going to be such a good shopper he would always have to do it, but that maybe if he got a few things wrong she wouldn’t send him on his own anymore and would come with him to make sure it was done right. He got my joke and smiled. “Yes, I’ll have to think of that next time,” he said. I wished him a good evening and left him standing at the end of the cookie aisle.
Sometime later, I saw him again. He was across the store now, five or six aisles away, looking terribly disoriented. I was surprised to see him. By now, he’d been there at least 15 or 20 minutes that I was sure of. No telling how long it took him to find the oranges and sugar before I met him the first time. He was walking more slowly now, along the length of the back of the store, looking forward up each aisle.
I hurried to him. “I can’t seem to find the cash registers,” he said. How old and tired must one be before one can’t remember the cash registers run the length of the whole front of the store? How old and tired must one be before one can’t even find the front of the store? My heart broke for him. Such a trifling list was causing him such hardship.
“I’ll take you there.” “No, you don’t have to do that, just point me in the right direction.”
I walked slowly up the aisle past the frozen food with him. With great effort, he switched his green basket from one hand to the other. Five pounds of sugar, three oranges, a box of Fig Newtons, and two kinds of raisins had gotten very, very heavy. He protested as I took it from him and, very, very, slowly, we walked some more.
We were almost there now. By the grace of God I could see an empty register waiting directly in front of us at the busiest time of night. I thought about how much further it was for him just to get to his car, and then home. “Do you always do the shopping, sir, or does your wife sometimes come with you?” He hesitated. “My wife is in a care home.” I searched for words, but none came. I left him there, telling the cashier he would need help out to his car, and walked away, my eyes filling with tears.
Dear God! Suddenly the petty demands of rude customers seemed so ridiculous and small and far away. And my own problems, which have weighed heavily on my shoulders of late, faded into insignificance.
Lost and tired in a huge, busy store, a solitary old man had searched out the handful of simple little things his dying wife asked for. The sugar he would take home to the house where he lives by himself now. The cookies, oranges, and raisins (two kinds), he would take to her on his next visit. Gifts for his wife in a rest home. Gifts to make her few remaining days a tiny bit more pleasant. Gifts purchased at a great personal price. Gifts of love.
