Saturday night, and I’d decided a sandwich would suffice for supper. The place I favored with my patronage was rather quiet for that time and location, which I could see suited the young man behind the counter just fine. He seemed new to the job, and a little overwhelmed by the cash register he was responsible for working.
He looked up at me like I was holding a gun. In his eyes were all the ways he could mess this up.
I placed my order, trying not to make it any more complicated than necessary. He asked me to repeat the first part. Then the second. Then the rest. Then the whole thing again.
As he pushed the keys on the cash register, a drop of perspiration popped up on his forehead, sliding down his nose. Like one wrong number, and the whole shop would explode.
He hit the wrong number. The register stopped registering. A frantic look swept over his face. His manager stepped up behind him, quietly made a suggestion, then another, then reached around to push one of the keys himself. The young man winced, too new to realize how patient the manager was being.
Numbers popped up. The drawer slid open. The manager backed away. I handed the young man my money. He tried to keep it smooth as he counted out the bills and handed me my change.
“You’re doing great,” I told him. “Better than you think.”
He looked up at me like I was the governor, canceling his execution.
A few hours earlier, a few miles away, I’d pulled up in front of an ice cream shop. I swung out of my car and hurried for the low steps leading into the building. Nearby, a young woman was edging along beside an elderly man, stepping tentatively across the blazing asphalt of the parking lot at about the speed of a dying turtle.
My eyes caught sight of his calves, both incredibly swollen – half as big around as my waist. You don’t see a lot of calves like that.
I hurried on, hurried in, and slowly bought my quart of chocolate chip from a teenager as new to the cash register as the young man I’d meet later. She, like him, was blessed with a helpful and easy-going manager, a pert young lady barely older than herself.
I came back out, darting down the steps. The young woman was still keeping step with the old man, a forlorn look sagging her face. They’d moved barely a foot since I went in. His eyes were locked on the ground in front of him, as if each step was an excruciating struggle.
I said something polite, going by. Hopping in the car, I set the air conditioner vents to blow on my ice cream, swung back out of the parking space, and paused, parallel to the two of them. They looked like a DVD someone had paused with the remote.
The young woman glanced over apologetically, afraid she was in my way. I hesitated, then rolled down the car window.
“Y’all okay?” I called. “Can I help you?”
She looked over, shrugging. The old man’s foot slid another slow half-inch forward.
I re-parked and walked over. “Can I help you?” I asked again.
Turned out, she wasn’t related to the man at all. She had seen him making his achingly slow way across the lot, left her two children in her car with the AC running, and stepped out to help him. That was 15 minutes earlier. Now, she kept glancing back toward the car and the kids, trapped awkwardly between the duties of motherhood and her own act of kindness.
The shop offered the nearest shade, but the old man couldn’t climb the steps. He could perhaps manage a lower part of the curb, but it was half-an-hour away, at the rate he was going. Sweat poured off all of us; the blazing sun seemed to be leaning down for a closer look at the situation.
I went back in to ask for some water. The manager followed me out. She leaned close to the man to ask his name, how he was feeling, if he wanted to sit down. She had a warm, natural way about her; she had done this before. The other young woman stepped back; I brought over a chair from the shop’s patio.
It took us 10 minutes under the blistering sun to get the man into the chair. The manager turned out to be a medical student; she took his blood pressure and pulse. He murmured faint answers to her questions – even leaning in close, it was hard to make out what he was saying.
The first young woman stood over him now, blocking the sun with her back. She wiped perspiration from her forehead and smiled at her children, waving from the front seat of the air-conditioned car.
“Should I call the paramedics?” the manager asked. She ran back inside and came out with a scoop of vanilla in a cup. He couldn’t hold it. I thought of my chocolate chip soup, cooking in the car.
The young woman kept her shadow over him. The manager squatted down so the old man could see her smile of encouragement. She spoke gently and cheerfully to him. We all baked.
A teenage boy ran up. “Want me to lift him?” he offered, excited. “My brother 'll help.” We were still weighing that offer when a siren began to wail in the distance. A couple of minutes later, we all stepped aside to let the broad-shouldered firemen take charge.
The young woman slipped over into the merciful shade of the patio. I followed her.
“Thank you,” I said, “for doing this.” She looked at me with the same astonishment I’d be seeing in the sandwich clerk’s eyes, a few hours later. I smiled and left.
An hour later, I called the shop and asked for the manager. She told me the paramedics had taken the man to a nearby hospital. They’d been able to get hold of family, who followed them there. All he'd wanted, he said, was some ice cream.
She told me this in the same cheerful voice she’d used with the man. When she paused, I thanked her, too. Told her she was going to be good at medicine. She seemed taken aback. There was a kind of daze in her voice as she said goodbye.
Earlier that morning, I’d taken our dog Archie for a walk. We came upon an older woman, mowing her front yard. She immediately cut off the mower and called cheerily to us. Archie roared back at her. (We’re still fine-tuning his social graces.)
She scurried into her garage and returned with two dog treats, which he sniffed with wary suspicion. She squatted down to offer them more personably. He growled. She dropped them on the ground, and he instantly gobbled them up. A moment later, he sprang into her arms, astonishing us both as he licked her face thoroughly in appreciation.
She stood up, laughing. But her eyes, I saw, blinked wet and bright in the morning sun.
Hardly anyone says "thank you," anymore.
These are the things that I seek to be a part of every day. I want to make someone's day better. I want them to know that someone cares. Anytime I get that opportunity, I can't deny that it gives me a sense of satisfaction, possibly taking away from the good deed in itself. Hopefully, they received more of a blessing than I. Thank you for your kindness to others. For noticing people and what may be going on behind the scenes. As I said before in class, sometimes a simple acknowledgment can make such a difference for someone.