There’s
this man, let’s call him Edward, because that’s what his name tag says, and he
works at my Target, and I think he’s 114 years old. When I’m in a hurry or the kids are with me
and I don’t want to be trapped in the confines of a checkout with them for an
eternity, I usually avoid his line like fractions. And I’m not the only shopper with that
mentality either, because sometimes I’ll be three deep in a line and someone
will get in line behind me even though poor old Edward is standing there with a
wide open checkout. He’s a likeable guy,
but most of us moms can’t be late for carpool line because we were making a Civil
War veteran scan our Lunchables.
But
when I’m not in a rush and I’m enjoying a nice serene shopping excursion
without the kids, I always look for him.
Because one day, when we’ve established a little more of a relationship,
I want to ask him why he’s working at Target.
It’s nice to know that even someone who saw the invention of the
automobile, the airplane, the computer, and M&Ms appreciates the greatness
that is a Super Target. But he’s so old
and frail and I hate to think about him being on his feet for so many hours. And I worry that he might fall in with the
wrong crowd, like the thugs that round up the carts in the parking lot. (I’m stereotyping because of their big
diamond earrings and baggy pants belted around their thighs, but it’s safe to
say they aren’t rap stars or professional ball players, because they wouldn’t
have to return carts at Target.)
I
don’t think I’m exaggerating Edward’s age.
There are ninety year olds in my church that could definitely pass for
his children. Poor excuses for children
if they’re making him work at Target to afford his prescriptions! Not that I know that’s why he’s working
there. Maybe he just got out of prison
himself and the state secured this grocery store job for him like they did
Morgan Freeman in Shawshank Redemption.
He potentially could’ve been sentenced to life and when he
passed 110, they were like, “Okay, you win.”
I
doubt that though. He’s too nice. And, for the record, incredibly good at his
job. He’s slow, but methodical about
bagging the groceries and then telling me what’s in each one as he sets it on
the counter for me, “I slid the Rice A Roni down in here by the Honey Nut
Cheerios.”
He
can barely lift the bags sometimes and I feel awful even letting him try,
because he has bruised toothpicks for arms, but he’s old school where it’s a
man’s duty to lift things for women. So,
I let him heft the milk jug and pray that it’s not the last thing he ever does.
It
makes me sad to think that he’s most certainly a widower. Bachelors don’t tend to live past 100. And his old poker buddies have probably been
buried for decades. Again making him
vulnerable for being jumped into that Cart Returner gang.
For
whatever reason, I just really want to know why he’s working. To cure boredom or bankruptcy? Given his age, I need to get to the bottom of
it soon. I’m almost positive his answer
will be one of those two things, but what if it’s something crazy like, “I had
to get a second job because my girlfriend’s pregnant.” Or, “I’m in deep with the Russian mafia and
if I don’t come up with ten grand, they’re gonna break my legs.” In that case, I’d have to point out that a
strong wind could break his legs and maybe he should just stay home and rest.
