When I first
met the elderly man, he was sitting on the supermarket floor, leaning back against
the laundry detergents in the cleaning supplies aisle. Thinking he had passed
out, I bent down to shake him into consciousness. But then I noticed something
strange. He was snoring.
"Should I
call the manager?" asked an acne-faced stock boy who appeared out of
nowhere, a look of innocent inexperience in his eyes. "Or an
ambulance?"
"Wait a
minute. Let me see if I can wake him up."
The man on the
floor opened his right eye, and his left eye followed. A smile formed on his
lips. "Sorry about that," he apologized.
"I thought
you had fainted!"
"Oh, no, I
don't faint," he replied. "I just fall asleep. Help me to my
feet."
He was about
seventy, I guessed, and quite frail. He reached to the air freshener shelf for
balance as he stood up. His glasses had dropped from his face, but they were held
close to his chest by an eyeglass chain. His hair was thick, white, and wild. He
introduced himself as Martin.
"I'll be
okay," he said as he hobbled toward his shopping cart. I noticed it was
empty except for a carton of slim milk, a container of low-fat goat yoghurt, an
assortment of apples and oranges, and a large jar of dill pickles.
"Can I get
you some water? Or maybe coffee to wake you up?" I said, holding him
steady.
"Coffee
would be nice," he admitted.
We abandoned
our shopping carts, to the displeasure of the stock boy, and I led Martin to
the coffee counter at the far side of the supermarket. "Sit here," I
instructed him, pointing at a small table.
Read the rest of the story on The Bookends Review.
Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash
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