A short pizza run was planned. After a long shift at the shop, my hands were greased, and all I wanted was a large pepperoni and my couch. But I observed an older guy at the sidewalk edge as I pulled into the lot. He tried to climb the curb outside Salerno’s with a metal cane that clinked with every step.
He was ignored as people rushed in and out with takeaway bags. Maybe shame or instinct made me stop, but I rolled down my window and asked, “You need a hand?”
He looked astonished and nodded. Smiled without speaking.
I parked, jogged, and extended my arm. He clutched it harder than intended. We proceeded slowly, and I noticed his shoes were enormous, clunky orthopedic ones with Velcro straps like my dad’s. I saw this strange vision of Dad in our kitchen trying to open a jar, becoming upset, and pretending not to.
The hostess greeted the old man like she knew him when I brought him in. “Hey, Mr. Benning, usual table?”
He laughed and said, “Not alone today.”
He looked at me and asked, “You hungry, son?”
