Tank You Sir
That call was for me. Drop the juice cartons. Get up front.
There an east Indian man with a black plastic carry tote full of groceries waited for help.
Left eye squinting. Posture hunched. Voice devastated to a gravel-like tone. Left arm curled up in atrophy.
"Tank you Sir for this help. Just can't get the left arm to work anymore."
Off we went to the parked pick-up truck outside. He proceeded to tell me about his decades of service for a Kitchener man who ran a busy foods warehouse. "I worked for him like a dog, but no matter. Hundreds of bags of rice here...hundreds of cartons of corned beef there. He was like a God to me. Helped me with all my immigration concerns years ago. And now here I am, pretty much busted up."
I just let the man talk. He was delighted with the attention and small show of respect. We shared a couple of laughs, and then "Tank you Sir. God bless you Sir."
Back into the store. A nice part of the job.