Tank You Sir

"Grocery personnel. Till Six. Customer carry-out."

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.


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