I don’t suppose it’s unusual to meet a veteran except I met this veteran at the grocery store. I kept seeing him on nearby aisles and sometimes the same aisle. I noticed him in the section near the cheese and eggs, and he was eating pieces of a candy bar. I decided he was homeless, but it did appear that he had an unusually nice silky fabric handkerchief in his coat pocket. He was wearing a suit coat that didn’t match his pants and was probably two sizes too large. He seemed quite old until I got closer, and then I realized this was the oldest man I’d seen in a while. His hands were red and completely wrinkled like a prune with long fingernails, more from neglect than attempting to have long nails. He seemed to have hair everywhere, the face and scalp. But then he started talking to me.
I hardly knew whether to run or speak or ignore him or what. There’s a large part of me that is fearful of strangers even in a grocery store, especially if they appear homeless or like they don’t belong there. I wish I weren’t that way and that I could just speak to everyone, but it can be a dangerous world out there.
He begins talking to me, “I’m a veteran.” Then in quite articulate speech he begins telling me stories of who he fought with and where. My history of the various wars is limited, but it was sounding like he was in Russia. It seemed like no one from WW I would still be living so I wasn’t quite sure. I had this very quick history lesson though I couldn’t recall a thing. I was so stunned I just stood there sort of speechless. Fiinally, I said my daddy fought in WWII in Africa. He then added that my dad would have known of this and that person if he were in North Africa. So we stood there talking in front of the frozen vegetables.
He was looking for peas and carrots. “They were 88 cents last week,” he said. Finally he found them in the dollar section. We concurred that a dollar was still a little cheaper than the others for $1.49. I never did notice what all was in his grocery cart. I felt impolite in a way to look too closely to his cart or his face, yet I couldn’t help noticing his hands. They were by far the oldest hands I’ve ever seen in my life, all withered and red, like the hands of a worker, a laborer or someone who’d been exposed to the elements. It didn’t occur to me to take a picture, but now I wish I had pulled out my camera and asked him if I could take his photo. He had one of those faces and demeanors like you’d see in some photo collection of the aging.
All I could think is he’s a veteran. What can I say? I can’t stand here all night and talk to him when he told me he had so man stories to tell. So the best I could come up with is that he should write a book for all his stories, and I’d see him next time. Then as I walked off I felt sad that I was in a hurry to get away from him. I might be the only one he’d talked to in days. Then I reminded myself. It is the city, and a woman does have to be careful, even in the super market. However, I could have given him my 40 cents off coupon for frozen vegetables.
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