I let him help me out to my truck. He was a supermarket bag boy. Maybe 19. Nice kid. Reddish hair. Warm smile. He spoke with a significant speech impediment.
I could not understand what he was saying, per the impediment. The cashiers had decided, apparently, to ignore him. This had to be embarrassing, but it never stopped the kid from trying.
After he bagged my groceries, I could faintly understand him say: “Do you need help out to your car?”
As it happens, I DID need help with my groceries. Namely, because a few days ago, I went tubing on the lake with my goddaughter. For those of you who don’t know what “tubing” is, this is a full-contact water activity not meant for middle-aged men with extremely high copays.
Tubing is when you ride on an inflatable tube attached to a speedboat by a ski rope.
My goddaughter had a marvelous time tubing. So did I. Until I dismounted. Whereupon I flew off the tube at high speed and “slightly” bruised my ribs. At least that’s how the doctor put it.
“You will experience slight discomfort,” the doc said with a slight smirk.
Sleeping on my on my side has been “slightly” fun. Sneezing sends you into the Fifth Circle of Hell. Pushing a heavy shopping buggy becomes an extreme sport.
So I replied to the bagger, “A little help out to my car would be nice.”
The boy pushed my cart through the parking lot. It was a hot day in Alabama. The boy unloaded my heavy bags, sweating through his clothing, and he was talking up a blue streak.
I felt bad because I couldn’t figure out what the boy was saying, I had to keep asking him to repeat himself.
Finally the boy used all his fortitude to say the following sentence: “I know you can’t understand me, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said. “It’s not your fault you’re forced to make conversation with a banjo player. You’re doing great.”
He smiled.
I attempted to lift one bag of groceries, and the kid saw me wince in pain.
“Are you okay?” he stammered.
“Define okay,” I said.
The boy asked what had happened to me. So I told him that I had been dragged by a moving vehicle.
“Seriously?” he said.
“Sort of.”
Then he said something else. It took a full minute for him to actually say it, but it touched me deeply.
“Can I pray for you?” he asked.
I felt a little weird, letting a young supermarket employee pray for me. But he was so genuine. So I agreed.
The kid bowed his head. So did I. He said words I did not understand. The only thing I could make out was the final amen.
When he left me, I watched the young man walk into the supermarket, collecting stray carts, smiling at customers. I hopped into the truck, turned over the engine, and noticed that my ribs actually did feel a lot better.
Which means that Someone out there can understand the kid just fine.
Sean Dietrich is a columnist and novelist known for his commentary on life in the American South. He has authored nine books and is the creator of the “Sean of the South” blog and podcast. The views and opinions expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the policy or position of 1819 News. To comment, please send an email with your name and contact information to Commentary@1819News.com.
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