I was at Kmart yesterday putting away a pile of batteries that had accumulated at the service desk. (The department manager never does shit.) As I was crouching down and searching for a convenient spot to ditch a handful of double A’s, a quiet voice behind me said, “Excuse me.”

I stood up and turned around. A wizened old man wearing a green polyester John Deere jacket and worn overalls stood staring expectantly at me. He had hair growing in tufts out of his nose, and one long hair growing out of the tip. The red bottoms of his eyes drooped considerably. He was an old farmer. Good people. I liked him immediately.

“Hi,” I said, trying to sound cheerier than a restless night and a shitty job allowed for. “Can I help you?”

“Do you know how to work the picture machine?” He asked.

“Sure.”

We have a Kodak Picture Maker sitting next to the camera case. I’ve long since accepted that old people don’t want to bother with technology, so I don’t mind making a picture or two for them. They’re always nicer than any other customers I get, and usually happy with the results. It’s even a little rewarding for me to do it.

I made him an eight-by-ten copy of an old black and white photo of a couple standing in a restaurant, and three four-by-sixes of a blurry woman from an ancient sepia photograph. Surreptitiously looking closely at the couple on the Picture Maker’s screen, I realized that the well-dressed gentleman in the restaurant and the stooped old man standing next to me were one and the same.

He seemed pleased with the photos, and so was I. I realized after I finished the eight-by-ten that I should have made a few adjustments to make for a slightly better photo. Still, it looked good, and I doubted he would know the difference. I rang him up and was about to go about my business when he asked me where the underwear are.

“Oh, they’re over there in the corner.” I pointed in the direction of the underwear, but didn’t bother to walk over and show him. There’s a lot of them. They’re hard to miss.

“Well,” he said, “I’m a little new at this. I lost my wife not too long ago. What size would I need?”

Fuck, I thought. This is an old farmer. They can be really stodgy and traditional. What do I say? Do I say “I’m sorry?” Is that too personal? Would that embarrass him? Are his eyes so red from crying? Does this kindly old man sit alone in his empty house and cry because the woman he loved for forty years died last week? Dammit, what do I say?!

I stared at him dumbly what seemed like an uncomfortable length of time… I’m sure it was only a second. And least, I think that’s what it was. I hope so.

“What waist size are you?”

Dammit. The moment to be act like a normal human being is gone. Saying anything after that will just make both of us uncomfortable.

I guessed that he would probably wear mediums, and he wandered over to the general area I had indicated. I went back to work for a bit until I noticed that he was nowhere near the underwear… and looked confused.

I walked over and showed him exactly where the underwear were, and left him alone again. I know I wouldn’t like having someone standing over my shoulder while I was picking out underwear, and I assumed he wouldn’t feel any different.

I looked up after him as I did my work for the next couple minutes. He’d gone into the fat womens’ section, and didn’t seem to know what to do. He wandered around for a while longer, and eventually began walking towards the exit empty-handed.

Should I help him? Maybe he didn’t find what he was looking for. Does he even know what he’s looking for? Would it be obvious if I came up behind him and asked him if he wants help? Would he even want help? Shit…

As I watched him shuffle away, defeated, I decided not to help him any further. I felt terrible, but I didn’t know what else to do. To try to walk up behind him nonchalantly and ask if he needed anything now would be impossible. To do anything else would let him know that I had watched him try–and fail–to purchase underwear.

I just wish that I would have done something for him. I feel so guilty that I couldn’t do something so simple as get the man a pair of damned underwear.