i have a pound of muscovado brown

the guy that drops off the delivery at trader joe's is tommy.

i usually just say, "what's up?" and not pay attention to his answer. i didn't really like him.
tommy always comes in and complains about the weird music we play (which, in his defense, we play wierd shit). he complains about the food we usually have out to snack on. "what is this fruity natural crap?" is his usual saying. especially about anything that says "yogurt" on the label (but he really likes the cookies. he's got a soft spot for the pecan sandies). he always goes rooting through the registers for new state quarters. for the past couple months, the guy has kind of been on my nerves. i pretty much ignore him when he comes in at 4am. i just thought he was a bitter old man.

but the other day, i went into the back room to toss out some cardboard, and i found him sitting on a box waiting for the morning guy to finish checking in the pallets. his expression is what made me pause.

he just looked old.
a tired, worn out man waiting for when he could go home--go home for good--and spend time with whatever family he has (if he even has any). he was just sitting there. tired. worn out.
what was keeping me from being like him in 40 years? an old man with a limp driving trucks during the middle of the night? what were his hopes and dreams when he was my age? is this what he had wanted when he started off in the world? and, if not, where did he go wrong? how could i avoid that same fate?

i was taken aback by how strongly i empathized with tommy that night. he just wasn't that kooky old man that i needed to avoid for an hour every morning. he was a real person that deserved as much compassion as my best friends did.

now i greet him with an ethusiastic "good morning, tommy! how's it today?"
and i make sure to care about his answer.