The wallet

THE WALLET

The old man with shocking white, thick hair stood in line ahead of my five year old daughter and me. The cashier rang his purchases, frozen dinners, chips, some milk, and toilet paper. My daughter watched him intensely, her eyes devoured every inch of his slightly bent figure.
She turned to me, her eyes remaining on the man, and whispered

“I thought it was Grandpop."

He did look like her grandfather in a way, but his manner was less assured, less confident. He moved slowly and with some apparent confusion as he searched through his blazer pockets, then his trousers for money to pay the bill. The cashier rolled her eyes and looked around impatiently.
        At last he extracted a wallet held together with rubber bands and patched with duct tape. Papers fell out from the broken places as the rubber band broke in his hands. Looking down, I noticed the badly worn leather shoes on his feet and the spattered trouser legs. I helped him pick up the fallout. There was a sadness in his brown eyes as they locked into mine. He thanked me and turned back to the cashier. Her face was expressionless as he counted out his last three five dollar bills and handed them to her.
        My daughter’s eyes stared at the man’s wallet as he attempted to replace and refold its battered and broken form. He gave up and thrust the disheveled papers into a side pocket. He continued to hold the wallet in his left hand, not quite sure what to do with it. It was useless for holding anything, but he slid it into his hip pocket.
        He picked up the bagged purchases and turned to shuffle away, his frame slightly bowed, into the night. We watched him leave.

“I guess he doesn’t have anyone to buy him a new wallet,” she said to me, her eyes wide and sad.

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