A few weeks ago I took my grandson to Burger King for some veggie burgers and fries. Normally, I would use the drive-through window, but I had some time to kill and I didn’t want the smell of fast food in my car, so I decided to park and go in.
It was distressing to me to find myself giving our order to a woman who had to be in her eighties. She was frail, thin, pasty white with skin that looked like it was made from tissue paper. Her arms were blotted with age spots, both red and brown, and her eyes were a rheumy grey. I felt terrible for her. But I wasn’t inclined to ruin my little outing with Alexander by feeling sorry for the woman at he counter, so I decided to believe that she was there because she wanted to be there. She was bored, lonely, and friendless, I convinced myself. Maybe she felt abandoned, so she took a job where she could be around people. Maybe it had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she needed to work just to make ends meet. Maybe she was just fine, financially. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Later that same day I fell and broke my arm and forgot all about the little old lady at the Burger King.
But then, yesterday, I was driving same grandkid to school early in the morning and was stopped by a Mexican guy holding a stop sign. There was construction underway on the road, and traffic was being stopped alternatively in both directions. There is nothing unusual about that. But it’s difficult not to feel a pain of compassion and sympathy for a man who has to stand outside in the brutal Florida heat while the sun beats down on him. I always wonder how they can withstand it. I know I would pass out within ten minutes. I contemplated all of this while waiting for him to turn the sign and allow us to pass. When he finally did, I was stunned to see the “flagman” on the other side of the line of cars. There, holding the stop/slow sign was a chubby little grandmother, who couldn’t have been less than sixty-five years old, standing out in the hot Florida sun. She was tiny, plump and had grey hair. Her face was wrinkled and beet red, and her orthopedic shoes looked to be tight and uncomfortable. She was standing next to a pick-up truck that held a large cooler in the bed. She had set up a beach umbrella for herself, and a small chair. Though she was unable to sit in the chair for more than a few seconds before jumping up to allow cars to go by. She was drinking bottled water and sweating like racehorse. I thought about the woman at the Burger King, and found myself wondering again; what circumstances had brought a stranger to this unfortunate, unkind situation.
Have we as a society sunk so very low as to make it necessary for our elderly to take these menial jobs just so that they can afford their medicines? When we think of people making the choice between meds and foods, are these the people to whom we are referring? I can’t help but wonder what their children must think, if, indeed, they have any. As for me, I know I spend every moment I can getting to know my three grandkids. I never knew mine and I know I will die one day and I want my grandchildren to know I was here. Do these women have grandchildren, or even great grandchildren, that they would prefer to spend this time with?
I don’t know why these scenes bothered me so much, but they do. Perhaps I identify with these unfortunate women: there but for the grace of God go I. I would be mortified if someone that I knew, a colleague of my husbands’ perhaps, a fan of one of my books or an acquaintance from my vegetarian group were to see me taking orders at a Burger King or standing on the hot pavement holding a stop sign. Would my pride allow me to do such things or would I have to find a way off this planet if I were ever to find myself in such dire straights.
“They’ say that it can’t happen to the likes of me. I have children who will care for me in my old age, I have a lifetime of Social Security in my “bank”. But when little old ladies are taking jobs from teenagers and illegal aliens, well, it’s time for us to take a good, hard look at our values as a country. It’s time to make a change. And once again, I challenge those who don’t think about these things: If you are not outraged, you are not paying attention.
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