Mr Butler

I'm afraid of old people. They remind me of something I'm not very good at dealing with.

One afternoon, a couple of weeks ago, an old man was in my bookstore and was clearly having some difficulty. He was very old, and twisted and hunched over, with the over-sized features (ears, feet, hands) of a person who had lived much longer than his body was prepared for. He had an accident while he was standing in line that the supervisor on duty had to clean up.

Eventually he left, and a few hours later a customer came in to say that he was still waiting for his cab. We did not know he was out there and he had not asked for anyone in the store to call a cab for him, so I went out to talk to him. He seemed only a little confused, but he was at my mercy. He had no way of getting home and he had been out there so long that he was getting sick in the heat. He had thrown up beside the bench where he was sitting.

After getting some information from him, I called his apartment building, an independent living retirement building, then a cab to pick him up. When I went back outside I brought a cup of water for him. Although he did not want to come back into the store, he thanked me for the water. When the cab arrived some fifteen minutes later, I helped him in.

After he left I called the receptionist at his building again to say he was on his way, and told them he seemed sick, so they would be aware of his condition in case there was a need to call a doctor.

Ever since then, I thought that I should call the receptionist again to find out if Mr Butler was alright, but I haven't had the nerve. I had done my duty. If anything bad happened to him, I did not want to know. I'm afraid of death. He was a really nice old man. I can't think of his mortality.

I don't want to know if Mr Butler died. With this one aspect of life, I prefer to bury my head in the sand. And if I never call, he is always alive no matter how much time passes.