One day in El Cajon, I walked from my apartment to a neighborhood market on Lexington Avenue. There was a Laundromat next door.  The afternoon was quiet with little going on in the area.

Entering the store, I saw there were only two other people.  A cashier was behind the register and a boy stood by some shelves towards the back.  He was about eight years old.  Thin and gaunt, there was a hungry look in the outline of his face.  It was as if, at his age, he had already grown old and tired.  I couldn’t help but notice the boy had a look of confusion.  One of his hands was clutching three one dollar bills.

Walking away would have been easy.  I could have purchased my soda, gone back to my apartment and vegetated to watch the ballgame but there was something amiss here.  Something that wasn’t right as I realized the boy was staring at several shelves of laundry detergent.  “Laundry detergent”,   I thought and there was a Laundromat next door.  Did he need to buy laundry detergent?  And where was his mother or big sister?  Why wasn’t he told what to get and why, I thought, wasn’t the employee behind the register more attentive to what was or wasn’t going on?  The questions in my mind got the best of me.  I could pretty much figure out the situation.  The boy was trying to make a decision.  I could only guess that if he didn’t wash his clothes they would stay soiled and people would notice when he went to school.

 The boy glanced at me.  I stood a few feet away because in today’s evil world someone could walk in and question the situation.  Like an angry mother who would tell me to mind my own business.  Finally, I asked.

 “Do you need some help”?

The slight shrug of his shoulders gave me his answer.

I looked at the crumpled bills in his hand.  The bachelor in me kicked into action.

Pointing to an upper shelf I said,

“When I’m washing clothes and I can afford it, I get that brand because it has bleach.  But I keep my white t-shirts and socks separate from the colored clothes because otherwise, the colored shirts turn the white shirts pink.”

The boy looked at the price and asked,

“Just that kind?”

“No.  Sometimes I go cheaper because I need money for the washer, the dryer and the taco I get later at Alberto’s down the street.”

“So what do you do?” the boy asked.

My hand pointed to the lower shelf.  “See that clear package with the white powder and the Spanish writing”?

“Yes?”

“I get that one because it is only 99 cents and my clothes still get clean.”

The boy smiled, reached down and grabbed the clear package.

“Well, I have to go” I told him then turned and walked out of the store.  It was a hard decision.  I didn’t want to interrupt someone’s day with a lot of drama and who knows, I didn’t really know what was going on.  Nevertheless, when I left, there was a glow inside of me.  I had simply reached out and helped a young boy who in some ways, was already in the shoes of a grown man.