The old man was in Walmart. He was wearing pajama bottoms and an Eagles T-shirt. The band, not the football team.

He also wore slippers. I knew they were slippers because they were fuzzy and white. Ballcap, crumpled and stained with sweat and grime. He hadn’t shaved in a while. Gray stubble covered his cheeks and chin.

There were tattoos on his forearms. Not the new kind of fancy tats, multi-colored and expensive. These were a few grades below battleship tattoos. Crudely done. Almost like the inkwork inmates give themselves with guitar wire and BIC pens.

He wore an oxygen tank, contained in a fanny pack, strapped around his waist. A rubber cannula snaked from his pack, securely set beneath his nose.

The old man checked out at the self-checkout kiosk. He loaded his own plastic bags. The machine spit out his receipt. He grasped his aluminum cane and began shuffling toward the door to present his receipt to the receipt checker.

Consequently, I remember the days before receipt checkers. I remember the days before self-checkout kiosks, too. In fact, I remember a time, boys and girls, when—hard as this is to believe—you walked into a store and there was an ACTUAL person behind an ACTUAL cash register, who, after they rang you up, ACTUALLY told you to have a “blessed day.”

Those days are gone.

The old man, unsteady on his feet, walked toward the door. I was afraid he was going to fall. By the time he reached the receipt checker, he was teetering badly, on the brink of collapse.

He fell into the Walmart employee, holding the employee’s shoulders for support.

“God, I’m sorry,” the man said to the employee. “I’m so sorry.”

The receipt checker looked like a manager of some sort. Maybe even a high-level guy, stuck working the door. He was well dressed. Pressed khakis, button-down shirt. Nice shoes. He probably smelled good, too.

The old man leaned on Walmart Guy, having a hard time catching his breath.

“You okay?” asked Walmart.

“Just got out of the hospital yesterday,” the old man explained. “It’s been so hard on my own. I got nobody.”

Walmart Guy wrapped an arm around the man. “Do you need help out to your car, sir?”

The old man looked like he was about to either cry or vomit. Or both. “I’m embarrassed,” he said.

Walmart Guy took the man by the arm. Together they shuffled through the parking lot. The old man leaned on him heavily. The employee put the man in his truck. Shut the door.

And on my way into the parking lot, I passed Walmart Guy, on his way inside.

The guy just looked at me and said with a smile, “Have a blessed day, sir.”