Paying it Forward
written by: Bill Tope
Seated on the sofa, Elliott stretched out his limbs and heard the joints pop. He winced. The pain was getting worse, he thought wryly, just like that damned doctor told him it would. In his youth, Elliott had never thought to frequent a neurologist or a vascular surgeon or an endocrinologist or the like. But Elliott, who turned 75 years old today, two days before Christmas, now felt like he needed all the help he could get. Saddled with diabetes, he’d undergone numerous minor digital amputations over the past decade, until last May, he’d had his whole left foot removed. He yet felt phantom pains in the severed appendage.
It had not stopped him from drinking, however, nor from eating whatever the hell he wanted. His breakfast of choice remained a glazed donut and a bottle of beer. Hell, he thought, he was old. What did he want to do, live to be 100? Philosophically, he reasoned that you got what you paid for. His self-involved reverie was interrupted by the landline jangling off the hook. He snatched it up.
“Dad?’ asked an anxious voice. Shelly, his daughter. “Dad, are you eating good?” He grunted in assent. “Not donuts and beer again, now is it?” she inquired presciently.
“Course not,” he muttered.
“Good,” said Shelly. “We’ll be over on Christmas Day. I’ll bring you a healthy casserole,” she promised. “Keep testing your blood sugar,” she told him, and went on to levy copious self-help instructions.
Elliott sighed, agreed with everything she said, thanked her, and then signed off. God, he hated her casseroles. Full of long, slimy green beans and burnt pieces of hamburger and cracker crumbs and too-salty mushroom soup and the like. Shaking off his revulsion, he decanted a gloppy portion of syrupy green cold medicine into a small plastic cup and tossed it back like a shot of tequila. He followed this up with his 7th beer of the night.
***
Elliott stood in line at checkout at the grocery store, a box of glazed donuts, two bottles of cold meds, and a case of beer on the conveyor belt before him. He watched as a young woman, with a two-year-old seated in the child’s seat of her shopping cart, checked out ahead of him. The small child, a boy, was tearing into everything within reach, ripping items from their pegs and scattering Tootsie Rolls and breath mints, and copies of The National Enquirer everywhere. The abused cashier, a teenage girl, regarded the child fretfully, but the boy’s parent seemed strangely oblivious. Elliott thought back, but could not remember Shelly having ever been such a terror.
At length, it was Elliott’s turn, and he placidly waited to be rung up. “I hafta’ get my supervisor to check out your beer,” whispered the girl, whose name tag said Katrina. “I’m just 17,” she confided.
Elliott nodded his understanding and watched as the cashier placed a call on her phone. Moments later, an unpleasant-looking female, who couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than Katrina, showed up and regarded Elliott dubiously. Elliott pushed his cart forward, nearly tripping because of his lameness.
“ID,” said the supervisor shortly, holding out her fleshy hand.
Elliott dug out his state ID and slapped it into her palm.
“This picture doesn’t look like you,” she said suspiciously.
Elliott had to check closely to see if she was yanking him. She wasn’t. He only shrugged.
She went on, “We’re not allowed to sell alcohol to shoppers who are intoxicated. We have the right to refuse,” she added importantly.
Elliott blinked. “I haven’t had anything to drink,” he said. Not since breakfast, he thought to himself. “Do I smell like I’ve been drinking?” he asked.
“I’m not getting close enough to smell you,” she said, staring at him with dead eyes. “You’re already a little stumbly,” she observed. “You haven’t had anything to drink?” she asked skeptically.
“What if I had?” he challenged her.
“If you’re intoxicated and then we sell you alcohol and you get into an automobile accident, we can be held liable. I can be held to account,” she went on. “It’s for our own protection.”
“I’ve only got one foot,” Elliott told her a little peevishly. He dragged his prosthesis into view and smacked it with his cane. The sound of wood on wood rang out.
She shook her head obstinately. “I can get into trouble,” she said.
“Get a supervisor,” he insisted.
“I am a supervisor,” she snapped.
“Then get your supervisor,” he said. “You don’t manage the whole store, do you?” he asked.
With poor grace, she picked up the phone and made the request. The woman who arrived was easily 20 years older than her predecessor and seemed imbued with equanimity and good sense. Elliott explained the situation and whipped out his ID again, and noted that it was not a driver’s license. He hadn’t driven for nearly 10 years, he told her, so what did it matter if he really was lit up when he bought his beer? He told the new woman that he travelled by door-to-door bus. She nodded her understanding, embracing the situation at once. The second supervisor, whose name tag said Sadie, apologized to Elliott and checked him out. He thanked her and was soon on his way. As he passed Customer Service, he spotted the previous supervisor, and she frowned as she watched him depart. He stuck his tongue out at her.
Outside the supermarket, Elliott found a comfortable spot and sat with his back against the wall, awaiting his bus. Most of his travel time, he reflected, was spent not riding, but rather, waiting for his rides to show up. He felt lucky that a bus was even available today, as this was Christmas Eve, and the time slots filled up rapidly during the holidays. He zoned out and was nodding off, but was jarred awake when a hand touched his own. With a start, he looked up into the dazzling blue eyes of a 20-something woman who smiled down kindly at him.
“Take this,” she offered, pushing a twenty-dollar bill into his palm.
“I don’t want your money,” he protested, handing it back.
“Take it, please,” she implored, taking a step back, but smiling still.
“But, I’m not a beggar,” Elliott said. “I’m just waiting for my bus. I’m not looking for a handout.”
She touched his hand. It felt warm. “It’s Christmas,” she said. “Just take it, please. Merry Christmas.”
Elliott felt the weight of centuries heavy on his shoulders. Although he hadn’t been soliciting a handout, he recognized the goodness of this wonderful creature and knew it would be ungracious to continue to refuse and to humiliate her. “Thank you,” he said simply, and she walked across the parking lot to her Lexus and drove happily away. Some people, he thought warmly, only wanted to give back, to service their debt to society.
***
“I can’t come over today, Dad,” said Shelly, addressing her father over the phone on Christmas morning. “Eric has the flu, and Sarah’s not feeling well either.” She sounded contrite.
“That’s alright, Shel,” replied Elliott. “It’s only one day. I hope the kids get well soon. You can pick up your presents when they’re better. I got Eric the shotgun he’s been asking for and Sarah the pregnant cat she wanted, that was right, wasn’t it?” he kidded.
“You’d better not,” she said with faux outrage.
He almost asked her how Roger was, but then remembered that his son-in-law had abandoned his family almost one year ago. This explained why Shelly couldn’t get away.
“Love you, Dad,” she said softly. Elliott sighed. The holidays were always the hardest–on everyone.
“Back at you, Baby,” he murmured, and they disconnected.
***
“Mr. Greeley?’ asked the attractive older lady standing in his doorway. She had short, platinum-colored hair and fashionable attire.
“Yes?” he replied politely. He was set to have Christmas dinner, a pizza, when he received the summons from the front door. “How can I help you?”
“I’m collecting for Jerry’s Kids,” she told him.
Jerry’s Kids? he thought. At this hour? He stared out the door behind her. It was dark.
As if reading his mind, she said, “We were under our quota, so I thought I’d do this one last block before heading back in. In fact, yours is the last house.” Elliott nodded. “Can you help Jerry’s Kids?” she asked again. “Any amount will really help.”
“Come in,” he invited, and she passed across the threshold.
“My, that smells good,” remarked the woman, inhaling the savory scent of pizza.
“You haven’t eaten?” asked Elliott.
“I’ve been collecting all afternoon,” she replied with a touch of weariness.
“Your husband will probably have a delicious meal waiting for you when you get home,” conjectured Elliott, automatically noting her wedding band.
“I’m not married,” she said. “My husband passed almost five years ago,” she said sadly.
“Sorry for your loss,” said Elliott, “My wife died around the same time.” After a moment, he asked her, “Listen, since you’re hungry and your dinner isn’t waiting for you at home, would you care to share my pie?”
She looked startled, but almost immediately accepted his invitation.
“You’re very thoughtful,” she said.
“You know my name,” said Elliott. “What’s yours?”
“Wendy,” she answered at once. “Wendy Brown.”
“Wendy Brown,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Now, if you’d said Wendy Smith, then I might not have believed you.” They both laughed.
After showing Wendy where she could wash up, Elliott pulled the pizza from the oven and hastily set the table. Wendy reappeared, and they seated themselves. “What would you like to drink?” he asked her.
“Do you have any beer?” Wendy asked hopefully.
Elliott grinned.
***
After dinner, Elliott brought Wendy into the living room, where they took a seat upon the sofa. “Do you have kids, Wendy?” he asked her.
“I had a son,” she replied, with renewed melancholy. “He died some years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking?” said Elliott. Sometimes, he thought, people wanted to talk about their departed loved ones, particularly over the holidays. It sort of instilled a new life in them.
“Edward had congenital muscular dystrophy. He lived to be 22,” said Wendy. “That’s how I began my second act, as a volunteer for Jerry’s Kids,” she explained. “I’ve taken up the cause ever since my husband Larry died. You know,” she went on, “the doctors and the hospitals and the researchers did so much for Edward that I feel I must give back, if only a little. I’ve always felt that way, really,” she said. “You know, a certain portion of one’s earnings should be returned–for posterity.”
Impressed, Elliott was also curious, and so he kindly inquired further into her son’s short life.
“He was autistic,” she said. They talked at some length. Several times, Elliott limped to the kitchen to fetch them fresh beers but, curiously, felt no need to get as hammered as he usually did. He eschewed his normal allotment of cold meds, too.
Wendy seemed not at all put off by Elliott’s disability. He spoke with love of his daughter and her children. After a couple of hours, it was revealed that Wendy, like Elliott, suffered from Type II diabetes. Inevitably, they talked about A1Cs, blood sugar levels, medications, and all the rest. She, like him, reflected on the tyranny of chronic disease. They had so much in common, Elliott thought with wonder.
With only short bathroom breaks, the two talked for what must have been many hours. Elliott generally retired by ten o’clock and so was surprised to discover that it was nearly midnight when he fetched another beer for himself and his guest. “You know, Wendy,” he remarked as he sat back down, “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you!” She smiled. She really was pretty, he thought again.
“Thank you, Elliott,” she said. “I feel the same way. Though we’ve lived quite different lives, we yet have so much in common.”
Elliott had to agree. “I’d like to see you again, if that would be alright.”
“That would be more than alright,” she said.
Elliott hadn’t kissed a woman–a mature woman–since Beth died. And, while his sex drive had abated with age, his craving for romance had not. Swamped with these emotions, he suddenly felt lightheaded, dizzy. He’d had five beers, over a six hour time span, so he wasn’t besotted on alcohol. However, it was well past his bedtime. He was pleasantly surprised when Wendy leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips.
“Elliott?” she said softly. Her voice seemed to be coming from another room, from a growing distance.
***
When Elliott finally awoke, he had a splitting headache. And he was sweaty. Low blood sugar? He wondered. Doubtful, he thought. He idly ran his hand over the sofa and was surprised to find himself still in his living room. The midmorning sun streaked boldly through the curtains. Elliott licked his lips. Cottonmouth. But when he looked around him, he was really startled. The room has been ransacked! His pride and joy, his elaborate stereo system, had been carted away, as had more than 500 vintage vinyl albums and his expensive PC array. Paintings had been stripped from the walls, and his china cabinet cleaned out. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled from room to room, where he found the same thing. Even Shelly and the kids’ Christmas presents were missing. With a frenzied rush, he ran into his bedroom, into his closet. It was gone: his Willy Mays rookie card. Elliott’s face fell. It was only then that he remembered: Wendy!
When the police arrived, he told them all he knew, which was precious little. Name of alleged perp?
Wendy Brown.
Not terribly unique, they opined.
Description? Cute woman in her early 70s, smartly dressed, regular features.
Any distinguishing characteristics?
Soft lips, he thought regretfully. How did she even get my name, by cyber-theft?
Maybe as simple as checking your postal mail box.
“Is this a common occurrence?” Elliott wanted to know.
“Happens every year this time, Mr. Greeley,” replied the detective. “When she asked for money, didn’t you request an ID?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head in shame. “She was older, so…”
“She’s probably been doing this since she was a teenager,” said the detective cynically. “You’re insured, right?”
Elliott nodded. “Some things,” he remarked, thinking of the purloined baseball card, “are irreplaceable.”
The cop began wrapping things up. “You didn’t really give us a lot to go on, Mr. Greeley,” remarked the detective. “But we’ll do what we can.” He closed his little notebook. “We’ll be in touch, sir. I’ll see myself out.” And he did.
The good-looking elderly woman pushed something through the slot of the red Salvation Army kettle and then walked swiftly away. Her silver bob shimmered in the failing sunlight. Two men, sitting on a nearby bench, rose and approached the kettle.
“Lessee what we got here, Julio,” said the man with the ring of keys.
“That lady slipped something into the kettle, and it wasn’t money,” said Julio, gesturing in the direction that the woman had gone. But she was nowhere to be found.
“Prob’ly a coupon for a burger,” said the other man lightly. “Who knows, it could be worth something.” Opening the lock, he dumped the contents into a cloth money bag, grabbing out what turned out to be a 1951 Bowman rookie card of a famous baseball player. The two men stared at the artifact.
“Hey,” said Julio, “didn’t that guy used to play for the Giants?”
- Paying it Forward - December 23, 2025
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