"A Good Afternoon"

The 80’ish woman stands in front of the food court deli counter. An army of frantic Macy’s shoppers and lunch-breakers swirl in, around, above and below the short, thin woman as she struggles to make contact with the sandwich-makers. The servers can’t see her because of the way the glass and metal platform is built. It’s high and she’s short – a bad mix. I sip my coffee while I watch customers bump the woman as they swoop in to order and then dash away with their food.

As the crowd churns around her, the woman chooses a different strategy, first shuffling to her right, then a bit to her left, like a slow-motion prize fighter. She tries to find a way “in” by using a kind of bob n’ weave technique. Sandwiches, salads and money frantically exchange hands above her as she continues to be boxed out of the action.

When the latest approach fails, the woman drops her bags, one of them falling over – its contents spilling out onto the dark tile floor. Slowly, she stoops over, bends down to repack the bag and then straightens back up in front of the counter, hands on hips, shaking her head from side to side. The woman lowers her head and puffs out a deep hard breath. She’s out of moves.

Lifting her head again, the woman glances over to her right and notices me at the table with my coffee and paper. She re-positions her paisley scarf on her shoulder and smiles.

“Need help?” I ask, returning the smile.

“Well, apparently I do,” she chuckles as she raises her arms in a “what’s-a-person-to-do?” kind of way.

I push my cup to the side, stand and move forward, gently taking hold of the woman’s arm as I lead her closer to the counter. The two of us clear a pathway together as we ask a few people to please move aside. At first, the customers seem flustered, as though someone’s startled them out from a deep sleep or dream. But once the crowd sees what we’re up to, their warm smiles and good manners blossom as they create a small opening in front of the counter.

“This pretty lady wants to order lunch, too,” I tell the young sandwich maker as I point down to the woman. Something tugs at my shirt sleeve.

“By the way,” the woman smiles. “The name’s Muriel.”

I smile back, then rephrase the request.

“Excuse me, please. Muriel wants to order her lunch now.” I turn and wink at Muriel as she gives me a big thumbs up.

The young server stands on his toes and leans forward to glance over the counter’s edge; his hands press down on the glass top to help his lift. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. Didn’t see you. It’s just that this thing’s so damn high,” he taps on the glass as he shrugs his shoulders and wipes his hands on his white apron. “Happens all the time.”

“Lean, with not too much mustard,” Muriel orders her roast beef sandwich just the way she likes it, pointing her finger toward the young man like a veteran director. “And some pickles on the side, too, please. That would be nice. Half sours, thank you.”

Muriel turns and this time winks at me.

Two minutes later, as the sandwich man finishes her order, Muriel reaches up and corrals the brown lunch sack in both hands. Then, she scoops up her other bags and slowly reaches out for my hand, which she holds warmly for a moment just before she smiles, turns and walks away with the newest addition to her day’s bounty.

And in that moment two people were feeling happy, I’m pretty sure about that. Muriel – armed with her lean roast beef sandwich and the recent memory of a stranger’s help. And me – aware that I had just played a role in connecting Muriel with that day’s lunch, simply because I slowed myself down long enough to notice her.

It was a good afternoon.