He walks in head down, he's wearing a faded green dress shirt over jeans. Maybe the shirt was once his best for work.
His hands gently place two grocery bags on the counter.
We look at each other. We're about the same age. Sixty something.
The look on his face reflects resignation, sadness.
A face called "Rock Bottom."
A first timer, he tells me. Doesn't know the drill. Should he hand me the permission slip or?
I take his paper, smile, ask him what kind of breads he would like.
"Oh anything you have."
We chat over the counter. Small talk. No probing questions.
But he wants to tell his story.
"My wife and I were living in a nice part of Montreal, planning our retirement. The money we had invested in Europe suddenly evaporated due to some crooked scheme it would take too long to explain to you."
"My wife died thirty days after hearing that news."
"I had to sell everything, move to a smaller place. Now I live above a pizza parlor, but it's better than being homeless."
"My social worker gave me the food bank address. It's the first time in my life I have had to walk in and ask for food."
I loaded him up with veggies, fruit and bread, shook his hand.
He turned to leave.
"It can happen to anyone. You think you're all set up, then boom.
You have nothing."
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