I’m a pizza delivery guy. I was winding down for a much-needed early close on Mother’s Day Sunday. I was one of the only people on staff who didn’t have family plans that day — my family situation is what you might call “complicated” — so I worked all morning while we were short-staffed, and I was pretty beat.

It was especially emotionally hammering to deliver so many pizzas to happy families visiting or hosting their moms. I was ready to go home and get drunk and forget about the whole stupid holiday.

I got a late call, just a few minutes before we closed, and decided to take it because money is money and it was a pretty big order — six pies.

I loaded it up and realized about three-quarters of the way to the destination that the address was for the local senior center. The residents there used to order all the time, tip really well, and make really sweet conversation before the global health crisis, so I was psyched to see that they were safe and steady enough to order pizzas again.

I snuck them a side of breadsticks from an order I was dropping off along the way; that order was for a d****hebag who never tips and always harasses our female drivers. By the time he’d call to complain, we’d be closed. Suck on that — but not on your breadsticks.

Anyway, I digress.

I got to the senior center, glad to finish off what had been an overall really s***ty day with a pleasant trip there, and carried the food to the front desk.

The receptionist offered to carry the pizzas back, but she looked frail enough to be a resident there herself, so I said I was happy to get them where they were going.

She gave me the usual checks for [health crisis illness] and gave me a new mask, and I found my way to some event room where they’d ordered the pizzas.

And… it was a total gut punch. It was literally just a roomful of sons and daughters visiting their mothers and having some kind of festive party.

My good mood went away real quick, and I dropped the pizzas on the table and shuffled out. But… I realized that, while they’d prepaid for the pizzas over the phone with a credit card, they hadn’t tipped, so no matter how bitter I was, I had to make in-person contact with whoever had ordered the pizzas or I had basically just wasted half an hour.

I went around the room asking for the woman whose name was on the order, and eventually, someone put me in front of her.

Our shop doesn’t have a uniform or anything, so I started to explain.

Me: “Hi. [Organizer #1], right? You ordered—”

She was really frazzled, I guess running the event, so she cut me off.

Organizer #1: “Oh, good! You’re here! We were starting to wonder. I don’t think [Resident] has been matched with anyone yet. Wait right here.”

I tried to cut in and explain that I’d just delivered the pizzas and she’d mistaken me for someone else, but it went right over her head. She pushed an old woman over in a wheelchair and said, practically shouting:

Organizer #1: “[RESIDENT], THIS YOUNG MAN IS HERE JUST FOR YOU!”

Before I could try my explanation again, [Resident] replied.

Resident: “He is, is he? Well, full disclosure, son, don’t get too attached, ‘cause Jesus has my heart.”

Organizer #1: *Whispering to me* “She’s a real live wire. Have fun!”

And then [Organizer #1] — and my tip — were in the wind.

Resident: “You like bridge? I hope you brought your checkbook…”

And she started wheeling away to a table! I followed her, thinking I’d better not lose track of her until I could return her to [Organizer #1].

I spotted a woman with an ID badge who looked like she knew what she was doing — clearly another organizer — and explained that I was the pizza delivery guy but someone had left me with this old woman in my charge. I guess my explanation wasn’t clear enough. I said something like:

Me: “Hey, I was actually delivering some pizzas up here.”

Organizer #2: “You brought pizza? Aww, that’s so nice! I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”

At first, I thought, “Great, all resolved now.”

But no. She gave me a wad of cash, and [Organizer #2] also disappeared, leaving me with [Resident] and her deck of cards.

I kept looking for [Organizer #1] to return this lady to, but I also did kind of enjoy making conversation with her, and I knew no other deliveries would be coming in since we’d closed on my drive over.

I actually did like listening to [Resident] talk about the YouTube conspiracies she wholeheartedly believed, the spat she was having with the arts and crafts chaperone, and so on. She even gave me a recipe.

But I was worried that she had dementia and thought I was a family member, or that she was expecting a particular visitor and at any moment a guy would storm in and say, “What’re you doing with my aunt?” or something.

So, finally, I saw [Organizer #2] again — the one who’d given me the cash. I figured [Organizer #1] may never return, so I shouldn’t wait for her, and I pulled [Organizer #2] aside.

Me: “Look, there’s been a mix-up. I don’t really know this woman.”

The organizer seemed distracted; she was doing several things at once.

Organizer #2: *Very casually* “Oh, there’s no mix-up; the pairings were totally random. You weren’t expected to have much in common. You’ll get to know her. Don’t overthink it.”

And she receded back into the crowd while I was still saying, “No, I’m just delivering pizza.”

At that point, I seriously considered leaving because it wasn’t my fault that these people were disorganized, but [Resident] was waiting for me with this huge grin on her face to play more cards, and it didn’t look like there were any real relatives coming for her, so I figured I would stick it out for a few more games.

I was eventually able to pick up in context from eavesdropping on other “pairs” that this was not a mother-child extravaganza; it was a volunteer event for women living at the senior home without kids or whose kids couldn’t visit them.

That was a huge relief because I would’ve felt really terrible if she was a dementia patient who thought her son had come — especially because I was kind of enjoying being “mothered” by her for lack of a better term.

It felt really good to have someone asking what I was doing at work and saying they were proud of me for things that weren’t actually a big deal.

She proudly bragged to everyone we passed on our courtyard walk about this silly little employee of the week award I’d just won. It was basically a title only — you get your photo on the wall, but everyone gets it at some point and usually more than once — but she made it feel really important.

And I really secretly loved how she got outraged over minor transgressions on my behalf. I told her how my landlord was sticking it to me on repairs, and she said:

Resident: *With sincere gusto* “He’s quite the ripe hair in the tuna! I know a guy who could tune him up for you!”

I don’t think she was talking about repairs, but I didn’t follow up.

Every time I tried to extricate myself, she’d have another activity she’d want to do. Once we finished playing cards, she wanted to do arts and crafts. Once we did that, she wanted me to push her around the courtyard. Once we did that, she was “famished from the walk” and wanted pizza.

I’d fed her two slices before an orderly appeared and angrily informed me she was not supposed to eat pizza. I don’t know how she then ended up with a third slice, but I seriously did not give it to her.

Finally, the party was winding down, and she wanted me to hang out and watch a game show with her. About thirty seconds into the show, she was asleep.

I left her a coupon — even though I guess she isn’t supposed to eat pizza — and headed home.

It was kind of nice to spend Mother’s Day doing Mother’s Day-type stuff. Really nice, actually.

At this point in my life and career, if you want to call it that, I can have no wholly good memories that involve pizza. But this was pretty close.

Our coffee shop has a group of old ladies from the same retirement home who gather twice a week to chat and do some crafts like knitting. It’s cliché, but it’s true! Today, as I bring them all their mugs, I see the group making what I would describe as rustic stick figures.

Me: “Oh, not knitting anything this week?”

Old Lady: “No, we’re all making these today.”

Me: “What are you making?”

Old Lady: “Voodoo dolls.”

Me: “Uh…”

Old Lady: “One of the Black ladies in the home died a few months back. One of the racist old c***s in the care home said, ‘At least the n-word won’t be doing voodoo anymore.’”

Me: “That’s awful!”

Old Lady: “So, we’ve been making these Blair Witch stick figures and leaving them where that troll will find them. She’s found seven so far.” *To the group* “Now, don’t dawdle, ladies. We need at least another ten of these before the bus picks us up!”

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This occurred when I was in my forties, so I hoped it would give me some credibility. I visited this store numerous times a week, so I was familiar with many employees.

I was in the grocery store on a Sunday afternoon when an elderly customer started having a meltdown.

Customer: “Why are no older people working here?! 

Me: “It’s Sunday; they all work during the week. Teenagers usually work on the weekends.”

Customer: “Why are there no older people working here?!”

At this point, I fled, leaving the manager to deal with her.

It is July Fourth, and a bunch of older women (maybe mid-to-late seventies) come into the small local store, all loud and laughing.

Old Lady #1: “We need cookies!”

Old Lady #2: “Yes! The chewy ones!”

Old Lady #3: “And chips! Pringles! Once you pop, you can’t stop!”

For some reason this repeat of the ad jingle makes them all crack up. I smile too, as it’s kinda infectious.

Old Lady #4: *Putting a five-dollar bill on my counter.* “Can I open this now and eat while we shop? I… just… can’t wait!”

She is already opening the Pringles can and pouring them into her mouth.

Me: “Uh… sure, why not. It’s a holiday.”

Old Lady #4: “Yes! It’s America Day! We almost forgot!”

Old Lady #1: *Putting a pile of snacks on to my counter big enough for Smaug to hide inside.* “God Bless America!”

The hilarious old ladies giggle and make their purchases, leaving me very confused but in a good mood. Thankfully as we’re a local store I see them all leave and walk down the street to the suburban intersection (it’s common for locals to walk here).

Three days later, I am working again, and I see two of the ladies back in the store. They’re much quieter and are only buying magazines and some smokes. As they’re paying, they notice the Pringles display.

Old Lady #1: “Were… we here on July 4^th?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

Old Lady #1: “Buying snacks?”

Me: “All the snacks, ma’am.”

Old Lady #2: *To [Old Lady #1].* “I told you we didn’t imagine it!”

Old Lady #1: *To me.* “Word to the wise, young man. If your punk-a** grandson’s girlfriend brings brownies to the holiday BBQ, find out if she’s a d*** hippie before you eat two pieces!”

I can’t wait to see if they come back next year!

I’m in line at an independent grocery store in my small town when I first moved here. The lady in front of me is very elderly, buying just two small cans of cat food and a tin of baked beans. She seems a little perplexed by her surroundings but is polite enough to the girl behind the counter.

I watch her step up to the counter, the lady scans her items, and then the customer walks away! I am a bit shocked at the brazen theft, but the cashier just prints out a little receipt, puts it to one side, and waves me over.

Me: “Did… did that old lady just steal that stuff?”

Cashier: “Nope, watch this.”

A woman in her forties dashes in, puts the tins back on the counter, winks at the cashier, and darts out again. The cashier puts the items back in the go-back trolley and scribbles something on the receipt.

Cashier: “She has Alzheimer’s and forgets completely after about two minutes. She lives up the street with her daughter, and it’s good exercise for her to walk down here every day, so her daughter follows behind her, we let her shop for whatever she fancies that day, and then [Daughter] ‘just so happens’ to run into her outside the doors and offers to take her to the cafe for lunch. She’s always so excited to go to the cafe that she just never notices [Daughter] bringing the things back inside.”

Me: “I… Wow. That’s a lovely thing you guys do for them.”

Cashier: “Eh, it costs us zero dollars to let her feel a bit happy and do something normal for five minutes a day. I’ll be sad when she’s not in here every day anymore. One night, she came in here right on close in her nightie. We had to distract her for a bit so one of us could run and get [Daughter]. She was sorting shelves for us while she waited!”

A bit of faith in humanity was restored. I do see the old dear and her daughter walking back from the cafe most afternoons when I’m on my lunch break, and it always makes me smile that the girls at the grocery shop are looking out for her.