For some reason this moment matters

I stood by the restaurant door, leaning against the greeter's desk, and dreamily staring past the decorative retro kitsch and into the recesses of my mind.

The door banged into itself gently, sucked against its frame by a pressure change in the entryway outside. I straightened up and waited for the door to open. It was flung wide to admit an old man on crutches. He handled them well and shifted through the door before it had a chance to close and bang into his heels. 

"Hello!" I said. 

"What's the special today?" he said, smiling and approaching the desk. 

"Soup, booze, or food?" I asked. 

"Hm, food. Prime rib. I've had that before. I think that's what I'll have," he said.

I picked up a menu and specials board, intending to show him to one of my tables down the hall in the larger, main room.

"Got anything handicap accessible?" he asked. "Can I have one of these?" He indicated a booth under a window to my right. 

"Certainly," I said, and led him there. 

Meanwhile another server saw that I'd sat the guest and went to find Megan, whose section our patron had chosen. 

My guest began to talk--of food, family, politics, money, jobs, his daughters, Japan. I watched and listened. His cap said Air Force, his manner hinted at WWII veteran, and I knew he was lonely. He looked me in the eyes, appreciated my company, and didn't patronize me; he didn't tell me that he was there "for a pretty face," and he asked me for directions.

I learned that his wife died last year, his daughters live in Seattle and had just been up to visit him. From what I gathered, they'd just left earlier that day after seeing him through an appointment at UPMC. 

There was finally a lull in the conversation and I invited Megan over--she'd been hanging out by the greeter's desk, waiting for us to be done. She was peeved, but I couldn't have abandoned the man, and Megan could have come and joined us quite easily. I wished the man had been at one of my tables.

A while later I saw he was finishing up and had a bag with two take-home boxes in it. Given the crutches I knew he'd have some difficulty carrying the bag out. It would not be an insurmountable problem, but not particularly easy, either. I was overcome by uncertainty and pity. Have you ever felt like you absolutely must do something--everything is driving you to do it, and it's a good thing--but you're not sure it's appropriate, given your circumstances? That was me, wandering through the dining rooms and kitchen, wringing my hands and dogging my manager's steps. Finally I pulled myself together and asked my manager if I could carry the bag out for the old man--not knowing the policy on employees leaving the restaurant while on their shift. Doug is a very comfortable sort of manager--cheerful and encouraging, laid-back and honest. He is easy to approach.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Definitely do that," he said.

So I did. I walked with my Air Force vet out to his truck, gave him directions, and wished him good day. I watched him drive away, and then walked back into the restaurant.