Ode to the Man Who Does Not Work at Goodwill

But don’t tell him that.

What about a paycheck?

He’ll say he works pro-bono, or something.

Every couple of days he arrives unannounced, and gets right to it. He puts discarded clothes from the dressing rooms back in their right places, but it takes him hours to return just a few, and sometimes he too misplaces them. He’ll scoot along to his next task, and a blue-shirted, nametag employee will loom right behind him, correcting his errors. 

He is not aware.

His attire is a permanent extension of himself: navy cotton gym shorts with a draw-string, the kind that is too informative; white cotton undershirt, the kind with sweat stains under the arms; a black fanny pack, like one weird aunts wear; white trouser socks with black beach sandals; square glasses, neon strings; maybe a hearing aid.

Someone knows his name.

Generally he is courteous and caring, asking customers “can I help you find something?” and “let me plug in that lamp, we have an outlet, you want to see if it works, five dollars is a lot and it may not work” and “how about I take that to your car for you?” Sometimes he snaps, but it is rare.

Like one time, around lunch on a Saturday, while perusing the aisles someone noticed that he was bleeding, from his head, a small deep blow. “You should go home, take care of that.”

He is not aware.

Or when his kindness is not reciprocated and he receives “you don’t work here,” “I’d rather speak to a manager,” “why don’t you go home?” And then from afar he seems either vacant or contemplative, it's hard to be sure, either way still and silent. But closer, it becomes apparent that he has tremors ranging from his feet up to eyes, and it sounds like he is breathing with only curt exhales. He is unresponsive, in a zone. 

I wonder if that's awareness.