Diapers
The suburban grocery store was supposed to represent a new chapter in Matt’s life, though at first glance it mostly represented a larger parking lot.
This was the dream now: wide aisles, reasonable taxes depending on who you asked, and the illusion that everyone nearby had both a lawn mower and emotional stability. After 5 years in the city, Matt and his wife Jamie had fled to the suburbs with their son Charlie in search of something quieter. Cleaner. Safer. Maybe a parking spot. A place where people didn’t scream outside at 2 a.m. about cryptocurrency or lose arguments with invisible enemies near the SEPTA station.
In the city, encounters with unstable strangers had become so routine they barely registered anymore. A man once followed Matt three blocks explaining that birds aren’t real. Something that started to make sense after a block or tow. Another woman screamed “YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID” directly into their stroller before wandering into traffic holding a baguette like a weapon.
That was all in the past now, or so he thought.
Matt pushed the cart slowly through the supermarket produce section while Charlie sat in the child seat eating a pouch that claimed to contain spinach, mango, and chia but smelled like wet leaves. Charlie was a year and a half old and looked like the kind of child featured in expensive parenting blogs. He had shaggy golden curls, enormous blue eyes, and the cheerful disposition of someone who had never once paid taxes or heard the president speak.
Strangers loved him immediately, which Matt found both flattering and exhausting.
“Oh wow,” women in checkout lines would say. “He looks like a little surfer!”
Today Charlie wore a tiny fleece jacket and rain boots despite the weather being completely dry. Jamie dressed him the way wealthy New England grandparents imagine children should look while feeding ducks. Why are his sweaters so chunky?
Matt himself looked exactly like the kind of father who owned a standing desk and knew several ways to prepare lentils. Tall, thin, permanently under-rested, dressed head-to-toe in earth tones. A Patagonia jacket. Running shoes. He is a walking stereotype, and he knew it.
He pushed the cart toward the never ending soap aisle while quietly humming an old pop-punk song to himself, the kind involving emotionally unavailable teen boys who need to escape their “shithole tow”.
Then the old man appeared.
Not dramatically. He didn’t emerge from the shadows or approach with menace. He simply materialized beside the yogurt section the way older men often do, like they’ve mastered low-level teleportation.
“Cute little guy,” the man said.
He was elderly, maybe late seventies, maybe eighty. Poverty makes age hard to determine limped towards Matt. His beard came in uneven gray patches, and his coat looked like it had survived several administrations. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and more wet leaves.
Charlie immediately smiled at him because Charlie smiled at everyone. Charlie would probably smile at a burglar halfway through a robbery and offer them some of his juicebox.
“Can you say hi?” Matt asked automatically.
Charlie waved his sticky pouch hand proudly.
The old man grinned. “That’s a happy boy.”
“Usually,” Matt said.
The man nodded slowly, staying beside the cart now.
Matt felt it immediately. That familiar tightening in his shoulders. The microscopic internal alarm bell city people develop over time. It’s impossible to explain to suburban natives, this instinct. You can spend years learning how to avoid eye contact on public transportation only to discover your body never fully powers down afterward.
“You got your hands full,” the man said.
“Yeah,” Matt replied politely, already beginning to angle the cart away.
Then came the pivot.
“Well listen,” the man said quietly. “I hate to ask you this…”
And - there it was.
Matt felt his soul leave his body briefly and hover a few aisles over by the popcorn.
Of course this was happening. It’s like his face invites it. Too friendly and inviting. Must work on being meaner looking.
Because apparently no matter where he moved—city, suburb, wilderness cabin—God would always locate him specifically for these interactions.
The man gestured vaguely toward the pharmacy section.
“I need some help buying diapers.”
Matt blinked.
Not baby diapers. Adult diapers.
There was a pause long enough for Matt to wonder if perhaps he’d misheard him. Maybe he said “pliers.” Or “spirits.” Or literally anything else.
“I’m sorry?” Matt asked.
“Adult diapers,” the man repeated gently. “I’m short a few bucks.”
Matt stared at him.
Then, involuntarily, he looked around the supermarket.
Not subtly either. Fully looking around.
Like: Is anyone else seeing this?
Am I on a hidden camera show?
A man just walked up to me while I’m buying organic yogurt tubes, and a brick of mild cheddar, and asked me to help purchase adult diapers like this is a completely standard suburban interaction.
Nearby, a woman examined avocados with the detached calm of someone absolutely refusing to get involved. A teenage employee stocked oat milk while visibly dissociating.
No one cared.
Matt suddenly had the overwhelming sensation that he might actually be the crazy one.
The old man maintained kind eye contact, which somehow made it harder.
“I just need a little help,” he said.
Matt felt Charlie bouncing happily in the cart behind him.
“Da-da-da-da!”
Great. His son was providing background music now.
Matt had always imagined himself as a compassionate person. He donated money when he could and gave blood once a year. He recycled aggressively. He once listened to an NPR story about prison reform while crying in traffic.
But there was also another part of him. A darker, more exhausted part forged by fifteen years in the city. A part that had been lied to approximately ten thousand times.
He remembered the woman who claimed she needed train fare and then screamed at him for not giving enough. The guy outside Wawa who asked for food and rejected a sandwich because he “didn’t eat turkey.” The man who swore he needed money for insulin while actively holding a Monster Energy drink and a lottery ticket.
And now here he was again.
In the suburbs.
Near artisanal cheese.
Being emotionally cornered into discussing adult diapers.
Matt forced a polite smile that probably looked medically concerning.
“I, uh…”
The old man nodded sympathetically, as if understanding Matt’s hesitation completely.
“They’re expensive,” he said.
“Yes,” Matt replied automatically, despite having absolutely no idea what adult diapers cost.
Charlie pointed at the man excitedly.
“Hi!”
The old man laughed warmly. “He’s friendly.”
“Too friendly,” Matt muttered.
Matt could feel himself beginning the internal spiral now.
Why does this always happen to me?
Jamie never gets approached like this.
No one walks up to Jamie asking for diaper subsidies.
Something about Matt apparently radiated: This man will feel guilty for hours.
Maybe it was the puffer vest. Maybe homeless people can smell empathy the way sharks smell blood.
The old man gestured toward the pharmacy aisle again.
“Would you mind?”
Matt looked at Charlie.
Charlie smiled blissfully, unaware his father was in the middle of a moral hostage negotiation.
And honestly, Matt did feel bad.
The guy looked rough. Tired. Embarrassed even. There was no aggression in him, none of the frantic edge Matt associated with these encounters in the city. Just sadness and exhaustion.
“Okay,” Matt heard himself saying quietly.
The old man’s face brightened instantly.
And immediately Matt regretted it.
Not because of the money necessarily. Because now he was involved. Now this had become A Situation.
They walked together toward the pharmacy aisle like two divorced dads on a miserable field trip.
Charlie babbled happily the entire time.
The old man picked out a package carefully, almost reverently.
“These’ll work,” he said.
Matt glanced at the price and physically winced.
Jesus Christ.
Were they lined with gold?
For a brief moment he considered whether aging itself was financially sustainable.
Then, just as Matt prepared to sigh dramatically and accept his fate, the old man stopped.
He patted his coat pocket.
Then another pocket.
Then the inside pocket.
“Oh wait,” he said suddenly.
Matt watched as the man pulled out a crumpled wad of bills.
Not one or two dollars either. Enough money to buy the diapers himself.
The old man looked genuinely surprised.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said cheerfully.
Matt stared at the cash.
There it was.
That feeling.
That immediate, familiar hardening.
Of course.
Of course you had the money.
The old man smiled sheepishly. “Guess I had it on me after all.”
Matt nodded slowly while every cynical instinct in his body stood up and began applauding.
This. This right here. This is why I’m like this.
Because every time you try to be decent, someone turns it into a weird little scam wrapped in politeness.
And the worst part was the old man didn’t even seem malicious. That somehow made it more irritating. He looked genuinely relieved.
“Well,” the man said. “Thanks anyway.”
Then he shuffled off toward the register holding the diapers. No limp. Walking totally fine on his own.
Just like that.
Matt stood frozen beside the pharmacy shelves while Charlie kicked his legs happily.
A nearby woman reached past him for toothpaste as though nothing extraordinary had happened.
And maybe nothing had.
Maybe this was just modern American life now. Everyone wandering around exhausted and suspicious, trying to determine whether compassion was worth the risk of feeling stupid afterward.
Charlie tugged on Matt’s sleeve.
“NANA?” (Charlie for BANANA.)
Matt exhaled slowly.
“Yeah buddy,” he muttered. “I could use one too.”