Let me tell you a story about an elderly gentleman named “Walter,” and why I think he buttons his shirt so elegantly before he goes to work.
Because sometimes, you have to tell a fictional story about a real person just to spark your own humanity.
That’s what happened to me while standing in a Discount Drug Mart line. If you’re not from Northeast, Ohio already here’s a simple truth: In NEOhio, Discount Drug Mart isn’t just a store – it’s an institution…
Not only will you find “everything you need,” it’s the kind of place that has stayed the same for decades – a nostalgic sanctuary where you can pick up a prescription, birdseed, bug spray, a gallon of ice cream and a sweatshirt in one trip.
My mom used to take me there as a kid, and now my daughter and I have our own version of the tradition we call “Drug Mart runs” – walking the aisles, grabbing chips and brushing past memories that feel like they’ve been sitting there waiting for us.
But something has changed over time, and it’s not the store. It’s me.
I find myself slipping into what I call a transactional mindset – in and out, task complete, moving like a machine, forgetting the human beings around me.
The day I really noticed him didn’t feel any different. I was in line, focused on the moment ending, not the one I was in. Then my daughter, who was with me, saw him.
I was floored. I asked her how she knew.
“Well, he stands tall and proud, and he seems to care and look at every person he meets,” she said. “But that’s all I know. For the rest, I made up a story about him in my head.”
Just like that, she saw something I didn’t.
When we walked back to the car, we started imagining his life together – a wife at home, maybe tending a garden during the day. A successful career he had retired from. But maybe something was missing – not money, not title. Maybe it was the meaning that work gave him day to day.
So now, in our story, he wakes up in the morning, stands tall in the mirror and buttons his shirt slowly, one button at a time – not out of habit, but with intention. Because going to work still matters. Because he cares.
Standing there, I realized I had missed it. I had been so wrapped up in my own world that I didn’t even see him.
The next time I went back, I looked for his line. I stepped up, made eye contact and said his name.
“Walter.”
We talked briefly as he carefully and efficiently bagged my items. I told him every time I see the name Walter, I think of Walter Matthau. He paused and said he had just been watching one of his movies before coming into work – one of his favorite actors.
How ironic.
That was it. He kept it moving and asked if I wanted a receipt.
Of course I did, even though I usually crumple them up without thought and throw them away.
But my connection with Walter was enough – enough to understand three things:
You don’t button your shirt like that unless there’s dignity behind it.
Drug Mart’s Walter loves Walter Matthau.
Sometimes, you have to tell a fictional story about a real person just to spark your own humanity.
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My late father’s name was Walter, so this immediately pulled me in.
There’s a certain elegance some men carry quietly through the world — not performative, not loud, just present in the way they move, speak, and care for the people around them. This story reminded me of that kind of man. I often say my father carried grace.
Beautifully written. It lingered with me long after I finished reading it.