It was the afternoon before Thanksgiving.

I was in no particular hurry, but that didn’t stop my justice molecules from starting to stir at the sight of the elderly and bewildered-looking man in front me in the checkout line at Kroger. The quick exit I had envisioned after cleverly spotting a lane with only two items on its belt was in danger of slipping away.

The items were his: a bottle of chardonnay and a copy of Time magazine. But he seemed to be fretting about the magazine, trying to decide if he truly wanted it, regretting an impulse, perhaps, or wondering if he could afford it, although he was nattily dressed, not to mention tall, ramrod straight, and good-looking.

The cashier scanned the wine, he decided against Time, and then he mumbled something about having to go back to his car because he couldn’t find his Kroger card. Oh, no, I thought. My nightmare is coming true.

No problem, said the cashier, just punch your phone number into the keypad. Clearly nervous, he tried it and messed up, tried it again and messed up. The cashier asked him to say his number and tried it for him. It still didn’t work. Maybe he gave her the wrong number.

The cashier asked me if I had a Kroger card. Of course. In fact, responsible fellow that I am, I already had it out. I’m not the sort of person who keeps other people waiting. He pulled out his credit card. Oh, no, take two. I’m thinking no one in the history of grapes has ever taken longer than this to buy a bottle of wine. I think things like that when I’m furious, even for no good reason.

But he managed the keypad this time and, with my card already out, only two items and my own bag, I was done in a dozen seconds. As I put my change in my wallet, I saw that the man was still standing by the door. He walked over to me, and as he patted me on the arm, said with a face wreathed in smiles and as much sincerity as I’ve ever heard in my life, “Thanks for helping me out.”

I felt like a bag of poop. Why do I have to keep learning this over and over? He’s just another person trying to make it through as best he can, and so is the driver in front of me going five miles per hour under the speed limit, and so is the waiter who disappeared as soon as I wanted the check.

They’re not my enemies, and I’m not in a hurry anyway, and what if I were? We’re all headed for the same place.

And then I was grateful for the lesson, even if I seem to need it entirely too often. It was almost Thanksgiving, after all.

Jeff Mortimer is a free-lance writer and editor who lives in Ann Arbor.