Search for a Good Samaritan.

He scratched the back of his near bald head as he seemed to scramble his brain for that last number. He exhaled loudly, drawing a blank.

“Pick the winning ones,” I offered.

“If only it were that easy!” he responded.

My ash walking stick made a loud clack against the tiles underfoot as I tried to prop it up against the neighbouring lottery stand. He kindly, quick as a flash, spun around and lifted it from the ground for me.

“Thanks a million son – if I bend down for that I might never get up again! Age is a terrible affliction, don’t you know!”

“Ah sure listen I played football last night myself and I’m creaking in places that I didn’t know I had places!”

“And why would you be aching at your young age?”

“Oh, I’m older than I look, despite the lack of growth on top!”

He smiled a broad mouth of yellowing teeth, yet his eyes were soft and luminescent. They were a deep brown colour, contrasting against his pale complexion. He was a beanpole of a young man, definitely a foot above my miniscule five foot frame.

“Jaysus I can’t remember the last number she always gets me to do! Can you believe that? We’re together twelve years and I do the same numbers for her every week – what the hell is that number?” he pondered.

“Well what numbers have you got?”

“I’ve got 2, 6, 10, 23, and 28 - but can’t remember the last one.”

“Is it a birthday, house number or special date?”

“No, it’s none of those. Jaysus what do I do now? She’ll kill me if I just throw a number in.”

“Can you give her a quick ring? Then that way she can’t blame you.”

“No, unfortunately I can’t – she’s at work.”

“Well you have to pick something. It could be lucky.”

“Jaysus I wouldn’t win an argument. It’d be like my luck to be the actual week where her numbers come up and I have one of them wrong.”

“Oh sure doesn’t everyone dread that scenario? To see your numbers come up when you haven’t had time to do them.”

“I think I saw an article in one of the Sunday papers where this guy was in hospital getting some operation done and couldn’t get out to do his lotto. And then guess what? His fecking numbers came up in the one week he didn’t do them!”

“Ah jaysus, that’d be hell. Talking of not getting a chance to do them – where is the eejit behind this counter to serve us? I’ve a bus to catch at ten to four.”

“Yeah you’re right. There hasn’t been anyone at this counter for some time.”

The large bustling post office was heaving with customers and four staff tended to them in rotation. Another couple waited in line to process their lottery tickets too. We waited another minute or two patiently.

“What time is it there son?” I asked of the young gentleman.

“Eh, it’s twenty minutes to four exactly.”

“Ah I can’t wait much longer – my bus could be early and I can’t afford to miss it. If I don’t catch it I have to wait another hour. And the cold of the evening drives my arthritis wild.”

“Yeah its mad how quickly the evenings are drawing in, isn’t it?”

“Every year passes more rapidly than the last. Make use of your youth, if I can pass on any advice to you.”

“Have you far to travel?”

“Not too far – the next town over. The bus ride takes about half an hour, depending on traffic and how often it stops.”

“Do you know - I might go up and ask them to tend to us. We’ve been waiting here for over ten minutes.”

“I genuinely can’t wait much longer son – I better go as crossing that road to my bus stop with this dodgy hip of mine will take at least five minutes.”

“Are you sure? Do you want a hand?”

“No son – I’m well able to look after myself despite my whingeing. Good luck to you – whatever number you finally decide to pick.”

“Pick a number for me then before you go? Then my wife can’t blame me if I get it wrong. I can blame you – the anonymous stranger.”

“Go for number 13. And my name is Philomena. So you can blame that doddery old woman.”

“Thanks for that Philomena. Good luck to you.”

“Good luck to you. Nice chatting to you too.”

I waddled out of the post office into the main thoroughfare of the shopping centre. People, young and old, stepped around me milling about to their destinations. Everyone seemed to be moving much faster than I. The chilly November wind assaulted my very core as the automatic glass doors opened to the street.

A police officer stood on the opposite side of the road, clapping his hands together for warmth. He smiled warmly as I took my time crossing the black and white pedestrian lines. Traffic waited for me as I scuttled across. From there it was about a hundred yards downhill to my bus stop.

The bus shelter was thronged with young men and they sat on the narrow bench, oblivious to my presence. They played on their phones, unaware of the world around them. Thank god I had my stick to keep me up. I propped my back against the window of a disused shop window for further support.

As I saw my bus approaching at the traffic lights a couple of hundred yards away, I spotted someone familiar jogging across the middle of the busy road. The bus pulled up to the stop as I recognized my friend from the post office. He held out his hand.

“Good luck to you Philomena!” he said, slightly out of breath.

I stood incredulous. What was he handing me?

“What’s this?”

“It’s my good deed for the day. You didn’t get a chance to do the lottery. You never know!”

“You didn’t have to do that!”

But he was gone before I got a chance to finish my sentence.

And that’s why I need to find that Good Samaritan.

Because I owe him half.