The Young Cashier at the San Francisco Exploratorium
It was a warm summer in San Francisco back in 2016, and I had wandered into the Exploratorium by the bay. As I made my way to the register, I noticed the young cashier—tall, handsome, impeccably dressed, with a quiet, composed demeanor. I imagined he was a college student working through the summer.
He informed me that the register was down, then hesitated, pausing to look my way as if gathering courage. I realized he was deeply worried. He told me about the injustices he anticipated, of friends in danger with a voice low and steady. Despite speaking with grace and conviction, I knew he was concerned for his own safety.
I wanted to comfort him, to say something that might ease his fear. But the words I offered felt hollow, even to me. I felt guilty even before I finished my sentence; I wanted desperately to believe in my own consolation, but I couldn’t. His eyes held a quiet resignation as he paused. My words barely brushed the edges of his worry. I had nothing worthy to meet his fears.
As I left, his words echoed in my mind, a quiet refrain that wouldn’t let go. Since that day, I think of him often, that young man with so much empathy. I imagine his friends have suffered, and he too, as I have, for the same reasons. The memory stays with me, a reminder of all I wish I could have said, and of the enduring courage in his silence.