I have a strange job. I roam around businesses and look for ways to solve problems. In that roaming, now and then, I meet some interesting people. I met one last week at a pharmacy.

I was looking around the store at items aimed at senior citizens, hearing aids, adult diapers, blood pressure monitors and such. An old man, probably about 70 years old and thin as a sapling limb, stood near the pharmacy desk waiting for his prescription. As I examined the hearing aid batteries, he turned and asked in a low voice, “Can you hear me?”

I nodded and assured him that I could, even though I do have hearing loss from gunshots and excessive music in the 1970’s. I personally blame Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham, but that is another story.

He stared at me and then hearing aid batteries.

“Do you have hearing aids?” he asked.

A quick glance at the flesh-colored plastic devices riding in his large ears told me he knew what he was talking about. I said no.

“So why are you looking for hearing aid batteries?” he asked. “Your mom or dad need them? Granny still kicking?”

“No, actually I am just looking,” I said, not wanting to get into why I was really there.

“Planning for the future then? A little PMA,” he said, smiling and tapping his hearing aids with withered, gnarled fingers. “Personalized mobile amplification.”

“My mom used to wear them,” I said. “She always had trouble with them.”

“They suck,” he said, frowning and shaking his head back and forth in wobbly disgust. “I used to be able to hear a gnat fart. Now I can’t even hear myself fart.”

A woman walking by looked at him sharply.

“Don’t worry ma’am,” he said reassuringly while wafting the air around his wrinkled old khakis. “I didn’t crop dust the area. You’re safe.”

She then looked at me as if he were my father and transferred her disgust in my direction before quickly walking away. The old man smiled.

“I have cancer,” he said matter-of-factly with no more emotion than if he had said he had a cold. “It’s been trying to kill me for several years now. Got my wife and one of my kids. Me and the dog are fighting it. He’s my accomplice. Jerry the Cancer fighter, that’s what I call him.”

“Why did you name him Jerry?” I asked.

“My brother was named Gerald,” he said. “We called him Jerry. Cancer got him too. So I named my dog Jerry in his honor. The dog is nicer, though. Jerry, my brother, was a rough cob.”

The pharmacist called his name and he signed and showed several cards in his wallet and walked back over to the adult diapers where I was standing.

“These suck too,” he said holding up a bag of meds. “Generally, just getting old sucks. But cancer sucks the worst. You ever had cancer? Anybody in your family?”

I said yes. He looked at the adult diapers on a row behind me with a profound crease in his multi-creased brow.

“The ones for kids work the best, you know” he said, nodding toward the diapers. “Now that the cancer had carved me down to the size of a little boy again, those are the ones I get.”

He grabbed a package of Pampers.

“They’re still a little tight, but duct tape helps loosen the fit,” he said.

As if a bell had gone off in his head, he turned and limped away.

“See you on the other side.” His old hand waved the bag of meds.

As I was leaving, I saw he was also buying a 12-pack of cheap beer and a bottle of wine.

“Little party tonight at the clubhouse,” he said looking over at me as I walked out the door.

It was unseasonably warm for January last week so I rolled the windows down and checked my cell for messages before heading back to the office. A few cars over I heard the distinct thud, thud, thud of John Bonham pounding out “When The Levy Breaks.” The old man glided by, windows down on his old Pontiac, dipping his head and mouthing the lyrics of Robert Plant as he drove away.