Hummus

by Christina Gossmann

Yesterday, I went to pick up some groceries. Around me, long isles, lots of products and people serving, helping, weighing, carrying, packaging.

The place–an expat haven of safety, especially now, two years after the gruesome act carried out in the very spot.

An elderly man came up with his cart full of purified water, so clearly not destined for him.

On his old Nokia screen, he showed one word.

Hummus.

Face puzzled, he walked from one helper to the next, unsure where to look, whom to ask.

I heard ‘humms?’ ‘eh hummus’ ping pong back and forth a few times, frowns and searching looks around the produce section.

When I saw the screen and the lost man, I walked over and said the hummus was most likely farther back, hiding behind various Brown cheeses and Brookside milks. We walked and searched together.

The absurdity of me trying to explain hummus to this man and the helper, him so profusely thanking me–as if his life truly depended on it–and a little later, him coming up again with three different types asking which one. His face all worry.

I smiled and told him they were all the same. The classic kind. He relaxed.

Before I moved on to oranges, I said that he should try it. It’s tasty, I said.

He looked at me seriously, then smiles and nods.

But the hummus was not for him–and I wish I had opened a package right then.