Ode to a trolley boy

Dear Trolley Boy,

yes you, Roger. The one with the tongue piercing. Did you know I use the supermarket you work at solely because they were smart enough to employ you? Don't worry, it's nothing romantic. I just appreciate the fact that when I arrived in a strange town, 36 weeks pregnant, you were kind enough to materialise by my car right when it was time to return my trolley to the rack. Somehow you understood that the 50 metre walk across the car park in the tropical heat, pushing a dodgy trolley, would probably be too much for me. Hormonal tears were imminent. You appeared, and smiled, and took my trolley. It made my day.

For a few weeks I shopped with my husband in tow and you didn't show up. I didn't really expect it. After all, your job only requires you to return the trolleys from the car park drop rack to the store front. There is no requirement for individual service or even a wayward smile.
But nevertheless, when I finally ventured out alone for the first shop after giving birth, with a five day old baby and an aura of muddled tiredness, you were back. As soon as the last bag was lifted into the boot. I was trying to work out if I should put the baby in the car while I returned the trolley, or schlep her with me in the sun. You appeared again like a fluro-shirted trolley angel and smiled at Baby. It made my day.

Since then, for the last three months you only missed me one day. I felt deserted, a little cheated. I knew you were at work, I'd seen you as I entered the store. You are distinctive, with that fluro vest, big dorky hat and camel back (as Mr Accident says, hydrate or die). Where were you? Had I offended you? Should I have offered more conversation during our brief trolley encounters? Was a smile and heartfelt thanks inadequate? Then I spotted you across the rain soaked car park, helping a woman. Another mother, with two sopping, bedraggled and grumpy kids. You were helping load her shopping into a Jeep Wrangler with no roof. I bet it made her day.