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Macho Side Story #7: The Weight of Groceries and Things Left Unsaid
Macho lends a hand to his elderly neighbor, Mr. Carston, helping carry heavy groceries back to their apartment building on Essex Street. While Macho gives the old man a hard time with his usual tough-guy teasing, there’s a quiet respect between them that runs deeper than the banter. During their brief walk, Carston references an unnamed past incident where Macho had helped him in a more serious way, but Macho brushes it off, insisting it wasn’t a big deal. The details are left unsaid, hinting at something meaningful between them. Despite their gruff exchanges, there’s a bond—one built on trust, unspoken gratitude, and shared resilience. The encounter ends with a lighthearted challenge, reminding both men that sometimes the smallest moments carry the most weight.
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Transcript
Macho Side Story #7: The Weight of Groceries and Things Left Unsaid
It was the kind of day Baltimore coughed up now and then—humid, overcast, like the sky hadn’t made up its damn mind. Macho stood on the sidewalk in front of 2305 Essex Street. His hands were calloused, his face unreadable. A heavy bag in each hand was nothing. Silence was normal.
Across the street, an old voice croaked like gravel being stirred.
“Macho! Got a damn sack of potatoes tryin’ to snap my spine in two!”
Macho looked up and smirked.
“Didn’t we agree last week you were done tryin’ to lift anything heavier than a spoon?”
Carston stood hunched near the corner bodega, a paper bag hanging from one trembling arm, the rest of his groceries sitting helplessly on the sidewalk. Baseball cap tilted back, thick glasses fogged, he gave Macho a look only age could craft—equal parts defiant and desperate.
Macho crossed the street, boots thudding. Picked up the bags with one hand. “You know this’d be easier if you weren’t out here playing Super Senior every week.”
Carston chuckled, hacking out a laugh. “Better than rotting in front of a TV. You should try it sometime, soldier boy.”
They made their way back toward the building.
Carston glanced up. “You didn’t have to help me after… well, you know.”
Macho stiffened but didn’t stop walking. “Wasn’t a big deal.”
“Coulda been.”
“Wasn’t.”
Silence.
Carston, never one to let things lie, muttered, “I know men who would’ve walked the other way.”
Macho exhaled through his nose. “Then you knew the wrong kind of men.”
At the door, Carston fumbled with his keys. Macho took them gently, opened the door, held it without a word.
Carston nodded as he passed. “You’re a hell of a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“Yeah, well,” Macho said, setting the bags down in the kitchen with care, “I’m charming that way.”
Carston grinned, a tired gleam in his eye. “World needs more like you.”
Macho picked up an apple from the bag, tossed it from hand to hand.
“Nah,” he muttered. “World’s got enough trouble already.”
As Macho left the apartment, Mr. Carston called out after him:
“Don’t think I forgot you still owe me that chess rematch!”
Macho grinned over his shoulder. “Keep dreamin’, old man.”
The door shut. Another step, another favor repaid in silence.
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