The old man entered the lighting store very carefully.
For poor Reb Shraga, it was a miracle he had even made it. He had shuffled through the cold, slushy Toronto streets to reach the store. He pushed open the heavy glass doors and gingerly made his way in. He could barely walk and hardly see. He wore a battered old gray hat, a drab coat, scuffed shoes. His head was bent down as he watched each step through his thick bifocals, groaning at the slightest rise in the floor.
From time to time he looked up just to see which way he was walking. Above and around him was a forest of elegant crystal chandeliers, lamps, and illuminated mirrors. The price tags that hung down from the chandeliers read five hundred, two thousand, four thousand dollars.
"Meshugah," he muttered to himself. "Der gantz velt iz meshugah! Four thousand dollars for one lamp! My goodness!"
There was a sale in the store, and it was packed. Three thousand dollar chandeliers could be had for just two thousand, thousand dollar lamps for just six hundred dollars. The store hummed with eager customers. Shraga shuffled along aimlessly, hoping that somebody would take note of him, but all the salespeople were occupied. He stopped, waited, peered around, shuffled on some more. It was a huge store, and people swept past him as if he was a rock in the river.
"I need help," he muttered to himself. Hardly looking up, he yelled out in his high-pitched voice, "Could someone here please help me? I want to buy something!"
Everyone stared in his direction, and immediately an embarrassed employee dropped what he was doing and ran to the disheveled old man.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"I want...want to buy a lamp," Shraga said. Because of his infirmity he spoke with a slight stammer.
"Yes, and what kind of lamp do you need?"
"For a desk. I read at my desk, and I need a good light -"
"No problem. We have an excellent selection."
The clerk led Reb Shraga through the elegant store to the desk lamp section, where dozens of beautiful desk lamps were displayed - traditional, modern, brass, glass, halogen, Mickey Mouse.
"Do you see something you like?" he asked.
Shraga lifted his head and peered around. "Yes, yes, I see. Very nice. Now, here's the thing, I need something in the seventeen-dollar range."
"I beg your pardon?" asked the clerk.
"Seventeen dollars. I managed to scrape together seventeen dollars from my pension check. What do you have for that price?"
The clerk stepped back in shock. "Seventeen dollars? Sir, all our lamps start at ninety-nine dollars, reduced from two hundred! Seventeen dollars? We have nothing at that price!"
Reb Shraga persisted. "Listen. I came all the way to Avenue Road. I'm an old man. I can't walk. I can hardly see. It's cold outside. I need a lamp to study my books. Do me a favor, please. Find me a little something, a little lamp. Plain, nothing fancy. A lamp, a bulb."
"But I'm telling you, our lamps start at a hundred dollars. There's nothing here at that price."
"There has to be! Such a big store. Let me speak to the owner."
"Impossible! He's in the back. It's our biggest sale day. He's swamped."
"Just for a minute, please. Let me talk to him! I can't stay here all day."
The clerk shook his head in frustration. The disheveled old man with his bewhiskered face and stained coat was as out of place in Lampton Fine Lighting as a rusty Ford in a swank Lincoln showroom.
Shraga looked up and pleaded, "Please, show me his office."
The old man looked so lost and pathetic that the clerk took pity on him and led him to Mr. Lampton's office, knocking politely. They waited a few minutes. Finally, the door swung open. A lanky young man, barely in his thirties, gazed from the clerk to Shraga, a look of bewilderment on his face. He held a cell phone in one hand, and a sheaf of papers in the other. Despite the elegance of the store, he was dressed casually in an open sports shirt.
"What's happening, Ken?" he asked.
"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Lampton, but this gentleman insisted on speaking to you. I'm sorry, I know you're busy...."
"It's okay, it's okay." He turned to Shraga, who stared down to the ground. "How can I help you, sir?"
"I need a lamp, a little desk lamp -"
"No problem, that's what we're here for."
"But here's the problem. I'm an old man. I'm not well. I saved up seventeen dollars from my pension. Maybe you have a lamp for me. Please!"
"I already explained that all our lamps start at one hundred dollars," Ken interrupted.
Lampton kept on staring at the old man. "Ken, it's okay. Go back on the floor. I'll see to this gentleman myself."
The clerk hurried off. "Why do you need the lamp?" the owner asked Shraga.
"I live in a small apartment. There are books that I read. I have trouble seeing, even with the lights on. I need a good light. Please, maybe you can help me."
The owner was moved by the old man's predicament. "Just wait a minute." He hurried back to his desk to put down his papers and phone and returned a moment later. "Look, the clerk was telling the truth. There's nothing in the showroom for less than a hundred. But come with me. We'll go back to the storeroom. Maybe there's a damaged model or something."
Shraga rubbed his chin. "I don't know. Damaged doesn't sound so good. Maybe you have something good, even if it's small."
"You know what, I'll take you back there with me. You can see yourself if we have anything you like."
Slowly the two made their way past the bustling crowd of customers and clerks, through the forest of chandeliers and luxurious lamps, and approached a small back door. Lampton swung it open and held it for the old man. "Come on."
Slowly Shraga entered a twilight world. Unlike the brightly lit, elegant showroom, the stockroom was dim and chilly, with rough wood flooring that rose and dipped unevenly. A small window high along one wall let in a beam of pale light. "Oy, oy vaiz mir!" Shraga whimpered.
"What's the matter?" Lampton asked.
"The floor. It's crooked. I can't see to walk. I'm afraid I'll fall."
Instinctively, the young man took Shraga's hand in his and led him gently. They marched through a canyon of shelving packed with shipping crates that reached to the ceiling. A gloomy stillness reigned over the room; only the sound of Shraga's shuffled step broke the silence. They could have been a thousand miles from Avenue Road.
Suddenly a strong gust of wind blew open the small window with a bang, letting in a cold breeze.
"Sorry about that," Lampton apologized. He led the old man to the back, where a cluster of forlorn lamps stood on a shelf, explaining, "We sometimes set aside lamps that have scratches or defects. They work fine, but we don't sell them - it would hurt our image."
"A lamp is a lamp," snorted Shraga.
Lampton stepped away and began searching the shelves for a suitable lamp. "What size do you want?" he asked.
"Small, very small," Shraga responded. "My table is very small. I have no room."
Lampton inspected the lamps, lifting them one by one. "Why do they keep on sending me these broken pieces?" he grumbled. He lifted a large Tiffany lamp and was about to return it when something caught his eye.
"What's this?" he asked, puzzled.
"Did you find anything?" Shraga asked.
Lampton extracted a small lamp, hardly more than ten inches high. It was unusually light, but so brightly burnished that it shone like real gold. He had never noticed this lamp before. It was shaped like a candlestick, with a socket that only fit a thin chandelier bulb. It was peculiarly etched, in a style that Lampton had never seen before. Intrigued, he turned it over to see its origin. But there was nothing, no price, no label. He examined the lamp carefully. He did not like having an item that he knew nothing about. He certainly hadn't ordered it. He inspected the lamp carefully to see what defect caused it to be set aside. But it was flawless - perfect! The lamp was an utter mystery.
"I found you a lamp," he announced victoriously. He held it up for the old man to see. "How do you like it?"
In the darkness Shraga could barely make it out. "Listen, a lamp is a lamp. It's not too big, that's good. I'll take it."
Lampton led Shraga carefully back to the showroom. He watched the old man haltingly set toe to heel until they left the little backroom. Lampton fitted a chandelier bulb into the lamp and placed it delicately into a large shopping bag. He escorted Shraga to the doorway.
"Wait, I haven't paid you yet," the old man protested. "How much do I owe you?"
Lampton waved his hand. "Don't worry. You'll pay me next time."
"What do you mean, 'next time'?" Shraga cried in his high-pitched voice, again causing everyone to stare. "I bought something, I have to pay. Look, I have money, seventeen dollars."
"Listen, Mr. ..."
"My name is Shraga."
"Mr. Shraga. I don't even know where it came from or what we paid for it. Just use it with our best wishes."
Shraga shook his head. "Look, I can't do a mitzvah and not pay something."
"Do a what?"
"A mitzvah. You never heard of a mitzvah? I'm a Jew, you know."
"I'm also Jewish," the owner answered.
Shraga stared up at him in astonishment. "You're Jewish and you don't know what a mitzvah is?"
"I'll tell you what. You want to pay something? Give me a loonie." A Canadian dollar coin, he thought, would be most appropriate for this unusual lamp.
"One loonie? Is that enough?"
"One loonie, that's the price."
Shraga carefully extracted his battered wallet, fished through the pocket, and extracted a gold loonie. "Here."
As the young man took the coin, Shraga grasped his hand in his own and held it. "You are a nice young man. What is your name?"
"Mark - Mark Lampton."
"Mark...Mark.... What is your Jewish name?"
"I don't have a Jewish name - not that I know of."
"A Jewish boy without a Jewish name? What did you say, your name is Mark? You know what, I'll give you a Jewish name - Yudel!"
Lampton nodded. "Yudel - I like that."
"And what is your mother's name?"
"Sharon."
"Never mind Sharon. We'll call her Sarah. Your name is Yudel ben Sarah. Can you remember that?"
"Okay, Yudel ben Sarah."
"Yudel, thank you. You're a nice young man. I just hope your lamp works.... My eyes are no good, you know."
With that, he lowered his head and, as Mark Lampton held open the glass door, shuffled out to the cold, snowy sidewalk of Avenue Road.
