“I want to help you, Mendy,” I said. “But this isn’t the best place for this conversation”

By Yossie Strickman, as told to Bayla Hersher

“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the cashier said, studying me as I paid for my coffee.

I was in a supermarket in Williamsburg, and its typical clientele had curlier peyos. In fact, at the moment, the cashier — whose nametag read “Mendy” — and I were the only men in the store without frocks.

“I’m from Passaic,” I replied with a grin, “but I’m in the neighborhood for a meeting.”

“What do you do?” he asked conversationally as he took my credit card.

I wasn’t in a rush, so I told him a bit about Project TRUST.

“I work with people, mainly teenage boys, who are struggling with their technology use. I help them get healthy and become functioning members of society,” I explained.

The cashier’s jaw dropped. Without a word, he scrambled around the checkout counter and enveloped me in a massive bear hug. I froze for a moment, but then I returned the gesture; in my line of work, you learn to expect the unexpected. When he finally let go of me, his eyes were moist.

“I’ve been looking for someone like you,” he said.

Glancing around to make sure no one would overhear, Mendy told me he needed help. Badly.

“I’m addicted to the internet,” he said in a low voice as he returned to his post behind the checkout counter. “When I’m home, I can’t pull myself away from my phone, my computer, anything. My wife is so fed up, she’s threatening to leave me. I don’t want to lose my marriage, but I can’t seem to fight this.”

“I want to help you, Mendy,” I said. “But this isn’t the best place for this conversation.”

I gestured to the customer in line behind me and the others milling around within earshot before handing him my business card.

“Let’s talk.”

A few weeks went by, but I didn’t hear from him. Then one day, I walked out of a meeting to see a missed call and a voicemail on my phone.

“Hi, Yossie, it’s Mendy Schick — I’m ready to talk.”