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After Chubs had accepted the money, Dad turned around and continued on his walk. He had only made it about 15 feet when behind him he heard Chubs, in a sober, sincere tone of voice, say, "I love you." "You know, not funny, not facetiously, not 'I love you, man!' like the sports morons, those jocks in the locker room, but like he really meant it," Dad explained.

"When I turned around, I was expecting to see Robin Williams or George Burns playing God or something, you know what I mean? But when I did, Chubs was just standing there, his head down, looking at the money. He said 'I love you,' he just said it. He wasn't interested in me turning around to respond in any fashion, so I turned back and kept walking, and as I'm walking down the street, I thought, eh, that's a pretty neat moment, you know? I'm always trying to see the face of God in other people, which is really, really difficult, and I thought that was just a little, 'Hey, you're doin' all right.' It was just a really sweet moment."

Dad sniffed at the air and cleared his throat. His eyes glistened and he looked up, as though suddenly trying to read the sides of the boxes on the shelves that stretched to the high warehouse ceiling. "Okay, I need a printer, and I refuse to spend more than $100. I don't need any of that photo crap, just a straight-up color printer," he said, pushing his thoughts of his poignant encounter with Chubs back into his head.

"I think this one might do the trick," I said, pointing to the box I'd been reading a few minutes earlier. "Let's plop it in the cart and go see what they're cooking up at the end of the frozen food aisle. Something smells tasty."

"Roger that," Dad said, and we were on our way.

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