On any given Saturday, I am out serving civil summons to people who have not responded to photo radar citations mailed to their residence.

I enjoy the competitiveness of serving people who do not want to be served. My record of accomplishment for catching people actively avoiding service is quite good, actually. More often than not, I catch most people off guard and effect service without hassle or complication. Last Saturday, though, I was the one caught off guard.

Normally, I will avoid an apartment complex if I only have one summons for that address. Apartment complexes usually yield what is termed a “skip trace,” meaning the defendant has moved and the person’s new address must be tracked down. For some reason, I decided to try serving at a particular apartment where no one was home for the last attempted service.

Finding the right apartment building for an apartment number is like organizing metal coat hangers— just plain difficult! Fortunately, I had recorded the location for the apartment and found it rather easily the second time around.

Before I knock on a door, I look at the photo in the summons so I will recognize the defendant should they be lucky enough to answer the door. Greeting people by name usually takes them aback and allows for quick and effective service.

When I knocked on this particular door, however, I encountered a different kind of service than what I am used to.

The person who answered the door looked nothing like the person I was attempting to serve. In fact, he looked quite confused and unsure of what I was asking him.

“Who are you looking for,” he asked with a far away gaze in his eyes.

“The person I am looking for does not live here anymore and you are not the person I am looking for,” I replied. “I will note that on the summons and I shouldn’t be bothering you anymore.”

I started to walk away when he looked at me intently and asked, “Would you mind helping me with my microwave? I’m trying to make oatmeal and I can’t seem to make it work.”

My initial response was to tell him that I am not allowed to enter people’s homes for any reason and excuse myself.

He looked at me more intently and again asked if I would help him with his microwave.

“I really want to eat my oatmeal,” he said with even more resolve in his quivering voice.

I relented and asked him to show me to his microwave.

His apartment was unkempt and bore signs of neglect; clothes and papers littered the living room floor. In the kitchen sink, I spied three hard-boiled eggs sitting in a pan that looked like they had seen better days and better attempts at cooking. The microwave sat on the counter surrounded by dishes, with the owner’s manual laying in front of the microwave door.

“I had a mini-stroke last year and doing even simple tasks are difficult for me,” he explained.

My initial reaction to the man’s request for help had been one of wariness and unwillingness to help, and now I felt shameful for initially avoiding the opportunity for service.

After I figured out how the microwave worked, I showed the man how it worked. I then had him show me that he was able to work the microwave so he could cook his oatmeal.

As I left his apartment, he thanked me profusely and said with a brimming smile, “Now I can eat my oatmeal.”

I, too, left with a smile and a warm feeling in my heart. Almost like the feeling I get after I have eaten warm oatmeal.