05
Jan
She gripped the box of rocket pops like they were the last on earth and the cashier had to plead with the child she’d give them right back would she pretty please release her little fingers from their tight grip. The girl was probably 5 or 6. Dirty blonde. And I mean dirty. Had desaturated blotches on her cheeks like some black and white photograph from the Depression. The dad, neck tattoo peaking out above his ripped safety yellow tee, gray hairs poking out under his non-union cap, searching wallet for enough cash so that the girl can eat all the rocket pops she wants, and be happy, for just this moment in time, with him.
And I am behind them taking all this in with a basket of three tallboys and a frozen deep dish pizza. I got up at 9 and didn’t start work till 11. I took an early lunch at noon. The man in front of me had probably been at work for six hours by then, standing on his feet, breathing exhaust and dust and whatever else vaporized above the job site.
“I’m sorry,” the man apologizes to me, hands digging through his ripped blue jean pockets for more change.
I debate paying for him. It’s nothing to me. I make enough money to burn through a pizza and a six pack every night and still save for a house and retirement and two week-long vacations a year. But my work isn’t for anything but myself. Sure, I make the lives of a couple hifalutin office workers with no real problems a little easier with my meditation app but for the most part I am nothing but a social security number and a street address to the citizens of this planet.
“No worries” I say and pick a five from my wallet as I drop my empty basket below the conveyor belt. “Hey looks like you dropped something” I say pointing to the wrinkled $5 suddenly bloomed between us on the speckled linoleum tile.
His immediate reaction is genuine disbelief, as he says, “naw, that’s not mine” while he continues checking pockets and his daughter pulls at his pantleg, her eyes growing teary at the melting popsicles on the scanner.
“Well it’s your lucky day” I say with just enough intonation that he gets where I’m coming from but instead of kindness at my generosity he just ignores me and takes out another card instead.
I grab the $5 and fold it and put it back into my slim phone-wallet.
The cashier informs him that his card isn’t working.
“Try it again.”
“I tried it twice.”
“Well try it again.”
Swipe. “Declined.”
I am standing with my arms folded and a growing anxiety that my items, too, are growing lamentably warm.
The dad unconfidently passes another card across the checkout. The cashier swipes twice and hands it back, leaving her open palm still hovering over the counter, wanting.
“I’m sorry” the man says and bows his head and takes his daughter’s little arm as they walk towards the exit.
“Dad?” the little girl pleads in a voice that’s been disappointed before. “Dad!”
But they are out the sliding doors and into the summer night.
“Why didn’t you pay for them?” the cashier asks me pointedly. There’s no way she’s 20. Her purple hair in a bowl cut high enough to reveal Hello Kitty earrings.
“I tried” I say. “I dropped a $5 on the ground for the guy.”
“You could’ve just offered” she says.
“I didn’t want to humiliate him, I guess.”
“He just walked away after being unable to come up with $4.63. That’s not humiliating?”
“I don’t know! Men are touchy about these things.”
“Well you’re definitely touchy about your money.”
“I gave him a $5!”
“You threw $5 at his feet.”
“For him! To help him!” I’m suddenly realizing I care much more about what this young cashier thinks of me than about the little girl with no popsicles.
“I seen you come in here two, three nights a week. You buy some expensive beer and some TV dinner. You probably drink every night but you get it other places so no one thinks you’re too much of an alcoholic despite your basket being full of nothing but beer and fast food. You even buy a whole pint of ice cream every now and then so I know you can afford something extra.
“I just don’t get why people can’t help others when they are like, obviously struggling and the Jesus thing to do would be to reach over and offer something of your own, something you yourself would never know you lost. If I weren’t on my second strike for paying for customer’s groceries I would’ve bought those popsicles, easily, but I can’t afford to lose my job.”
I removed the $5 from my wallet and looked her into her amber eyes. “Here” I said, “for the next kid who wants popsicles.”
She shook her head. “I can’t take that.”
“Please. Just keep it. For the next kid.”
“That’s not how this works but if it’ll make you feel better.”
I nodded, paid for my items, and left the store into the warm summer night. Feeling good about myself.