Throwin’ Cash

An elderly lady bought a book by Emily Post. She was smartly dressed in a feminine business suit, something smart to wear to brunch with girlfriends.

That’ll be seven dollars and sixty cents, I told her. Even though the IRS is about to throw a pad-lock on Happy Dusty any day now, I was feeling all right this afternoon. I’ve been chatting with customers, smiling without forcing anything saccharine. Things were good.

She returned my smile and pulled out her money: one, two, seven; two quarters and a dime.

She plopped the bills on the counter, dribbling the coins on top.

I looked at the pile of green and silver money. It was a delicate mint flower, with the bills fanning like pedals; the coins stuck like pistils.

How charming.

I looked back at the woman, smiled, and shot white hot lazar beams from my eyes. They struck her squarely in the face, causing her eyes to run down her cheeks like Cadbury eggs, the creme kind. Her hair net burst into a quick flash, flames running on wires, before her head went poof! and exploded into a cloud of ashen dust. I had just finished Swiffering.

She smiled and left.

The next man came up. I thought he was with the lady. He was so nicely dressed. I rang up his book (a fine copy of Tom Brokaw’s The Greatest Generation), and held out my hand to receive his money. He reached past my hand and deposited the sum on the counter. He rather threw the cash, causing the coins to bounce and roll.. I was a card dealer clearing a player’s sloppy hand. I scratched his change, counted it back to him and placed it all neatly in his fucking hand.

He smiled and nodded and asked for a plastic bag. Pulling one from the box, I ask him why he didn’t hand me the money.

Pardon?

I said, clearing my throat, why he didn’t put his money in my hand, which I had extended in front of him, and put it on the counter.

Why, does it matter?

I purse my lips and make a little sucking sound as I consider.

Yes. I think it does. It’s a matter of manners.

Manners?

Yes, mhmm.

Manners? Why, who are you to tell me anything about manners?Pardon?

What right do you have? You’re listening to rap music this very moment!

(I’d heard the rap line before.)

It’s a matter of courtesy, I told him. I mean, I smiled, nodded, I was perfectly polite to you, and still you threw your money like the counter was actually, I dunno, some dirty bed in a — motel!

His eyes went wide. He took his receipt and folded it crisply before putting

I cringed. Now my eyes felt like they were melting.

Clearing my throat, I tried to clarify myself: I was talking about the apparent disgust with which you dropped the money on the counter. It’s rude, is all! If I stick my hand out, put the money there!

He took his book and turned to the door.

There’ll be no such discussion, you little pervert! I’ll going to tell your manager all about this! Now, good day!

I’d be worried about my manager if he himself didn’t stand to lose his job.