I’m surprised I don’t have an exchange like this every week: a customer pays in cash, waits to get change, yet doesn’t question my mental math until I’ve already tucked the bills he gave me into the register and shut the drawer.Today this meat and potatoes guy walked in and asked where the children’s books were. He had a strong Upper Right Coast accent. The way he said it sounded more like, “Hey. Doya know whereda Chil-ren’s sextion-is?” I really want to say he was from New Jersey*. I pointed in a couple directions. Over here and down there. As he moved about the store his square shoulders swung on his torso like concrete blocks joined with a steel beam. I imagined him half-way through a backstreet weightlifting session, no doubt with guys named Govone and C-Chan spotting him. He came back to the counter with a $2.99 Christmas book. Well, $3.51 after tax. I took his bill and gave him change. Then I stuck a Happy Dusty bookmark — replete with our smiling mascot: bespectacled moth (wearing a cardigan) munching on a book cover — in his copy of Rudolph the Red-Noised Reindeer.
“Hey, man, where’s the rest of my money?” he said.
“You gave me a five,” I said.
“Whadaya mean? I gave you a ten!”
“No. You gave me a five.”
“Are you kiddin’ me? Look here,” he said, spreading out a wad of twenties and fives and ones before me like a deck of cards. “I got one hundred eighty-five bucks. I know how much money I got.”
I told that didn’t mean anything to me, and he said yeah, he knew that. But he still wanted the rest of his money.
“I gave you the rest of your money,” I said. “I’m pret– I’m — really sure you just gave me a five.”
Of course I would have stuttered. My boss had told me to be more careful counting out customer’s change. He’d grown impatient with the sometimes five-dollar difference I’d come up with at the end of the night. Either I was giving the customers too much money or I was shortchanging them. But still, why was I doubting myself now? Ever since my boss talked to me about my money-handling I’d made good on my totals. With regards to Jersey I remembered well enough looking at the bill as he handed it to me and as I put it on the keyboard while I riffled through various coinage. Then I shoved the five dollar bill on top of a stack of twentysome other five dollar bills. I popped the register drawer back open. In the slot next to the fives were two worn ten dollar bills. I closed the drawer. There was no real way of knowing.
“See! I knew you didn’t know what bill I gave you!”
I stare at the wall past the cash register. I assume if this guy really wanted to come in here and scheme up some quick cash, he would have at least claimed he’d paid with a twenty. He scrunched up his face and shoved the dollar in change across the counter to me. He made out the store. I called after him, and he stopped. I said, “look.” I told him what I do each night is tabulate the drawer, and if I’m five dollars over, then I’d leave the money out and he could stop by tomorrow and get it.
“I’ll wrap it up in a ribbon for you,” I said.
“Hey, man, I don’t wanna make a big deal about this. I mean, if it was five hundred dollars, then sure, it’d be a big deal,” he said. “Anyway, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. You gonna be here tomorrow?”
I said yeah. My boss and supervisor order food and along with their loved ones I looked forward to eating well (for free) and sipping (inexpensive) champagne in paper cups. The last thing I wanted was for Jersey to march in and tell my boss what a conniving little prick I was. He asked my name. I sighed. Joey. He stuck out his hand. I wanted to go home. I shook his hand — it felt cracked and leathery. He let go and I pointed to the dollar and change on the counter. He looked at it a minute before scraping it up.
“Might as well. You’re trying to take every last bit of my money anyway!” he said.
I stared blankly at the end of the shop.
“Hey Joey, I’m gonna see you bright and early tomorrow morning, okay?”
He left.
Later that night, after I’d taken out the recyclables and the garbage and locked the door, I tugged on the string hanging from the neon “Open” sign before hauling the drawer upstairs. I thumb through every bill, counting aloud, before conscientiously jotting down each amount in a column. I jab the buttons on the calculator. I finish and hit equals. The liquid crystal screen flashed a number. Now, it’s normal for the drawer to be off by a buck or two. Until this moment, however, I never thought the discrepancy mattered.
I added it up several times more — each time arriving at the same surplus amount:
Two dollars and fifty cents.
*[disclaimer: I've never been to New Jersey. My preconceived notion of a Jersey accent stems from a few stoned viewings of My Cousin Vinny and a run-in I once had with a passable rap group from Jersey City. Their most memorable track was called "I'm So Jersey".]
