I was at the card store earlier this month. The cashier, a middle-aged woman, rang my card up and told me, “That’s $2.49.” I hadn’t looked at the price of the card, so I assumed this was correct. I handed over three bucks and put out my little paw for my two quarters and a penny. She gives me thirty-eight cents.
“That’s not right,” I say. “Two forty-nine plus a penny is two fifty, plus fifty cents is three dollars. You should give me fifty-one cents.” This boggles her. Counting change is clearly meaningless in her universe. She tells me her register says she owes me thirty-eight cents. I tell her it’s wrong. “Unless,” I add, thinking I have may have spotted the problem, “there was tax you forgot to mention.”
She pulls out the receipt and hands it to me. Ah. There was tax she didn’t mention.The total is actually $2.62. Thirty-eight cents is correct. Smart machine. Except I don’t want pennies. I hoard my silver for the parking meter. I return the thirty-eight cents and give her two pennies. She now owes me forty cents of lovely meterable silver. Mistake.
She’s totally flustered with this transaction now. She can’t figure it out. She’s clearly afraid she’s going to mess something up; maybe I’m trying to scam her or something! “I’m new at this,” she explains.
Okay, it’s one thing to be new at working a register, but subtraction was third grade. I thought it, but I didn’t say it. She put two quarters on the counter. I could practically see her brain leaking out her ears, but I didn’t want to take advantage. I don’t need another freckle on my karma for a mere dime.
“Now that’s too much. You should just give me forty cents.”
“I’ll just void this out and ring it up again,” she said.
Sorry, but no. I do not have time to accommodate your stupidity. I put down another dime, took the two quarters and left her to sort out her register by herself. I hope she eventually realized the numbers lined up. But I wouldn’t bet on it.