I like all kinds of money. I feel good when people give me their money in exchange for goods and services. I am a tried and true capitalist. I believe in free enterprise. I am filled with a sense of joy when someone comes to our great country from abroad and starts a business here so that they can make money. Money, when used properly, is a wonderful thing.
Yes, I like money.
Which is why the following little story is going to give me great pain when I relate it to you. Not that long ago, I was forced to shy away from money. Not because it was ill-gotten. No, the transaction was completely legitimate. Not because it was counterfeit. No, this money was on the up and up. Not because it was foreign. Not because it was torn. Not because of any reason except one...its origin.
It was very warm the other day, and it was even warmer in my store. Being late Spring here in New England, many of us are quite happy to see and feel warmer weather. And, being in New England, and although it was probably only 70 degrees, people were dressed like it was August 23rd at noon. One such woman approached my register to make a purchase. She was wearing VERY tight, white pants. You know the kind. Not the pair that took six men and a smaller dog to squeeze her into them. Not the pair that she jumped off the bureau and hoped they made the proper alignment on the way down. No, this was the pair of pants that were applied with a thin layer of spray paint. To compliment this lovely pair of pedal pushers, she had on a sky blue, button down, halter top/half-shirt thing with a with very few buttons and even less of them fastened. I'm not sure if the fabric top was two sizes too small, or her top was two sizes too big, but the only thing keeping that shirt together was sheer will and shortened breathing. She put her purchase on the counter and I proceeded to ring her out. Once completed, I read her the total:
Me: "That'll be $8.47, please."
She never said a word. She had no purse. She had nothing in her hand but a phone. When suddenly, she realized that she had to pay for this. Silly rabbit, you need to provide money in exchange for goods and services. Maybe she was too constricted from her pants and shirt and little blood was reaching her brain, but she flashed an awkward smile and began to look for money. She quickly felt the outside of her pants. Nothing. She felt the back of her pants. Nothing. Then it dawned on her. Reaching her right hand up to the front of her blouse, she stuck her hand inside her shirt, reached under her left boob and proceeded to pull out a very folded twenty dollar bill. Now, I know it was under her left boob, because she had to use her left hand to lift it up a little to give the right access to her "wallet". Holding the bill in front of me, she says the following:
Her: "Sorry, I don't have any change."
Before we go any further, I'd like to clarify a few things. First, I like money. I like money a lot. I like money a real lot. Second, I like boobs. I like boobs a lot. I like boobs a real lot. Third, I have always believed that two great pairs that go great together should always be enjoyed. For example: chocolate and peanut butter, peanut butter and jelly, jelly and donuts, donuts and coffee, coffee and cream, cream and cookies, cookies and milk, milk and cereal, cereal and breakfast, breakfast and bed, bed and bath, bath and bubbles, Bubbles and Boomer, the list goes on and on. But, you know what's not on that list? SWEATY BOOBS AND PAPER MONEY! I mean, come on! Your left tit is not a pocketbook. God knows what kind of bacteria is fermenting under that thing in the heat. Not to mention that money is one of the dirtiest substances known to man. Everybody and their brother has touched it. Not only that, but paper is made from cotton which absorbs, oh, I don't know...EVERYTHING! And here she is, holding it in front of me, with a cute little smile like she's doing me this huge favor offering me a tit-sweat soaked twenty dollar bill to pay for her wares. Is there anything else you'd like to give me? Hepatitis perhaps?
Now comes the ugly part. I have to take this money from her hand and act like everything is cool. I put my hand out flat for her to drop the bill into. She does. EWWWW...IT'S WET. I unfold it to put it in my drawer so that it can contaminate the rest of the money I have collected so far. I count back her change to her wondering if she's going to put it back where she retrieved the twenty from. She dropped it all in the bag with her purchase and left the store. As quick as I could, I got the hand sanitizer out and tried to disinfect as best as possible. And, as I washed and tried to move on with my day, I reflected on what she said and thanked my lucky stars I didn't know the answer to the question:
Where would she have kept any change?
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