Karma is Currency

So, I usually work 10 hours a day. Sometimes, less, often more. Today I was there 12 and they were tough hours. We had some problems and I have a bad story to tell tomorrow. I tell you this to set the stage for the fact that as I go home, I'm tired and possibly even a tiny bit crabby.

Nah, scratch that: I didn't feel crabby, just sort of tired enough to be less-guarded in my thoughts. The point is, on the way home I decide to stop at my local corner quickie mart deal and buy a cold drink. So, I do just that, navigating the aggressive drivers in around the gas pumps, find my parking spot and leg it in to the store.

I get my beverage and step in line. After a few moments of the line not moving, I step out of my brain fog to assess the cause. It's the gentleman in front of me. He's trying to buy a bottle of wine with his buddy and is having some sort of hold up. With nothing to do but wait, I have plenty of time to take stock of his attire.

The first thing I notice is that he is chewing one of those sword-style toothpicks. You know the kind- with the U-shaped end with the dental floss on it? Well enough. Then I notice that in case he needs another toothpick he has a dozen others on standby.

Sticking out of his hair.

He asks the counter-guy again how much his purchase is. $7.35. He counts out some change on the counter. And counts again. How much was the wine again? $7.35. More counting.

Now my uncharitable-side comes out. Look at this scum, I think. With his dirty, sweaty bills wadded on the counter into a tiny ball. Counting out his pennies to buy booze. Pah! When it's MY turn, I'm going to pay with a crisp 20 that is nice and neat. I'm much neater and cleaner than this fellow and his buddy who has taken a bunch of free coffee cups from the store to drink the wine with. Pah!

So, the dude figures out his (exact) change and it's my turn.

One six pack of imported fancy beer. $9 or so.

Here's your change, mister: a wad of grubby completely-unflattened out singles that 30 seconds ago were in the sweatpants of the dude with toothpick swords in his hair.

They never even made it all the way into the register.

Thanks for the comeuppance, Universe.

The teen behind the bar wishes me Peace on my way out, holding up the two fingers. Good advice.