It all started with some toilet paper, or rather, lack thereof.
It's early Monday morning, and we in room 510 realize that we've run dry. Kristen and I decide that on the way back from our morning jog that we'll make a little pit stop at our local Wollaston's to pick some up, overpriced though it may be. Kristen grabs a five-dollar bill and puts it in the customary running storage space... her sports bra.
We run.
We stop at Wollaston's.
The proprietor of Wollaston's is a 50-something year old man, gray of hair, sparse of smiles. On this particular Monday morning, as he reflected on the dismal state of his life (as proprietor of frozen foods for college kids) Kristen's damp $5 bill put him right over the edge.
Kristen handed him the bill apologetically, "Sorry, it's a little damp."
He looks at the bill, looks at Kristen's smiling face, a bit red from the run and replies,
"WITH YOUR SWEAT?"
We both laugh a little, a slightly embarrassing comment, sure, but assuming that this will be a humorous interaction for everyone involved. All the other cashiers are laughing, the customers behind us are smiling, and we're all having a good time. That is, until:
"I don't even WANT to take this"
Oh, wait a sec. He's not joking... he's actually repulsed. C'mon now, we're all thinking, it's not like she dug it out of her bra in front of you, coughing and slobbering all the while. She took it out a couple of minutes ago and dried it off a bit. There's no blood or snot marring Lincoln's green little face, its just a slightly damp little piece of paper and wet or not, it's still worth a full five dollars. Also, its the only money we have... and we were buying necessities.
Kristen pushed on, unabashedly.
"I'll put it in the drawer for you if you want,"
He wasn't having that either. He actually huffed, crossed his arms, and stood back from the register, shaking his head.
"I don't even want to take it."
Kristen tries again, "No really, I'll put it in the drawer."
A silence ensues. A standoff. A clash of the titans. We look at him. He huffs and puffs, turning red, blustering. The eyes of cashiers and customers oscillate between his flustered face and our bemused expressions.
Nothing happens. And then:
He snatches the bill from the counter, quickly counts the change, and without ever making eye contact with either of us says,
"Think about what you're doing next time. THINK about it."
We've won. We proudly take our toilet paper and march on out of there. We are the winners, we are General Ulysses S. Grant leaving the Antietam courthouse, and we will have enough toilet paper to last us the week.
